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“FROM WHAT YOU’VE TOLD me, Mistress Fielding, it appears the danger we feared from the Indians has passed,” Deputy-Governor Yeardley said. “Which is a considerable relief to all of us.” He paused. “Now, I understand you have another matter to bring before the council.”
“Yes, sir.” She hesitated, noting there were only two of the seven council members present that afternoon. “I wonder if I need to approach all of the council members . . . or, if. . . .”
“Just apprise me of the nature of the matter, Mistress Fielding. If others of the council are required to give an opinion, they will be consulted. I expect our consideration will be sufficient for your . . . ah . . . little matter.”
Though Yeardley’s patronizing tone irritated Catherine, she had no choice but to proceed. With a shaky smile, she gazed at the three elderly gentlemen looking expectantly at her.
The Council House, situated inside the fort of Jamestown, sat opposite the church, facing the greensward where the village picnic had been held on Sunday last. Catherine had walked into the fort alone this afternoon, wondering if she would see Noah today. Thus far, she hadn’t. Apparently he and the other men who’d escorted her to Werowocomoco had already delivered their report and departed.
“As you know, sir,” she began, “I came to the New World for the express purpose of tutoring the Rolfe boy, but that is not to be. Therefore, I have decided, that is, sir, I very much wish to start a Dame School here in Jamestown, for the children.” She rushed on. “I feel it is of extreme importance, sir, that all citizens, that is, the future citizens, of Jamestown know how to read and write. Education is very important to the survival of the colony, sir.”
“Indeed, Mistress Fielding. However, a . . . school.” Yeardley paused, as if considering how best to refuse her request.
Catherine noted that the other two councilmen, a Mr. Porter and a Mr. Weymouth, were both nodding their heads in apparent support of her proposal. She waited for the governor to go on. When he didn’t, she took advantage of the long pause.
“I wondered if I needed to obtain a special charter from you before I began holding sessions, or . . . if I merely needed to apprise you of my plan.”
“To apprise the council of your plans is indeed necessary, Mistress Fielding, but . . . I . . . we . . . have not yet considered the notion of a . . . school. The council treasurer will have to be consulted if you expect to receive any monetary aid . . .”
“Oh, no sir,” Catherine interjected. “I am not requesting any funds, at least, not at present. Perhaps, once I am able to ascertain what my needs will be, I might require some financial aid, but, for now . . .”
“Without funds, how do you propose to finance your venture?” asked Mr. Weymouth, who seemed a kindly sort with a pleasant smile.
“I intend to barter with the parents of my students. Lessons in exchange for whatever they can spare, firewood, meat, corn, flour.”
“Ah.” Weymouth nodded but said nothing further.
Yeardley spoke next. “The main thrust of the Virginia Company, Mistress Fielding, is not to educate, but to make a profit for our stockholders in England. I, and the other councilmen, are educated men, and the shareholders have placed express trust in us to manage the affairs of the township and to ensure that the settlers do all in their power to use the natural resources of the region to produce useful commodities such as lumber, clapboards, pitch, tar, and of course, tobacco, and also furs and skins, which we obtain from the Indians and which do, indeed, fetch quite a high price in England. All of the products that we, as a commonwealth, can export back to England are necessary and essential in order for us to alleviate the tremendous debt we owe to the stockholders who have placed their trust in us. For my part, Mistress Fielding. . . .”
Catherine listened intently to the governor, but eventually when it seemed he was merely droning on and on and saying nothing relevant, her thoughts began to wander. Did the governor truly believe education was unnecessary? From his ramblings, she had no idea what point, if any, he was attempting to make. Even when he appeared to have concluded his lengthy speech, she was unsure what his opinion of her idea truly was.
“Not to be disrespectful, sir, but Sir Edwin Sandys, who I understand was instrumental in forming the New Virginia Company, has very definite ideas about how to ensure the growth and future of this colony and others like it in the New World. One of his ideas involves bringing women here for the express purpose of marrying the men of Jamestown and forming families . . . with children, which will naturally further the growth of the settlement. I believe, sir, that any self-respecting and forward-thinking family will want to see their children educated at least to the point of being able to read and write. As I am sure you are aware, sir, there is now a grammar school in most every village of a size in England.”
The governor cleared his throat but seemed to be growing impatient with her persistence. “Of a certainty, Mistress Fielding, of a certainty. But here in Jamestown, that eventuality is well in the future. At present, we have very few children and there is not a child in Jamestown who does not share in his or her familial duties, whether working the tobacco fields alongside the father, or if the child be female, helping the mother with chores and duties in the home. I hardly think any parent will want to do without the help provided by their children for any length of time, and certainly not for something as frivolous as learning how to read.”
Catherine bristled. “But surely you agree, sir, that the ability to read and write, and correctly figure sums is important for the success and survival of the family and therefore the entire community.”
Both Mr. Porter’s and Mr. Weymouth’s heads turned toward the deputy-governor.
Yeardley’s lips thinned. “I believe if a man thinks it necessary that his son know how to read or write, the teaching of that lesson should fall to the mother.”
“And if the mother is unable to read or write?”
The governor suddenly seemed to lose all patience. “Mistress Fielding,” he huffed. “I can see you are determined to move ahead with this venture, whether or not I think it a sound idea.”
Catherine was also losing patience with him. “Sir,” she said in a firm tone, “we think the Indians are savage and uneducated, yet if we do not educate our own, what will set us apart from them? To bring the Indians to Christianity, which I understand is one of the foremost purposes of settling this land, will hardly be possible if the one doing the bringing cannot even read from his own prayer book!”
The governor appeared to have heard her at last. “Are you saying, madam, that you intend to educate Indian children in your school?”
“I . . . why, yes, of course, any child will be welcome.”
“And you intend to teach the reading of the Anglican Prayer Book?”
“I do, indeed, sir, as I have nothing else to teach from.”
The governor sat up straighter. “Well, why did you not say so at the outset? The establishment of an Anglican Missionary School in Jamestown will greatly impress the Virginia Company stockholders and the king! No doubt King James himself will issue a Royal Commendation!” His face beamed with pleasure as he turned toward Mr. Porter. “Porter, draft a letter at once to Sir Edwin Sandys apprising him of the establishment of Jamestown’s Anglican Missionary School. Tell him the savages will be brought to Christianity and taught to be loyal subjects to His Majesty, the king! The stockholders will be very pleased, very pleased, indeed!” He turned to Catherine. “Are you certain you do not require any assistance, Mistress Fielding? Anything at all?”
“Now that I think on it, sir, I am in need of two additional tables and benches for the students. We’ve only one board table in our common room. I have purchased my brother’s home to use for my Dame School. My . . . my assistant, Miss Mills and I will, of course, reside there.”
“Consider it done! That and any other carpentry tasks you require. I am vastly pleased with your show of loyalty to the cause, Mistress Fielding. I can see why Mr. and Mrs. Rolfe placed such a great deal of confidence in you. I am vastly pleased, Mistress Fielding, vastly pleased, indeed.”
* * * *
CATHERINE LEFT THE deputy-governor’s chamber in a daze, her thoughts awhirl as she set off across the greensward towards home. Though she hadn’t noticed whilst in the meetinghouse, storm clouds had gathered outside. Strong winds blew in gusts off the sea. Again and again Catherine wondered how her simple idea to teach boys and girls to read and write had suddenly become a Missionary School to bring Indian children to Christianity. How Yeardley proposed to persuade Indian children to attend her school, she hadn’t a clue. The notion of a commendation from the king was equally preposterous to consider.
She shuddered to think what would happen if it became common knowledge why she wished to start a grammar school. Or if it became known that she had begun her journey to the New World by giving John Rolfe a false name simply to escape her guardian and that she had clung to her deception simply because she had been scorned in love. The truth would make her the laughingstock of the New World . . . perhaps even a criminal! To put a very fine point on it, she and Nancy were both already criminals! The Newgate Prison was full of serving wenches who’d be hanged for far lesser crimes than pinching lemons!
Catherine knew she could trust Nancy. But she did not ever want Noah to know how deeply his betrayal had hurt. On the other hand, if the truth did come out and Mistress Fielding’s Missionary School became a newsworthy item in London, that lofty accomplishment alone should free her from Lord Montcrief’s censure. And now that she was an entire world away from him, his wrath probably no longer mattered anyhow.
Shaking her head to clear it as she stepped through the palisaded wall of the fort, a fierce gust of wind nearly hurled her back inside. The air, she realized, was pungent with the smell of impending rain. Suddenly over the noise of the wind, she heard a man’s voice calling to her.
“Catherine! Catherine! Come quick!”
She whirled around and was astonished to see Noah running toward her. “What is it?” she called back.
Panting, he reached her side. “It’s Charity. It’s her time! She’s frightful sick and screaming! I haven’t a clue what to do for her.”
“Where is her mother?”
“Not here.” His eyes were as wild as the tempest of wind and leaves swirling about them. “Please, come, Catherine! Ye’ll know what to do. Please!”
“Of course, I’ll come, Noah.” She fell into step beside him as he raced back the way he’d come. The wind at their backs whipped Catherine’s long skirts around her and caused Noah’s shirt and breeches to billow about him. “Are there not any other women in the village who are more experienced at this than I?” Catherine’s tone was anxious.
He held onto his hat as he shouted back at her. “I remember back home when you and your mother assisted with birthings in the village.”
* * * *
THE TINY HOVEL WHERE Noah and his young wife lived was a mere bark-covered hut that looked so flimsy Catherine expected a single gust of strong wind could topple it. Before they stepped inside, she could already see twigs and grass and bits of bark lifting upward from the low-slung roof as the wind swept past.
Inside, there was only one room with not even a wall or doorway to separate one section from another. A tattered curtain hanging from the low ceiling afforded some privacy to the girl writhing on the bed in the corner, but her loud wails could be heard long before Noah and Catherine entered the hovel.
Apparently Noah became aware of the rude look of their home for he said, “We’ll be removing to the Benson plantation as soon as Charity and the babe are able.”
Catherine was already across the room to ascertain the girl’s condition, though with Charity’s thrashing about on the bed, her exact condition was difficult to determine.
“Please, dear, do hold still,” Catherine pleaded. “I cannot help if you do not lie still.”
Charity ceased her screaming for a moment, but her blue eyes were wild as she gazed at the stranger.
“Sweetheart,” Noah said, “this is Catherine, she’s come to help with the birthing.”
Recognition must have dawned for the girl’s screams began afresh. “No-o-o! Not her! No-o-o! She’ll kill me!” She flung her arms at Catherine in an attempt to push her away. “Go away! Noah! Help me! Please, help me!” she sobbed.
Catherine glanced at Noah. “You’ll need to tie her wrists if I’m to do any good.”
“Tie her wrists?”
“To the bedpost. I need to feel her belly.”
Noah glanced about the hut in search of a piece of rope. Spotting a length, he snatched it up and came back to the bed. “Sweetheart, the nice lady needs you to hold still so she can help you.” His anxious eyes sought Catherine’s for reassurance.
Together they managed to secure the girl’s wrists. Noah moved to the bottom of the bed to hold her ankles in place while Catherine gently probed her distended belly.
Suddenly, Charity let out a long, deep wail, which caused Noah to let go of his hold on her and step back in alarm.
Catherine was also fearful. “I cannot do this alone. She is far too frightened. I fear she could harm herself and the babe. Is there not another woman who can help?”
“I . . . I do know someone, but . . .”
“Get her!”
Noah dashed from the hut and returned in only a few minutes. When he reentered the house, Catherine was indeed taken aback when she saw the woman with him was a dark-skinned natural. Her doeskin garment was soiled with soot and a dusting of flour or cornmeal. Her black hair hung in a single braid down her back.
“She cooks and keeps house for the freemen I used to live with. She’s a widow-woman like yourself, but she has a passel of children, and I . . . I trust her.”
The Indian woman had already assessed the situation. Pulling a small leather pouch from her pocket, she expertly pried Charity’s mouth open and put a pinch of the contents beneath her tongue.
“For calm her.” She turned to shoo Noah away. “Man no help.”
Glad to obey, he backed away, making an attempt to tug the tattered curtain more closely around the three women.
The Indian woman gestured for Catherine to hold Charity’s knees apart while she drew up the girl’s skirt and began to work her magic between her legs. Charity’s wails became mere drugged whimpers. Her brow wet with perspiration, blonde curls lay plastered to her damp cheeks. The Indian woman moved to heft Charity’s body to a semi-sitting position and in English told her to push.
Charity silently obeyed as Catherine positioned herself at the foot of the bed to help the babe gain entry to the world. Minutes later, she drew the newborn infant upward and held it aloft.
“Hold heels,” instructed the Indian woman. “Pat rump, make cry.”
Catherine did so, and soon her pats on the baby’s wet bottom produced a weak whimper, then a lusty wail.
Catherine laughed. Awe filled her as she realized she was holding Noah’s child, and that while it was not also hers, it was part of him, and . . . she loved it dearly. Lost in her thoughts, she was unaware that the Indian woman had severed the cord with some sort of sharp tool. Catherine glanced about for something to wrap the baby in, but seeing nothing, she merely carried it covered in slime and blood, through the torn curtain to Noah. “I need a cloth to wrap your son in,” she said, “and water to clean him.”
“A son!” he cried, staring with wonder at the wriggling infant Catherine carried.
* * * *
“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING, really,” Catherine protested later that evening as she relayed the events of the day to the Parke family. The torrential downpour had held off until she’d reached home, but the rain and wind had been howling outdoors ever since. “The Indian woman did it all. I never did learn her name.”
“It was no doubt Tamiyah,” said Abigail. “She comes to the village every day to cook and clean for the unmarried freemen.”
“And Noah has a son,” marveled Adam, who’d also managed to make it back home, though he and the Morgan men were soaked to the skin when they reached the house. “Perhaps we’ll be so blessed.” He turned a shining look on Abigail.
Who touched her swollen belly. “Perhaps we shall be, husband.”
* * * *
THAT NIGHT AS CATHERINE lay abed going over the events of the day, she wondered about the herb the Indian woman had given to Charity. It was obviously something very powerful as it had had the immediate effect of calming her. Whatever it was, Catherine was thankful Tamiyah had been on hand to administer it and to assist. Without the Indian woman there, she feared what the outcome of the birthing might have been.
Suddenly, she recalled the final words the Indian woman uttered moments before Catherine left the house. Charity’s parents had arrived by then, and a general hubbub had ensued. While Mrs. Benson cuddled the babe, she’d issued crisp orders to Tamiyah, who had already taken care of the afterbirth and, without being told, had begun changing the bed linens. But Catherine remembered hearing the Indian woman say to no one in particular: “Girl no have more babes.”
Catherine wondered at the dire prediction.
* * * *
THE STRONG STORM, WHICH Adam called a hurricane, continued throughout the night and into the following day. Because neither Abigail nor Margaret Morgan expected the men to return to the house that night, they did not prepare a large evening meal, thinking that the four women and Lad could do with a simple vegetable broth and cold flatbread for dinner. Instead the men returned home, Adam wearing a grim expression on his face.
He said little until they’d all crowded around the board table, each trencher barely half full of the scanty offering. Catherine sensed something amiss but knew better than to ask. Adam would bring the matter up when he was ready.
Her curiosity heightened when, instead of folding his work-roughened hands on the table before him as was his custom when leading the family in their prayer before a meal, he reached to clasp the hands of the two sitting on either side of him, herself and Abigail. Before concluding his prayer, he added a postscript.
“Dear Lord, we ask that you be with the Benson family in their time of grief. Amen.”
Both Catherine and Abigail’s heads jerked up.
“What has happened?” Abigail demanded.
“You don’t know?”
“We’ve not left the house today. The rain was too . . .”
“Figured you’d have heard.” His gaze darted toward Catherine. “Last night, when the worst of the storm hit, the Coltons’ old hut blew down. The babe was killed.”
“Oh!” cried all the women in unison.
Adam gave Catherine’s hand a squeeze. “The rest of the family is safe. They managed to get Charity to Yeardley’s home last night. The family plans to return to the plantation as soon as the rain lets up and the roads clear. Except for Noah. He wants to sift through the rubble and salvage what he can, though I can’t imagine what he could find of value there. I’m sure he’s heartbroken over the loss of his son. We all are.”
Catherine’s appetite vanished as the pain in her heart threatened to engulf her. “Excuse me, I’m not the least bit hungry.” She slid from the bench and headed for the seclusion of her own bedchamber.
Falling to her knees beside the bed, she buried her face in her hands. Dear God, she prayed, please be with Noah and his poor, dear child-bride. Help them to cope with their terrible loss.
She sat on the floor a long while, thinking back on the innocent, sweet pride she’d beheld on Noah’s face when she handed him his son. And now the babe was gone! How could God have dealt such a cruel blow? The child had lived less than one day.
The enormity of the tragedy was so intense she could not take it in. How would Noah and his little wife go on after this? She gave in to the tears that streamed down her cheeks.
After a time, she pulled herself to her feet and climbed into bed, drawing her knees to her chest. Remembering again the final words the Indian woman uttered, “Girl no have more babes,” fresh tears gathered in Catherine’s eyes. Dear God, please, please let the Indian woman be wrong.