I have to get help, Sam thought. I’m just one boy armed with a knife. I can’t rescue poor Cassen from a whole village by myself.
Trying to move quickly without alerting the Indians, Sam threaded his way through the trees in what he hoped was the direction of the river. After what seemed like hours, he reached the shore. He saw the boat shining on the water in the moonlight, but it lay at anchor some thirty feet from shore and at least two hundred feet upriver from where he stood. To get closer to it, Sam would have to walk across the exposed waterfront in front of the village. Or he would have to skirt all the way around the other side of the village through the trees. He thought it was too dangerous to try either way.
Instead, Sam gathered a handful of small stones and began flinging them into the water. They pinged and splashed. In the still of the night, the sounds seemed louder than trumpets. He glanced over his shoulders, expecting to see the villagers dash out of the trees to grab him. He didn’t see any movement around him, but he couldn’t spot any movement on the boat, either. Can the guard on board hear the splashing at this distance?
Sam searched for something larger to throw. He found a dead branch and heaved it as far as he could into the water, hoping the bigger splash would catch the attention of the night guard. But still there was no activity on deck. Finally, Sam cupped his hands around his mouth and let out the birdcall that the group used as a distress signal.
Sam strained to see. Are the men on deck now? Are they pulling up the anchor? Sam waited, breathlessly, alert to any sounds behind him. His mind raced, trying to decide on the best course of action. Should I run into the trees and hide until the boat approaches? What if Indians are in the trees, waiting to grab me? Maybe I should jump into the river and try to swim for the boat. Can I make it that far in the cold water?
Suddenly, Sam heard a snap behind him. In an instant, he plunged into the river.
The icy water pierced Sam’s skin. Concentrating on the sight of the boat, he kicked his legs and forced his arms to reach as far as they could with every stroke. He shut his eyes, held his breath, and stuck his face in the river, praying for the strength to keep stroking. When he brought his face up for air, he couldn’t believe how far away the boat seemed. He lost feeling in his hands and feet, but his chest screamed from the stabbing cold. At last, he caught sight of a person kneeling on the side of the boat, looking at the water. Sam gasped for air and called out. Then he focused on swimming—he commanded his arms to keep stroking, his legs to keep kicking. He could feel his body sinking lower with every stroke.
Sam heard a splash. Somebody had jumped into the water! Sam felt strong arms grasping him. He was being pulled through the water. His fingers touched the wood of the boat, and he struggled to grab hold. Somebody was pushing him. Up, up. Two men grabbed his collar and hauled him aboard. Then they reached down and helped the other swimmer scramble aboard. Nate collapsed on deck beside Sam in a puddle of cold water.
“They’ve got Cassen. They’re torturing him,” Sam sputtered, water streaming down his back, his teeth chattering wildly.
“That’s it, then! We’re heading for the fort,” one of the men cried.
“But we can’t leave him here,” Sam gasped. “They’re killing him. The women are stabbing him with shells. I saw them. They cut off his ear….”
Ignoring Sam, the men hauled up the anchor and unfurled the sail. The boat began to pick up speed.
“But we’ve got guns,” Sam protested. “We can fire at them. We can surprise them.”
He struggled to his feet and made a grab for the ropes that held the sail. One of the men shoved him out of the way. Sam’s head smacked against something hard on the deck, and pain washed over him. Nate leaped across the deck and kneeled over him.
The man secured the sail, then tossed a blanket to Nate and covered Sam with another. “We have six men and a pair of boys,” he said. “We haven’t a chance against a village full of savages. If we try to get Cassen, they’ll kill us all. We’ve got to get back to the fort.”
“What about my master?” Sam wailed.
“We haven’t seen Master Smith for three days, Sam,” Nate said, his voice low and grim. “He’s probably dead by now. And Master Robinson and Emry with him.”
10
New Year, New Promise
The savages are making sport of us!” President Ratcliffe declared when the trading party returned with four men missing. “We never should have trusted them.”
The other council members nodded. “We should have known the savages meant no kindness when they brought food to our settlement. It was just another trick. They intend to keep us alive only to toy with us.”
“Aye. Before they make an end to us, they’ll tease us the way cats tease their prey.”
The councilmen listened closely to the trading party’s description of their disastrous trip. When Sam told them about the torture of Cassen, all of their fears were rekindled.
One of the councilmen buried his face in his hands. “Oh, dear God! They mean to kill us off, one by one—to torture us, like they did poor Cassen.”
With a solemn face, President Ratcliffe shifted the discussion to other matters. Cold weather was coming on, their food was running low, and there’d been no word from Captain Newport. “If the situation does not improve, I doubt that our colony can survive the winter,” he said. “And now that we have word the savages have resumed their hostilities—”
Sam interrupted to remind them that his master and Robinson and Emry were missing, but Ratcliffe ignored him. “If you send a search party,” Sam persisted, “I can show you the place where we last saw—”
“Silence!” Ratcliffe shouted. “You are disrupting a meeting of this council.”
The meeting continued. Expecting trouble, Ratcliffe announced that he would post an additional guard. He appointed Gabriel Archer to serve on the council in Smith’s place.
As the meeting broke up, Reverend Hunt laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I know how worried you are about Master Smith, lad.”
“Everybody seems to think my master is dead,” Sam said. “But what if he’s still alive? He’s in terrible danger! He’ll be searching the Chickahominy River for the trading party, and he has no way of knowing what the Apokant villagers did to George Cassen.”
Hunt nodded. “I know, Sam. But our colony can’t afford to risk one of the boats. And it’s too dangerous to send out a search party on foot. We wouldn’t know where to look.”
“I could go with them. I could show them where the boat was anchored.”
“Sam, even if you could locate the village by foot, do you really think you could find your master in all that wilderness?” Hunt looked in Sam’s eyes.
For a few seconds, Sam held the clergyman’s gaze. But he knew he couldn’t find Apokant by himself, and certainly not on foot. Slowly, Sam lowered his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sam. But our best course is to trust in the Lord to guide those poor men back to our fort safely. If they’re still alive.”
The weather turned bitterly cold. Because the fort’s supplies were so low, food was severely rationed. The colonists got one hot meal a day of watery gruel made from dried beans and corn. In addition to the soup, they each got a small hunk of bread. Sam wolfed down his portion, but he felt hungry and cold all the time.
If Master Smith is alive, he’s colder and hungrier than I am, Sam thought. But if the Indians have him…. Sam’s mind kept picturing Cassen being tortured by the Apokant women.
Sam hated to think about John Smith suffering, but it was worse to think about him being dead. My family is thousands of miles away, he thought. Without Smith, I might as well be an orphan.
The men in the fort avoided Sam. Cowards! he thought. They feel guilty because they’re afraid to send out a search party. Even though he resented the men, he understood how helpless they felt. By day, thoughts of John Smith’s plight and Cassen’s torture haunted Sam, and he woke with terrible nightmares nearly every night.
After hearing about what happened to the trading party, the councilmen were too frightened to try again. As the last weeks of 1607 inched by, the shelves in the storehouse grew emptier every day. Unless a supply ship reached Virginia, the settlers were all doomed to die a slow death from starvation. The men moped around the fort. They’re waiting to die, Sam thought, and I’ve got no choice but to wait, too.
Sam found that talking to Nate was no help. Whenever Sam mentioned his worries about Smith being dead or their colony starving, Nate shrugged. Looking straight ahead, Nate repeated the words, “James Fort is a place of death.”
One afternoon, Sam was assigned guard duty at the north corner. He replaced the guard, slipping the man’s slow match over his breastplate and fastening the shot pouch around his own waist. In accordance with orders, Sam took a piece of shot and popped it into his mouth, where he held it ready in case he needed to reload quickly. Then he knelt to pick up his helmet and gun. When he straightened up, the guard on duty with him was waving to Richard Mutton, who had just stepped out of a nearby building.
“Come here, lad,” the guard called to Richard. “Take my place on the platform. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve answered nature’s call.” The guard handed his gun and ammunition to Richard and jumped off the platform.
Sam and Richard looked warily at one another, then Sam moved as far away from Richard as he could get on the small platform. Sam concentrated on scanning the landscape and the river for unusual movements. Richard said something, but Sam couldn’t make out the words. Richard spoke again, in a louder voice. His tone was so gentle, so unlike anything Sam had ever heard from him, that Sam whirled around in surprise.
“I guess it’s harder on you than it is on me—or on Peacock,” Richard said. “At least we know for sure that our masters are dead and gone. That’s probably easier than not knowing.”
Sam didn’t speak. He stared at Richard, too amazed to nod.
Richard eyed Sam sheepishly. When his words were greeted with silence, Richard turned away and fiddled with his slow match.
A few minutes later, Richard said, “I don’t blame you for hating me, Samuel Collier. But there aren’t very many of us left here. There may come a day when we’ll need to speak to each other. Anyway, what’s the use of holding a grudge as we go to the grave?”
“I’m not going to the grave!” Sam declared, his voice colder than he had intended.
“Well, I’m not wishing death on you,” Richard said. “You needn’t be so cross.”
“I haven’t wished death on you, either,” Sam said, then caught himself. Maybe I have wished him dead, Sam thought. He is a spiteful bully.
“You haven’t?” Mutton asked, his eyebrows flying upward in surprise.
Richard’s expression struck Sam as comical. He gave a sudden laugh and the lead shot pitched out of his mouth. It clattered onto the platform, and Sam bent over to grab it. But the shot rolled toward Richard, who retrieved it and handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” Sam said stiffly. He turned away and concentrated on the river.
In a few minutes, the guard returned to the platform, thanked Richard, and resumed his duty. Sam said nothing as Richard hopped off the platform and walked away.
A few days later, Sam and Nate were sent to gather firewood. Since the settlers had already cut and cleared most of the wood around the fort, the boys had to walk a fair distance. They walked slowly, alert for any signs of Indians. They hadn’t brought guns because they needed their hands free for their task.
“Wait up!” a voice called.
The boys turned to see Richard running to catch up to them.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Nate demanded. “Nobody invited you.”
“Master Ratcliffe ordered me to collect firewood,” Richard said. “He told me to catch up with you two, because nobody is supposed to leave the fort alone.”
Nate scowled. “We can gather enough firewood without your help,” he said. “I know how you love to watch other people work, Richard—so you can sneer at them. But I can’t abide you or your sneering. Why don’t you go back to the fort and find somebody else to annoy?”
Richard’s face turned purple, and Sam braced himself for a scuffle. Instead, the bully’s shoulders sagged, and he wheeled around.
The boys had taken only a few more steps when Richard called after them: “I had nothing to do with the death of your master, Nathaniel Peacock!”
Nate froze.
“What are you talking about?” Sam yelled. “Master Calthrop died of the sickness.”
“I’ve heard the talk around the fort,” Richard said. “There are those who claim that certain gentlemen kept the best food for themselves and their friends. That other men—like Nate’s master—might have been spared from death if they’d gotten some of the food that had been selfishly set aside. But I swear I never got a bigger portion than the next fellow!” Richard continued. “If Master Kendall ever took more than his fair share, he didn’t give any extra to me. I wasn’t treated any better than anybody else.”
Richard lowered his eyes and Sam studied him. Richard was much thinner than he’d been when they’d arrived in Virginia. His shoulders sagged, pulling his chest inward. He didn’t look so sure of himself as he used to. “Master Kendall didn’t tell me his secrets, you know,” Richard continued. “I never even knew that he was plotting to steal a ship and head for England.”
Sam took a step toward Richard. “Do you think your master would have left you here by yourself?”
“I don’t know,” Richard said, and his voice choked. “Maybe he would have taken me with him. A few days before he was caught, he asked me if I’d like to go back to England.”
“What did you answer?” Sam asked. “Did you say you wanted to go back?”
“I said no. That I thought I’d do fine here, in spite of the sickness. I didn’t want my master to think I was a weakling.” Richard looked away. “But I was just talking big. If I had the chance to go back now, I’d go quicker than you can say Virginia. I hate this place.”
“I do, too,” Nate whispered. “I wish I’d never set eyes on James Fort. I’d give anything to go back to England.”
Sam stared at Nate. This was the first time he’d heard his best friend say he wanted to give up and go back to England.
“What about you, Sam Collier?” Richard asked. “Do you wish you could go back to England?”
Sam was speechless. He’d never considered the possibility of going back. He remembered how he used to boast that he was the luckiest boy in England because Master Smith had chosen to take him to Virginia. That he’d never return to the old country—that England was dirty and worn out. Sam thought about his father’s farm in Lincolnshire, the farm that his brother Thomas would inherit. It seemed so small, now that he had seen the open spaces of this new world.
What would I do if I went back to England? I won’t inherit the farm, so how would I scrape together a living? Sam thought. But I haven’t seen any easy riches here in Virginia, either. All I’ve seen is death and suffering. Suffering more horrible than anything I’d ever imagined!
Sam looked at Richard and answered, “I don’t know if I’d go back to England.” And that was the truth.
There was no feast that Christmas in James Fort. The colonists huddled around fires in their wooden huts, trying to keep warm. On the first day of January 1608, they rang in the new year on the same solemn note as they bid farewell to the old. Reverend Hunt led a prayer service. Then the good minister made the rounds of the sick.
Early the next morning, Sam and Nate were crossing the frosty ground outside the fort in search of dead branches for firewood. As they walked, they blew on their fingers to keep them from freezing. They’d been out nearly an hour when they heard footsteps. Instantly alert to danger, they slipped behind some trees and waited.
“Sam! Samuel Collier!” shouted a voice. “Sam! It’s me—Richard. I have news of your master!”
Sam ca
ught Nate’s eye. Bracing himself for bad news, he called, “Over here!”
Richard ran toward them, panting and red-faced. “John Smith’s back.” He paused to catch his breath. “He … he’s safe!”
Sam dropped his wood and took off running toward the fort.
Nate and Richard followed. “What about Master Robinson and Thomas Emry?” Nate shouted.
“They didn’t come back.”
When the boys reached the fort, Sam saw a crowd of men outside President Ratcliffe’s lodging. He pushed his way inside. John Smith was sitting on a bench surrounded by the council. The men stopped talking as Sam rushed to his master’s side.
Smith looked remarkably healthy. His clothing was tattered, but his weight and color gave no indication that he’d been suffering. In fact, Sam thought his master looked heartier than the men who had spent the last month in James Fort.
As soon as Smith saw Sam, he stopped talking and clasped the boy’s shoulders. He said, “Well, Samuel Collier, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Many a night these past weeks, I wondered if I would ever gaze upon you again while we dwelled on this earth.”
President Ratcliffe cleared his throat, and Sam realized he’d barged into the middle of a council meeting. An entire room full of gentlemen was staring at him! All at once, he was aware that teardrops were sliding down his cheeks. He felt his neck grow warm, and he knew his cheeks had turned red. Ashamed, he lowered his eyes.
Smith motioned for Sam to sit on the floor by his knee.
“I saw only one of the bodies,” Smith said, resuming his tale. “When my captors led me back to the site of our campfire, John Robinson was lying on the ground near the canoe. He had twenty or thirty arrows in him. As for Emry—I never saw his body, but the Indians had set fires all over the woods. I suppose his corpse was consumed in the blaze.”
Surviving Jamestown Page 12
