19

January 4, 1608

At last! I have a cottage! Although I must share it with Samuel Collier, William Love, and John Laydon. It is smaller than the other cottages, and not much warmer than the rotting tent, but it is sturdy and the winds will not blow it down. We caked the walls thick with mud and have woven door and window mats with dried grasses from outside the fort. There is one room, with two cots and two mattresses, a single table, and John Laydon’s trunk.

Although I would not have chosen Samuel Collier to share a home with me, it makes writing convenient. He has a supply of pens and ink and paper for the times he takes notes for John Smith. I steal a little every week or so. He is a sluggish, careless boy. I don’t think he has noticed.

I kept the skins of the deer I killed; they help keep the excruciating cold off me. William Love cried out so dreadfully with shivers three nights ago I covered him with one of the skins to quiet him. He still has it.

More men of James Towne have died from weakness, foul water, and little food. Burials are quick now and with little dignity, performed at night so the natives, who the soldiers swear are watching us constantly, won’t know how few of us there are. Our scarce crops from summer are rationed to each man, even the lazy gentlemen who never lifted a finger to help acquire this food. We each are given a bit of wheat and beans daily. It is not enough. But I have seen some of the councilors, even our president Edward Maria Wingfield, go into the storehouse and steal away much more than what is rightfully theirs. If they knew I knew of their dishonesty, they would probably banish me.

The food I saved in my sack from the many months here in Virginia went more quickly than I’d hoped. Some had spoiled beyond hope, and the rest was gone as of November. If it weren’t for Laughing Boy, I might be dead now, starved like the others. I do not see the Powhatan as often as I did in the autumn; with his pantomime and stick sketches I know he must spend these winter months hunting with his village. But regularly I find a bundle of corn, nuts, and dried meat left for me where I buried the beads. I gorge myself before I return to James Towne.

Now that the gardens are dead for the winter, most of us do not go beyond the fortress. The soldiers still take turns watching for attacks, but sometimes their weakness causes them to doze, leaving us in danger. There has been much rain and sleet and some snow. My feet are sometimes so numb I can barely stand, but I know if I don’t move around, it will only be worse. Very few men look to me for humor now, for which I am thankful. It is too cold to joke.

Thomas Sands and Robert Fenton have been released from their imprisonment, with less than thirty days served. I avoid them as best as possible. I do not like the looks in their eyes. It is not hatred, but a near-pity. I do not need anyone’s pity. I only need to survive.

As I write with these stiff fingers, I hear weak shouts from outside my cottage. I hear, “Susan Constant.” Susan Constant! The ship has arrived! There will be supplies, food, clothing, weapons. I stop for now.