1609, Winter of the Dead: A Novel of the Founding of Jamestown (2 page)

There are, of course, the reasons the London Company gives for our venture. Those are of bringing profits to the Company and of establishing a settlement in Virginia where English goods can be shipped in exchange for New World commodities.

There are the reasons King James gives, those of spreading Christianity to the heathens of Virginia, finding a route to the East India Sea, and establishing a stronghold in Virginia to halt the further spread of Spain and France's claims between the 34th and 45th degrees of north latitude.

But Richard's and my hearts are set on our own expectations. And dreams of them make everything worthwhile.

Riches. Treasure.

Gold!

2

T
HERE WAS MOVEMENT
across the 'tween deck, a sound of shoes clattering on wood. Nathaniel Peacock glanced up, brushed a strand of matted brown hair from his eyes, and squinted. It was late at night, well after suppertime. In the faint lights of the lanterns scattered around where the gentlemen and other workers lounged, Nathaniel could see red-haired Samuel Collier climbing down the ladder from the main deck. The boy was wearing his hat, the broad-brimmed black one with the jaunty, bouncing feather.

Quickly Nat capped the inkwell and slipped it and the pen beneath his mattress. Then he lay down, keeping his eyes open to slits to watch the approach of the page. In one hand he held the papers of his journal close by his side, hoping they would dry soon so he could stash them safely under his straw-stuffed pallet. In his other hand he held the five pebbles he'd scooped up from the River Thames shore, a last connection to the world he'd left behind. Beside Nathaniel, fourteen-year-old Richard Mutton slept on his own lumpy mattress.

Samuel worked his way carefully through the clusters of gentlemen and commoners on the floor. As were Nathaniel and Richard, Samuel was always cautious not to disturb the men. Even though tonight most were preoccupied—playing cards, rolling dice, chewing the remainders of their evening meal of hardtack and cold pork, coaxing tunes from flutes, sipping beer from mugs, and fumbling with lanterns in an attempt to make them burn more brightly—one misstep from a boy could send any of them into a rage. An upset gentleman was a dreadful experience. Nathaniel, for doing nothing more than spilling gruel or sloshing waste water, had been punched in the ear and kicked in the gut.

When Samuel found his mattress, he paused and put his hands on his hips and frowned as if something was wrong. Could the boy tell that Nathaniel had been into his wooden storage box?

Samuel drew his nose up and sniffed the air. This close, even in the pale light of the lanterns across the floor, Nathaniel could see his twitchy blue eyes and his bright red hair.

“Something stinks,” Samuel said.

Nathaniel said nothing. Samuel was constantly trying to pick a fight, and if Nathaniel was going to match wits with this boy, he'd do it on his own terms and in his own place, not here with witnesses. Instead, he closed his eyes and pretended to doze.

“You hear me, Peacock? I said something stinks, and I think it's you, you London vermin! What was Smith thinking to invite you and Mutton along? Such a waste of space, I say. Illiterates and indigents! Pah! We have been so much better to have brought along a few extra pigs. At least pigs are worth their weight in victuals!” He waited as if he hoped Nathaniel would jump up and get himself in trouble. Even though Samuel was of less status than any of the men, Nathaniel and Richard were less than Samuel, and an outright fight within earshot of the gentlemen would likely bring about more of a punishment for Nat than for Samuel.

Nathaniel said nothing.

“Waste of space.” This time Samuel's words were softer, as if he was speaking to himself. Clearly he thought Nathaniel was sleeping.

A moment later, Nat heard the page shuffle around beneath his thin blanket and then go still.

Go to sleep, you spoiled puppy,
Nat thought.

Then, when the ink was dry on the page, he hid the paper behind the barrel at his head. He lay flat, crossed his arms beneath his head, and stared up at the low 'tween deck ceiling. The five pebbles were cool in his fist.

The boat hull creaked. The cannons, poised at shuttered portholes, bumped back and forth on their blocks. From the hold below the 'tween deck, Nat could hear the sheep and pigs and chickens in their crates bleating and grunting and squawking to each other. The ship's tiller just above and behind Nat's head thumped steadily as it worked the rudder, taking them farther across the sea toward Virginia. The bell rang from the upper deck, indicating it was time for a change of watch.

Nathaniel watched the light from the men's lanterns cast eerie, dancing shadows about the barrels and hull. Some of the shadows were shapeless and vague; others reminded him of things he'd left behind in London. One moved like the jaws of a mad dog which had bitten through the leg of his trousers the day the ships had left the port at Blackwall. Richard had seen it as a bad omen for the trip, but Nat had seen it as a good omen because the dog had missed the flesh of Nat's leg entirely. One shadow fluttered like a swan on the Thames River, and another hovered like a stray cloud in London's oft gray sky.

Unlike Richard, Nathaniel did not miss the reeking old English city. Nat had been born there, and had been raised by his mother, a barmaid, until he was six and she had died of fever. Cast out by the bar's owner, Nat had lived on the streets and had slept in various stables and barns until, nearly a year later, he was taken in by a street peddler who sold fish from a rattly pushcart. Nat had helped the man catch and hawk his goods, and the man had given Nat food and shelter in the man's shack. He'd also given Nat something most street boys would never have. He'd taught Nat to read and write.

The peddler, a large and cheerful man called Boonie, had been as poor as any beggar, but the man had a love for literature, and had kept a tattered but beloved collection of books in a little chest. From these, Nat had learned to read, and on paper scrounged by Boonie Nat had learned to write. It seemed as if only the rich had paper, ink, and quills, but somehow Boonie would bring these things home and the two of them would write. Nat was certain the man had stolen the paper and ink, but it didn't matter. He had a skill that the gentlemen had, and it would serve him someday. But he had never told anyone, not even Richard. Some secrets were best kept close.

Nat was nine when Boonie had died from a mule kick to the head, and Nat had lived alone ever since. He had formed partnerships with other street boys, taking what food and clothing and bits of coal they could in order to survive. But the partnerships had come and gone. Some of the boys had been caught at their thievery; others had stolen from Nathaniel and run away. Some of the boys had died. Not long after Nat's eleventh birthday, he'd met Richard. The two worked as a team in snatching vegetables from street-side stands or lifting valuables from rich women's baskets, but Nat didn't consider Richard a friend.

Nat rolled over onto his elbows and took the ink and pen back from under his mattress. Laying the pebbles aside, he smoothed the paper as best he could on the tiny floor space by his mattress, squinted in the murky light, and wrote,

It is a good thing not to have friends. They can betray you. They can die. A man alone has the most power. A man alone shares with no one, and is the better for it. A man alone is truly a man.

And at last, with the rhythmic rocking of the ship, Nathaniel let sleep take him away for a little while.

3

March 13, 1607

N
AT AND
R
ICHARD
stood on the main deck in the bright sun and cool breeze, hurling rats and mice over the rail into the ocean waves. There had been seven buckets full of the vermin, some caught among the barrels and the gentlemen's pallets on the 'tween deck, others on the main deck and in the cook's small brick galley. One particularly large and hairy rat had bedded down with the overweight and haughty man Edward Brookes, and the man had shrieked like a woman until Nat had clubbed the rodent with a poker.

As of yet, Richard and Nat hadn't had to go down through the square hatch in the floor of the 'tween deck into the lightless hold and catch rats down there. So far, only the sailors had swung down on their ropes to feed the animals and to work the pumps. The 'tween deck was smelly indeed, with the sweat and expensive perfumes worn by the gentlemen, but the fumes that drifted up from the hold were far worse. Who knew what kinds of creatures made their home down there among the waters of the bilge? And Nathaniel knew that Richard was claustrophobic, especially in unfamiliar, unlit places. It had taken the boy a few weeks to lose his discomfort on the 'tween deck.

Catching and dumping rats was preferable to other chores the two boys were given. It was much more fun to collect the animals and play at who could toss one farther than it was to clean spilled urine or to swab down vomit.

“Look!” Nat said to Richard, nudging him on the arm as the rat he'd tossed arched and dropped into the water a good thirty feet from the ship. “Aha! Quite a distance old ratty flew there! I'm winning.”

“My last one was at least that far,” grumbled Richard. “We can't be certain, can we? Who shall go out to measure?”

“Your arms are just too short,” said Nat, grinning.

Richard scooped another rat from his bucket and threw it, but a gust of wind kept it from going very far. The little dead creature, its toes curled and its glazed eyes open, dropped only ten feet from the ship.

“Pah!” grumped Richard.

But Richard's less-than-cheerful humor didn't bother Nathaniel. The day was too pleasant, the sun too kind, to make him think of anything but what lay ahead. In not many weeks, they would step off onto the land of Virginia, where gold and pearls abounded, where urchin boys could become gentlemen and pompous pages would give them the respect they deserved.

“It seems to me that Samuel Collier would better serve this trip killing rats and mice than to do whatever silly errands John Smith has him do,” said Richard. He ran his hand under his nose, wiping away sooty mucus from a lingering case of sniffles. “I hate the page.”

“So do I,” said Nat. “But as I've told you, you must act as if he does not offend you. Stay out of his way. Act as if he does not exist and we will be the better for it.”

“I cannot ignore him. He constantly chides us!”

“But we must act our station so the men will leave us alone as much as possible. When we get to Virginia, we can improve our status. We can even steal silver and pearls and run away to live in a gold-filled Virginia hill if we want! But until then, we must be quiet, dim-witted laborers.”

“I hate the gentlemen, too,” said Richard. “They see us as no more than stray cats on a London alley.”

“Behave as a cat and you will be seen as a cat. Behave like a humble ship's boy and you will be seen thus.”

Richard rolled his eyes and gestured with upturned hands. “I cannot act as well as you! You have always been able to make people believe what you want them to. You could play a part at the Globe Theatre, I am certain. But not me, I—”

“Stop chattering!” It was a sailor who had seen the boys pause in their work. “I'll clout you! Back to work!”

“Yes, sir!” said Nat. Richard scowled.

“Only one more rat for us each,” said Nathaniel, looking into the buckets. “Here is your chance to best me.”

Nat and Richard threw their rats at the same time. Nat's went much farther than Richard's, plopping into the foamy green water and then disappearing.

“Idiot's game,” said Richard.

“Ah, but it gives us the chance to stay above deck a bit longer, Richard,” said Nat. “If we dumped them all at once, we'd have to go back down at once, and I don't know about you, but I prefer fresh air to stale.”

“Hmm,” said Richard.

The boys stood for a few more seconds, staring out at the vast water, pretending to toss rats from the now empty buckets. All around them, sailors went about their business, checking riggings, climbing the foremast, the mizzenmast, and the mainmast to constantly check and alter the sails, shouting to each other and to the crews of the
Discovery
and the
Godspeed
not far away. The huge white sails on the three ships billowed, and the red and white St. George's Cross flags snapped briskly in the wind. Over the past few days, there had been rough weather and the cook had been forced to put out the fire in his oven so a stray spark would not set the ship afire. Today, however, Nat could smell sweet, roasting meat from the small galley under the Great Cabin.

Nathaniel and Richard were in the clothes they'd worn since they had left London. Both had moth-ruined wool breeches, ratty silk stockings, weather-hardened leather shoes, and simple white linen blouses. Nathaniel also owned a brown cloak, given him by the charitable wife of a wheelwright who lived in Downing Street near the Thames. The cloak was now part of his mattress, covering the straw-filled bag to keep it less scratchy.

“How are you faring, my men?” came a familiar voice. John Smith stood with his arms crossed by the mainmast. Even though he was dressed as dandy as any lord, with a velvet doublet and cloak, embroidered breeches, silk stockings, and pistol and dagger at his waist, it was clear he had felt the effects of the long journey; his face was drawn and more pale and his cheekbones were prominent. Yet his voice was strong and his head held high. Smith often had a kind word for those below his station, and it was a pleasant distraction for Nat and Richard.

“Fine, sir,” said Nat, bowing obediently. “It looks as though we'll have good weather for a time. Praise God.”

“Praise God indeed,” said Smith. He strode to the railing and with a smile said, “Watch.” He held out an open hand, showed it to Nat and Richard, then closed it and gave it a shake. When he opened it again, there was a shilling where none had been.