Poison in the Colony, page 18
Then I see my mother talking to a girl who looks just a little older than I am. Maybe she is telling her about me? I walk toward them, but when the girl turns, I see that she is pregnant.
“When your time comes, have your husband send for me,” Mum says.
I stop and stare. The girl is just a little older than I am. The same way Mum was just a couple of years older than I am now when she married Da. I do not want to get married soon, or have babies, or any such thing. I turn and hurry off in the other direction.
Da and Samuel are talking to Captain Newce, the manager of Elizabeth City lands.
“Yes, come spring we’ll make sure you get a few chickens from the supply ships,” Captain Newce tells my father. “You’ll need a good strong barn—we’ve got plenty of raccoons and foxes like to wipe out a flock in a night. It’s not like James Town fort, where the palisades keep most of those critters out.”
“Speaking of the palisades,” my father begins, then he leans in close and I hear the words “natives” and “threat,” and I know he must be discussing whether or not we are safe here with no palisade walls or watchmen to protect us. Captain Newce seems to ease his mind, because Da’s next questions are about getting a mule in the springtime to pull a plow so we can plant, and also a cow so we can have milk and cheese. Captain Newce says he’ll see what he can do.
As we walk home, Mum clucks her tongue about the fact that there is no midwife in Elizabeth City. “I’ll have to help as best I can,” she says.
I have a burning question to ask, but I’m not quite sure how to put it. Finally, I blurt it out. “Mum, I don’t have to get married at fourteen like you did, do I?”
“Of course not,” she says. “You can wait as long as you want to marry. With the way they keep sending more men than women, there is no chance you’ll end up an old maid.”
Samuel tugs on my hair. “Wait until you’re at least fourteen and a half,” he says.
I swat at him, but he darts out of the way.
Forty-One
EACH DAY I wake in our new home, it feels more familiar. Our days are filled with hard work, our nights spent cozy in bed in front of the hearth. Mum and Da say in the spring we’ll start sleeping in the bed rooms.
In James Town, we relied on rations the ships brought and meat shared among the colonists when a cow or goat was butchered or from the gentlemen’s hunting. Here, we must make our grain last until our own corn ripens, and we will be able to do our own hunting.
One day, Samuel shows me the bow and arrows he made when he lived in the Warraskoyack village years ago. Kainta, the chief’s son, taught him how to make the bow from a sapling and string it with sinew. Then he chipped the arrowheads from stone, chose the straightest wood for the arrow shafts, and tied feathers to the arrows to help them fly true.
“I replaced the sinew on the bow last winter, but the arrows could use some new feathers. Once the arrows are ready, they will shoot more accurately than a musket,” Samuel says. “Then I will teach you how to use them.”
I try not to look too surprised. Hunting has always been for the men to do, both among the colonists and among the natives. But if Mum will give me time away from my chores to go hunting with Samuel, I will bring back plenty of meat for our brine barrel, and we will eat well all winter.
Samuel and I work together. We use feathers from a turkey Da shot with his musket and tie them to the arrow shafts with sinew. Then Samuel shows me how to rub pokeweed berries on the shafts to bring back the purple color, for decoration.
Samuel and Da have been cutting the long grasses, collecting hay for when we will have our own animals. Samuel takes a big armful of hay and wraps sinew around it to bind it. “See if your mum will give you a piece of rag,” Samuel tells me. “Then we will have our target for you to practice on.”
Mum does not easily give up a rag. “What if someone gets hurt and I need this for washing and bandaging the wound?” she demands. She is not happy about Samuel teaching me to hunt.
“Just a small piece,” I beg. The smaller the piece of cloth, the harder it will be for me to hit the mark, but the better hunter I will become.
She finally gives in, and I bring Samuel a piece of cloth a little bigger than my hand. First, he takes pokeweed berries and crushes them in the center of the cloth, making a purple blotch. Then he binds the cloth to the hay. “This is your target,” he says.
It is a good thing that the bow and arrows are more accurate than a musket, because at first all I can hit is the ground. But every chance I get to leave my work, I practice. I squint at the white cloth with the purple center, willing my arrow to fly directly into it. I hold my arms as still as I can, slow down my breathing, concentrate. Soon, I can hit the bundle of hay with each arrow, even though I have yet to hit the cloth target.
The first time my arrow pierces the cloth, I whoop so loud, Mum comes running to see what has happened. When she sees that I am fine, just practicing my shooting, she walks back to the house, shaking her head.
The first time I hit the purple center, Samuel is watching. I do not whoop and yell; I simply turn to him and grin.
“Time to get some meat for your family,” he says.
Samuel tells me of a clearing nearby where he has seen a lone six-point buck. “He comes at dusk to browse,” he says.
Once again, I try not to look too surprised. I had assumed my first kill would be a rabbit or a turkey. But if Samuel thinks there is a buck we can kill, I will certainly try.
The very next day, Samuel and I go to the clearing before sunset. I wear my moccasins to keep my feet warm, and to better walk quietly in the forest. Samuel shows me how to test the wind—wet my finger in my mouth and hold it up to feel the slight cold breeze. We find a place to hide in the underbrush, downwind of the clearing. That way, the buck won’t be able to smell us when he comes.
Samuel hands me the bow and the quiver of arrows. He is giving me the first shot. “You want to aim just behind where his front leg attaches to the shoulder,” he tells me. “And pull your bowstring back smoothly all the way to full draw. You want your arrow to go through the lungs, and hopefully the heart. That will bring him down fast.” Samuel has told me about the native way of respecting the beasts, so that in the kill, the hunter tries to cause a quick death with the least possible pain. He has also explained how the natives always give thanks to the animal for giving up its life, and to their god Okeus for providing meat.
We are silent, waiting. There are only a few birdsongs on this cold winter day. I am watching, listening, alert. My mind is clear and calm. Shafts of low sunlight filter through the trees.
Time passes quickly and soon the sunlight dims, then turns to shadow. I hear crackling in the leaves and swing my head to look. Only a bird, hopping, poking around for insects. The light dims further. I hear the crunch crunching of footsteps. They come closer. I catch a glimpse of antlers above the underbrush. I suck in my breath silently. It is him.
Samuel nods to me. Slowly, so the buck will not notice, I rise up on one knee and position my bow.
He is browsing, eating whatever he can find, searching the ground for acorns and nosing the underbrush for berries. Little by little he makes his way toward our hiding place. I imagine the bundle of hay and the white cloth with the purple center. The buck’s shoulder, with his lungs and heart just behind it, sits within my mental target. Suddenly, I realize he is close enough. Very slowly, I pull the bowstring back to full draw.
I send up a prayer. I want to kill, for meat for our family, but not cause too much pain to this great beast. My heart is racing. I hold my breath and let the arrow fly.
The arrow strikes. The buck runs. Samuel puts a hand on my arm, his eyes still on the buck’s path. “We will wait,” he says. “We will let him fall without chasing him.”
Samuel takes the bow and quiver from me. After a few moments, he leads me on the buck’s path, following the trail of blood.
He did not make it far, but when we find him, he is on the ground, flailing and struggling, his eyes wide, my arrow stuck in his side. Tears spring to my eyes. I have caused this pain.
Samuel has already drawn another arrow. At close range, he drives the arrow deep into the buck’s lungs and heart. In seconds, he is still.
I look up at Samuel. “Did I do it . . . wrong?” I ask. “He felt pain.”
Samuel puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a little shake. “You did it right,” he says. “He has already gone back to the Great Spirit, and it took only minutes.” He frowns. “When I was your age, I was on a hunt with Captain Smith. We heard a commotion and here came two wolves chasing a doe. We climbed a tree to be safe and watched. They must have already chased her a long way, because she looked exhausted and terrified.
“Each time she fended off one, the other one jumped at her hindquarters, biting and ripping. Finally, she fell. They continued ripping at her flesh. It was a long time before she lay dead.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“You gave that buck a very quick death,” Samuel says. He hesitates, and then adds. “We should all be so lucky.”
I kneel down and touch the buck’s soft ears, then run my hand along the smooth hair on the top of his head. “Thank you for giving your life so that we will eat,” I whisper.
Samuel has brought a sharp knife, and he shows me how to carefully cut back the hide on the buck’s belly, and then open the belly to remove the entrails. “We’ll leave the guts for the wolves,” he says.
We cut out the heart, liver, and kidneys, and Samuel puts them in a leather pouch he has brought. “You can make us a proper venison-and-kidney pie,” he says.
“I want to make moccasins for my sisters from the hide,” I say. I remember watching Sarah as she made the moccasins I am now wearing. “I’ll need sinew for my thread. Did you learn how to make a sewing needle from bone slivers?” I ask.
“Yes, I did,” he says. “When I lived with the Warraskoyacks, I learned how to use each part of the deer. We will make spoons from the top of the skull—that will make your mum happy.”
We each take hold of an antler and drag the buck back home. When Mum sees us, she is thrilled.
We hang the buck in our barn where it will be safe from predators while the meat cools. Samuel teaches me how to remove the hide, using a sharp knife. Then I slice up the heart and liver, and fry them in a skillet over the fire. It makes a delicious supper for our family.
As I watch Alice and Katherine, Mum, Da, and Samuel enjoy the fresh meat, I feel good that I have helped to keep them healthy during this cold, lean winter.
Forty-Two
THE WEATHER TURNS warm for a few days in late January, and Samuel thinks of an excuse to go to James Town.
“I’ll see if they have any spare rations for the outlying plantations,” he says.
We all know that there will be no extra rations, but we also know that Samuel wants very much to see Angela, and so we encourage him.
“Yes, go see if you can bring back some eggs or fatback,” my mother says.
“Tell Bermuda we are doing well,” I say. “Tell him I am very happy with the glass piece he made for me.” It doesn’t really work as a drinking flask, but I keep it on the kitchen windowsill where the sunlight makes it shine.
We pack Samuel up with food for his trip, messages for Bermuda and Jane and Angela, and orders to bring us back all of the news of James Town. Then we send him on his way, paddling up the quiet waters on the edge of the river.
Several days later when Samuel returns from James Town, he is not alone. When I see whom he has brought with him, I feel squirmy inside. It is Choupouke.
“I’ve brought us some good strong help,” Samuel calls as they come walking up the hill from the river.
“Wingapo,” Choupouke greets us. He glances at me, then looks away. Katherine and Alice come running. They grab Choupouke’s fingers and pull him in a circle.
“He’ll be closer to his family here and can visit them more often,” Samuel says.
“Welcome,” Da says. “We can certainly use the help.”
My mind is racing. Will he eat with us every day? Where will he sleep? Not in the kitchen with all of us!
I have been avoiding Choupouke since last winter at Bermuda’s cottage when he touched my hand and I knew what he was feeling for me. He is too shy to pursue me, but I have often caught him looking at me when he thinks I won’t notice. It was easy to ignore him in James Town with so many people around. But here it will be just us. I must be scowling, deep in my worried thoughts, because Samuel grabs my arm.
“What are you so peevish about?” he asks quietly.
“Where is he going to sleep?” I snap at him in a whisper.
Samuel looks blank for a moment, as if he hadn’t thought of that little detail. Then he waves away my concern. “He can sleep in the barn. He brought his deerskins and furs to keep warm.”
That evening at supper, Samuel shares the news he has brought from James Town. Cecily, who is now happily married to William, just had a healthy baby boy. The glass house is turning out glass, and Bermuda is getting better and better at it. Jane and her husband, Robert, send well-wishes. And of course, Angela sends her love to all of us.
I keep my eyes on my food. I decide that if I could ignore Choupouke in James Town, I can ignore him here. All I have to do is stay quiet and polite and not ever look at him.
It’s not that he is ugly or ignorant or mean. In fact, he is quite handsome, with smooth copper skin and calm dark eyes. He is kind and soft-spoken, and he loves to make my sisters laugh. I would be happy to be his friend, the way I am Bermuda’s friend. It’s just that when he touched my hand, I felt something different from friendship—something meant for a girl who is ready for romance and marriage, which I certainly am not.
* * *
. . .
My plan of ignoring Choupouke goes on for about a week. Then one day the men are off working, the girls are napping, and Mum and I are kneading dough for bread.
“Why do you dislike Choupouke so?” Mum asks me.
“I don’t dislike him,” I say quickly. “I just . . . I feel that he likes me too much.”
“Yes, I catch him looking at you sometimes,” Mum says. “I don’t blame him. You are growing into a lovely young woman.”
“I’m a girl!” I slap the dough down onto the kneading board.
“Yes, you are still a girl. No one is rushing you,” Mum says.
“I feel like Choupouke wants to rush me,” I say.
Mum shakes her head. “He is only admiring you. He knows full well that we have too many men and not enough women. It makes sense that some of our men marry their women, but you will easily find an English man to marry.”
Now I punch the dough harder than it needs to be punched. “I don’t want to marry an English man,” I say.
Mum raises her eyebrows at me.
“I mean, I know I will marry one—but they are all so . . . English. I know what they say about me when they talk, that I am wild, that I grew up here in the wilderness and don’t know English manners because you and Da were too busy surviving to teach me. They say the same thing about Bermuda.”
Mum raises her eyebrows again and just looks at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Bermuda,” she says. “You are both more Virginian than English.”
“Right,” I say. I knead my ball of dough, and suddenly it dawns on me what Mum is suggesting. “You mean marry Bermuda? That’s silly, Mum. He’s only a boy, and he’s my friend.”
“Yes, and you are only a girl, but in a few years, you both will have grown up.”
I am quiet, thinking. I picture Bermuda with his tight curls and impish face. Will he ever really grow up? “Maybe he won’t like me when he becomes a man,” I say. “Maybe he’ll be sweet on some other girl who hasn’t bossed him around his entire life.”
Mum lays a damp cloth over the dough to let it rest. “Either way,” she says, “I think you can speak to Chou-pouke now and then without him thinking it means you want to marry him.”
* * *
. . .
Alice wants to learn words in Algonquian, and so Chou-pouke has been teaching her. They sit on the floor and I decide to join in. He teaches us to count to ten: necut, ningh, nuss, yowgh, paranske, comotinch, toppawoss, nusswash, kekatawgh, kaskeke.
Then he points to Da. “Man,” he says. “Nemarough.” And to Mum. “Woman. Crenepo.” He holds up Alice’s foot and points to her new moccasin. She giggles. “Moccasin,” he says. “It means shoe.”
Alice tries out a word from their last lesson. “Net-oh-pew,” she says, and pats Choupouke’s chest.
“Yes,” he says. He glances at me, then back to Alice. “Netoppew. Friend.”
Forty-Three
IN LATE FEBRUARY we have a spell of very cold weather, and Choupouke walks to his village to visit his family and sleep in a warm house for a few days. I am feeling much more comfortable around him, but I still wouldn’t want him sleeping with us.
At church, Mum reminds the young pregnant woman to have someone fetch her when her time comes to give birth. From the looks of her, it will be any day.
And so, several days later, when there is loud pounding on our door in the middle of the night, Mum jumps up, knowing it must be time. It is the woman’s husband, frantic with fear. Mum hurries off into the night.
When Mum returns in the early morning, she looks exhausted. Everyone is still asleep, but I have been up waiting for her. She slumps down into a chair. I go to the pot of hot chamomile tea I have heating on the fire and ladle it into a cup for her. She takes it gratefully.
“Are they well?” I whisper. I would hate to have her first delivery as a solo midwife end in tragedy.
