16

September 12, 1607

“WHAT IS WRONG with your face, boy? It is covered with maggots! Let me get them off before they eat your eyes!”

Nat dropped his hoe and straightened from his work in the wheat garden, beads of sweat rolling down his face. Before him, standing unsteadily with a sword in trembling hands, was Jehu Robinson. Two other gardeners stopped their work and stared.

“He’s gone mad,” one man hissed.

“Nathaniel Peacock,” said Jehu. His words were slurred. “You’ve got worms all over your head. Hold still while I chop them away!”

Jehu wrapped his fingers around the handle of the sword, and with a grunt, swung it up and over. It arced by Nat’s ear and Nat jumped out of the way, swearing.

“Jehu! What have you eaten? You are delirious!”

“Nat, wait!” said Jehu. “The worms are in your nostrils now. You will smother to death!” He lifted his sword and lashed out at Nat again. Nat again darted out of the way.

“Jehu, drop the sword!”

The two men in the garden ran out of the gate and up toward the fort, calling for help. “We’ve a madman!”

Jehu continued to wield the sword, Nat continued to dodge him. The man’s awkward movements made it easy to keep away from the blow of the deadly blade. “Please, Jehu,” said Nat. “What have you eaten that has you so crazed?”

Jehu paused for a moment, then pulled several leaves from his pocket. They were ordinary-looking, with thorny stems. “These taste peculiar,” Jehu said. His eyes went shut, and then opened again, filmy and senseless. He dropped the leaves.

“Put down the sword,” Nat said. “Please.”

“But the worms…!”

“There are no worms, man, listen to me!”

There was whooping and shouting now at the fort. Nat looked up and saw three soldiers rushing down to the wheat garden, muskets at the ready.

“Drop your weapon, Jehu!” said Nat.

Jehu spun around on his toe and saw the soldiers racing at him. He shivered violently and raised the sword. “Devils!” he screamed. “You’ve devils in your midst!”

“Jehu,” said Nat. “There are no devils. Lower the sword.”

“Don’t you see them?” shrieked Jehu. “God help me, they are sharp-toothed devils, come to slay me!”

“No!” said Nat.

Jehu charged forward, out of the garden and up the ridge toward the men, brandishing his sword. There was a moment of silence as the men paused to aim the muskets and then there was an explosion as three muskets fired. One musket ball struck Jehu in his right shoulder, shattering it instantly and making him drop the sword. The other hit his right knee, and he collapsed with a wail on to the ground. The third lodged in the man’s gut, and his shirt flowered with a bright red blossom of blood.

The men with the muskets came over cautiously and poked at Jehu with their shoes.

“He’s dead,” said one.

“Brain fever of some sort,” said a third man. “He’s best off dead than a danger to himself and the rest of us.”

But he might have recovered, Nat thought. If they had only disarmed him and put him in a cottage, he might have come through this in just a little while!

“You, boy,” said one man to Nat. “Help take this man into the fort. We’ll give him a proper burial.”

Nat wanted to cry out at these men, to scold them for their haste, for now dead was a man who had no other thought over the past months than how he could help the settlement survive. But Nat could not cry out. He would not bring their wrath down on himself.

Nat took Jehu’s arms and a soldier took his legs. They proceeded into the fortress, where he was laid in the chapel and Reverend Hunt bid all to attend a funeral service. The men gathered solemnly, helmets in hands, listening as the minister spoke of Jehu’s generosity and wisdom.

Nat stood near the back beside the open doorway, between Nicholas Skot and Samuel Collier. Nicholas was clearly upset, and wiped his eyes with his hands as the reverend spoke. Samuel, for all his ingrained haughtiness, seemed distracted and dazed, staring down at his shoe tips and rolling his lips in and out between his teeth. It was hard to breathe inside the church, even though the building was not as crowded as it had been months ago with so many men dead. Nat’s chest ached in what was more than just heat exhaustion. Something harsh and stinging pressed behind his eyes. He thought not only of Jehu, but of Richard—poor Richard, vanished among the Powhatans and never heard from again—and of his dead mother and of the dead boy James Brumfield, killed on the shore of Cape Henry, and of the dead boys he had once thieved with back in England.

If you cry, they will never again see you the way you want them to. You dare not cry, not now, not ever!

Nat clenched one fist in the other, and bit the inside of his cheek until it bled. But the tears did not come.

Jehu was buried within the fort. Then everyone went back to their normal routines, the gentlemen preparing for the next gold search, the councilors making sure laborers wasted no time on the construction of more cottages within the fortress, the soldiers manning the cannons which faced the forest, and the others wearily raking the river bottom with wood rakes for clams and crabs and chasing animals from the gardens and grumbling that they wished they had the hunting skills of the cursed natives.

After Jehu’s burial, Nat paced the fortress. He walked back and forth from the church, past the tents and cottages and storehouse to the gate and back again. From within some of the cottages he could hear the moans of those who were ill with fever and starvation. His nerves clawed the inside of his skin.

“Jehu, you moron,” he said to himself. “I told you not to try plants you didn’t know!”

He picked up several stones and hurled them through the fence of the sheep’s pen. It struck a ewe and her lamb, who squeaked and took several sideways, stumbling steps.

Then Nat stopped in front of Captain Smith’s cottage. Smith was not there. Nat glanced around, then went inside.

The captain’s home was neat. His wood and canvas cot had a wool blanket neatly folded at the end. On a wooden stool were writing utensils and a comb and knife. Several small crates were beneath the cot. Clothes, an extra shirt and vest and pairs of stockings, hung on nails driven into the wood framing.

Nat stooped down and pulled the crates from beneath the cot. He opened the first. In it were books and scrolls. Nat shut it and opened a second. Here were even more clothes, smelling of mildew, and an extra pair of shoes. Nat slammed it, too.

The third crate, smallest of them all, had a lock. Nat stood and kicked the lock solidly with the bottom of his shoe. The lock didn’t break, but the lid of the crate cracked and Nat tossed the lock aside. He opened the box.

“Ah,” he said in a whisper.

Here were trinkets, the ones Smith used when coaxing the Powhatans into peace or food. There were small looking glasses and bits of smoothed metal and patches of silk fabric stitched into pouches with drawstrings. At the bottom, blue glass beads. They were smooth and cool. These seemed to be the most popular trade item. Back in July, three entire deer were given to James Towne in exchange for a single bead, which the weroance who had approved the gift immediately strung with deer sinew and put around his neck as a symbol of his status.

He scooped up six of the beads and shoved them into his pocket. They clacked softly against the pebbles from the bank of the Thames.

A spear of excitement jabbed Nat’s gut as he collected a helmet and left the fort. It was like being in London again, snatching a fish from the monger’s barrow. He was a good thief. It was a talent he’d not practiced in quite some time. Now he would bury the beads where no one would find them and accuse him of theft, which would surely bring a noose to his neck. In time he might be able to use these beads to trade for food for himself.

The forest was more dense than it had been in the spring, with summer growth holding tight, the leaves of the tall trees linked together overhead in a solid canopy and the vines growing lush below. Nat carefully avoided one particular vine with tri-leaves which the men had discovered gave a dreadfully itchy rash where it touched.

This part of the woods was familiar. Nat had walked here enough to know the rise and fall of the land. He had even sketched a simple map from his memory, and the map was safely stored in his sack with his journal pages. He felt nearly as home here among the trees as he did back at the fort, although he knew to always walk softly and listen well. He’d not seen any sign of gold, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. It was probably just below the soil, and soon he would take time to dig.

Then he found a good spot. It was close to the river, although the water was hard to see because of the undergrowth. The ground was mushy and covered with pine needles. Nat clawed soil up with his fingernails and tossed it aside. He reached into his pocket for the beads. He would put them here, cover them with soil and leaves, and mark the place with stones.

Suddenly something slammed into Nat’s back and sent him flying through the air. He struck the ground on his shoulder with a grunt. Instantly Nat rolled onto his back and jumped to his feet. He would fight, he would survive!

Standing there with a look of triumph on his face was the Powhatan boy he’d seen from the garden. The boy had his hands out before him, one empty and one holding a writhing, copper-colored snake. Nat stared, his knees shaking.

The boy pointed at Nat, then the snake. He made a wriggling motion with his free hand, indicating that the snake had been traveling along the ground. Then he made a jabbing motion as if showing the snake had wanted to bite Nat on the ankle.

Nat slowly nodded at the boy. Thank you. The boy nodded back. You are welcome. The boy laughed. Nervously Nat laughed, too.

The boy whirled the struggling snake in the air and slapped it hard against a tree trunk. The snake went limp. The boy smiled and pointed at the snake and then to his mouth. Did the boy mean that the snake could be eaten? The boy held the snake out to Nat. Nat took it. He stared at it. Then he remembered how much the Powhatan boy had enjoyed the imitation of Gabriel Archer. Nat dropped the dead snake on the ground and then hunched over and pretended to sneak up on it. Then he quickly snatched it up and struggled with it as if it were still alive.

“Ah!” shouted the Powhatan, thrilled with the act. He began to slap at the dead snake, too. Both Nat and the boy laughed. Nat threw the snake against a tree, wiped his brow dramatically, and put the snake into his pocket. The head hung out limply.

“Ahhhh!” the boy repeated, smiling. The boy stared at Nat expectantly. Nat stared at the boy.

Laughing Boy, Nat thought. It is what I will call him. But what does he want? He saved me from that serpent, surely. I suppose I should thank him for saving my life, but how do I do that?

Nat thought of the rocks in his pocket. Maybe a smooth stone from London would be a good gift. Nat pulled out a quartz and gestured for the boy to take it. The boy took the rock, turned it over, shook his head, and threw the rock to the ground.

Reluctantly Nat drew a glass bead from his pocket. The boy’s eyes widened at this, and he took it with a whistle of admiration. He smiled at Nat, opened the leather pouch he wore tied to his waist, and dropped the bead inside. And then, as swiftly as before, he jumped off the path and was gone.

“He knows how to survive,” Nat thought, pulling the snake half out of his pocket and then cramming it back again. “I bet I could learn a lot if I spent time with him. And I bet he would help me search for gold. I wonder if we’ll meet again.”

And the thought was funny, Nat realized as he finished burying the rest of the glass beads. For the first time he could remember, he was thinking that someone to help him might be all right. If only on occasion.