Poison in the Colony, page 5
“I . . . need to go put this shovel away,” Bermuda says, and he hurries off before I can make him feel any more guilty.
Of all the hundred-odd children who came on that ship, the lucky ones are the older girls. The common men begin to court every girl over the age of thirteen, and soon we have weddings every Sunday. There is grumbling among the gentlemen and nobles. Why can’t the Company send women from the upper classes for them to marry?
When Samuel doesn’t find a girl to interest him among this new batch, I tease him. “Are you going to wait to see if the Company sends a duchess for you to marry?” I ask.
He laughs. “I’ll know when it’s the right one,” he says. “There are more ships than ever these days. Lots to choose from.”
I roll my eyes. “If you’ll ever choose,” I say.
A good thing about these new settlers is that one of the boys knows how to play the fiddle. We had a fiddle player in James Town, but he was shot in a hunting accident and died months ago. The new boy picks up the dead man’s fiddle and immediately makes it come to life, playing songs that my parents say they used to hear at the street markets in England.
There is often someone on one of the ships who has brought along an instrument: a lute, a recorder, a flute, or a small drum. The noblemen play their gentle, lilting tunes on the lute. But the commoners, with their old, beat-up fiddles, flutes, and drums, many of them won in gambling games, come together to make rollicking music. The natives who live among us join in with their drums and rattles, and the music makes my feet want to dance. Now, with a fiddle to lead the melody, the musicians join each other more often to play in the evenings after work is done. I love going to sleep to the sound of lively songs being played and sung joyously by a makeshift band.
* * *
. . .
“Shhh.” Samuel motions for me to follow him. He leads me to Governor Yeardley’s house and pulls me to sit with him under the window. There is a heated discussion going on inside.
“Tobacco! That is all they sow, all they reap, all they want to grow—tobacco. Then comes the winter and they must trade with the natives for corn because they have not planted enough. They are hungry and sick all winter—and many die—for the sake of selling tobacco to England, and yet the money they earn cannot buy them meat here, it cannot buy them life. They are mad!” It is Governor Yeardley’s voice.
“It is a difficult life here, sir. Many of them want nothing more than to earn their fortune in tobacco and return to England to escape this place.”
“What of the ancients? Why have they not returned to England?” the governor asks.
“There are some who make their home here, sir. Indeed, some who would have nothing but servitude to return to.”
“Life here does not have to be so difficult,” says Governor Yeardley. “The orders have come from the Virginia Company of London to assign land to each family, one hundred acres to each of the ancients, half that for all the others. It is time for them to choose their land and prepare it. They will grow their own corn and pasture their cattle. If they are growing for their own table, then surely they will sow more than tobacco.”
“Surely, sir.”
“And the orders have come for them to have all the rights of Englishmen. Each settlement shall vote and elect representatives to speak for them. This way, each man shall have a voice in his own governance.”
After that day, it is all I hear about. At the well fetching water, at the river washing clothes, walking through the fort, it is all anyone is talking about: We will have our own land. We will rule ourselves. Men who actually live in James Town and the outlying plantations and boroughs, and know the people’s needs, will help to govern us. True, there will still be Governor Yeardley, appointed by the king, and a six-member council, appointed by the Virginia Company of London. But for the first time in Virginia, there will be elections. Men, ages seventeen or older, who own land will vote to elect two representatives, or burgesses, from each borough and plantation. It will be a government of the people.
* * *
. . .
I awaken to the sound of laughter in the street near our cottage. Laughter, loud talking in another language, and the rumble of bowling balls rolling along the dirt street.
I rub my eyes. My father is already up. “It’s too early,” I say, referring to the fact that bowling in the streets is only allowed after our work is done for the day.
“It’s the Polish workers,” my father says. “They’re making it known that they will not work if they don’t get to vote.”
My mother is sitting on the side of their bed about to heft herself to her feet. This new baby will certainly arrive soon, as big as she is. “The Company won’t be happy when there is no pitch or tar on the next ship back to England,” she says. “I don’t see what’s wrong with letting those men vote. They are not Englishmen, but they are Virginians.”
Alice kicks off the covers and I tickle her feet. “Da votes,” she says, nodding solemnly.
We all laugh. She, too, has been paying attention to this talk of voting and burgesses, and of the land that my father and mother now own because they are ancients.
My father ruffles her hair. “Watch your mother today, girls,” he says. “That son of mine may just choose this day to enter the world.”
I smile at him. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the knowing doesn’t work for me anymore, now that God has taken it from me. Maybe my father will soon have a son.
I open the shutters to let in the early morning light. Then I fill a bowl with porridge for myself and Alice and we eat together.
My mother ties her apron over her large belly. “You two, go get me potatoes and cabbage. And see what is ready in the garden, too.”
Outside I pull the wooden planks and the thick layer of straw off our storage hole. Inside are cabbages with their roots caked with dirt, still relatively fresh for having hidden underground all winter. The potatoes don’t look as good—soft and wrinkled, with long white sprouts. I put Alice to work breaking off the potato sprouts and go to see what the garden might give us on this spring day. I cut some turnip greens and pull a handful of radishes. Alice and I carry it all inside for our mother.
A lump of salt pork—the last of our ration for the month—already sizzles in the stew pot. I love stew days. There will be enough for a full belly today.
I give Alice a bowl of water so she can wash the radishes, then my mother and I set to work peeling potatoes. Every once in a while, she stops working and closes her eyes, just resting for a minute or so.
“Go get me fresh wild raspberry leaves,” Mum says. “Fill the basket with them and when you come back, we’ll make tea.”
I remember the raspberry-leaf tea from the day Alice was born, only last time Jane made it.
“Shall I fetch Jane Wright as well?” I ask.
Mum shakes her head. “No, not yet.”
I take the basket and run through the fort to the huge open gate.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Thomas Sexton, today’s guard, calls to me.
“Going for raspberry leaves,” I say.
I run past the fields where laborers are hoeing weeds from around the young tobacco plants. At the edge of the woods I see the raspberry brambles, but I am drawn first to enter the quiet of the forest. I pick my way over fallen logs and tiptoe around the ferns growing close to the ground. Then I stop to let the peacefulness sink into me. The wind rustles a few leaves. A birdcall echoes from the treetops. This is how I know I am more Virginian than English. English children have the treeless moors or the clamor of the streets of London. But I belong in the magic of the Virginia woods.
Suddenly I hear a twig snap. I whip around to catch a glimpse of something white off behind thick oaks. It moves slowly, showing slivers of itself between trees and vines. It looks like . . . feathers. Could there really be a bird this big? I duck down low and creep along, following it, trying to get closer without startling it. This creature is neither bear nor wolf nor snake, and these are the only things in the forest that could kill me. Still, my heart races. I feel every muscle ready to flee as my curiosity moves me along, following.
Feathers. Wings—huge wings. Am I seeing something from the faery realm? Or an angel?
I draw closer and can see that the thing is walking on two legs. It moves silently, gliding. For a moment, I pay more attention to watching than to where I put my feet. I trip, crashing onto dry leaves. The thing stops and turns. I expect to see the beady eyes and yellow beak of this great bird. But instead what I see shocks me to my core: its face is human.
Twelve
I RUN, STUMBLING over roots and branches, my dress catching in brambles. I forget all about the raspberry leaves and run out of the forest, past the tobacco fields, into the gates of the fort, and burst into my own cottage. My mother stands at the fire, stirring the stew pot. She looks up in alarm.
“Mum, I just saw one of the faery folk—a huge one. Or an angel, I don’t know which.” I pant, out of breath.
Alice claps her hands. “Faeries?” she asks. I have told her stories of good faeries, not like the one I saw.
My mother sits me down and pours me a cup of water. “Tell me exactly what you saw,” she says.
I describe the large white wings, the feathers on the thing’s body, and the dark human face. My mother shakes her head. “An angel would not have scared you so. It must have been of the faery folk. There are those who come from the faery realm to steal human babies. This one may have come for this child.” She touches her belly.
I shiver. “No, Mum. We can’t let it.”
She goes to my father’s toolbox and pulls out iron tongs. She hands the tongs to me. “Take this with you in your basket. Those that are faery cannot abide iron. It will protect you. Once you have gathered the raspberry leaves, go to the sand pit where the men play that game with old horseshoes. Bring one of them back. They are made of iron as well.”
A moment later she grips the edge of the table and closes her eyes. Beads of sweat form on her upper lip.
“I’ll go get Jane Wright,” I offer.
Mum takes a deep breath and relaxes. “Not yet,” she says. “Jane has her own work to do.” Then she frowns. “I thought the faery folk lived only in England. There you hear stories of an infant disappearing and nothing but a block of wood left in the cradle, or of changelings, where the human child is stolen and a faery creature is left in its place. I didn’t know there were faery folk here in the New World. It is good that you were warned. We will be ready.”
I put the iron tongs into my basket, alongside the knife for cutting the raspberry canes. This time I walk slowly, past the gates, past the fields, to the edge of the forest, where I find the wild raspberry brambles. I look into the cool darkness of the woods. The bird man is nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t want to steal me, he wants my baby sister, I tell myself. I cut the raspberry canes, trying not to prick my fingers with their thorns. I fill my basket and run back to the fort before the bird man can reappear.
* * *
. . .
The raspberry tea sits brewing. Mum lays out clean rags and has me fill a pot with water to boil. When she has to stop her work to simply breathe, I rub the small of her back to help her feel better. Alice, knowing that something is different, keeps out of the way. She talks softly to her rag doll, saying, “Mum doesn’t feel good today, so we have to be very quiet.”
Finally, when my mother has to take to her bed, she says, “Go find Jane. Bring Alice with you—I would love to have you stay to help me, but I don’t want Alice to be scared, so keep her away. But don’t take her outside the fort.”
Not with that creature out there, I think. I grasp Alice’s hand and together we hurry to Jane Wright’s cottage, where Jane is busy sewing.
“Mum sent me to fetch you,” I say. “It’s her time.”
Jane puts down her sewing immediately. “Knowing your mother, she has waited until the last minute to call me and I’ll have to run to get there on time,” she says cheerfully. She picks up her bag and heads out the door.
With almost everyone in the tobacco fields, the fort is quiet. I pick up a pretty white stone. “Alice, let’s play a game.” We sit down together on some logs near the big cook pot. “You have to guess where the stone is, all right?”
Alice nods as I put my hands behind my back. Then I pull my hands out, closed, and hold them in front of her.
“Handy dandy, prickly pandy, which hand will you have?” I chant. Alice chooses my right hand and I open it. She giggles when she finds the white stone inside. She tries to take it from me but I shake my head. “Let’s play again,” I say.
I hide my hands again, this time switching the stone to my left hand. “Handy dandy, prickly pandy, which hand will you have?”
Alice chooses my right hand again. When the hand is empty, she pouts and looks like she might be about to cry.
“Alice, it’s a game,” I tell her. “You’ll get the prize sometimes, and get the empty hand sometimes, but it’s supposed to be fun every time.” I chuck her under the chin.
She looks at me gravely. “Fun every time,” she says.
We play the game over and over, and Alice manages not to pout when she guesses wrong, though she only laughs when she is right. Finally, she begins to tire. “Let’s go home now,” she says.
“Not yet,” I tell her. “We have to give Mum more time to rest.”
The sun is sinking low and we hear the voices of the workers coming back from the fields.
Samuel comes into the fort, laughing and joking with his friends. But when he sees us, he comes over and whisks Alice into his arms. He is sweaty and dirty, but Alice doesn’t mind. She makes her little hands into fists and says to him, “Pandy pandy, which hand?”
Samuel contemplates a moment, then points to her left hand. She opens her empty hand and giggles with glee.
“That’s cheating, Alice,” I say. “Both of your hands are empty.”
“Sounds like some politicians I know,” says Samuel.
My father comes in through the gates, looking as sweaty and dirty as Samuel. “Where is your mother?” he asks. “Is my son on his way?”
“Yes, Da, and she is well,” I assure him. “Jane Wright is with her now.”
“Good, good,” my father says, though his eyes still look worried. I don’t tell him about the faery creature who has come to try to steal this new baby. I know he has dark, sad memories of the baby who died after my mother was whipped, and I want him to have only hope for this new child.
Thirteen
THEY NAME HER Katherine. She is red-faced and scrawny, but my mother assures me she will be just as pretty as Alice and I are when she gets bigger. “Ah, three lovely daughters, and plenty of time for a son,” my father says when he sees her.
That night I settle into bed with an iron horseshoe tucked under Alice’s pillow. Katherine is in bed with our parents, the iron tongs forming a V above her head. There will be no babies stolen from this house tonight.
I lie awake thinking about the children who were stolen, rounded up from London and sent here against their will. There is talk of them becoming indentured servants, of them receiving their freedom and land when their seven years of service are over—those that survive, anyway. But I have seen how it goes with indentured servants. They somehow always end up in debt to their masters, and so freedom and land never come. My own mum was lucky that her mistress and master gave her permission to marry, and then when her mistress died, Mum was free to be a wife and mother without having to serve anyone.
I remember playing handy-dandy with Alice, and I think how those children got the empty hand. And I, with my mother and father and warm cottage, food to eat, and healthy sisters, have got the prize. As I drift off to sleep, I hear my own voice saying, You’ll get the prize sometimes, and get the empty hand sometimes, but it’s supposed to be fun every time.
* * *
. . .
Elections are held. Two men from each of the seven plantations and the four towns, including James Town, are elected as burgesses to represent the colonists. There are twenty-two burgesses in all.
Among the voters are the Polish craftsmen, and they are back at work making pitch, tar, and potash to be sent to England. The governor agreed to give them the right to vote, but on one condition: they must take on English apprentices and teach their craft to new young men. As soon as Bermuda hears this, he starts making a pest of himself with the Polish craftsmen. He insists that since the Polish workers were first sent here to make glass, “when” the glass house starts up again, they will be the ones making the glass. His plan is to be in the middle of all that and go right from making pitch and tar to blowing glass. I tell him he is dreaming, but he doesn’t listen. The Polish men tell him he is too young to be an apprentice, that he’ll burn his arm off in the tar pits, but he doesn’t listen to them, either.
If the Poles appreciate persistence, Bermuda will soon have his place as an apprentice. If they do not appreciate persistence, Bermuda will soon be banished from their sight. In the meantime, his mother constantly complains that he’s never around to do his chores. And I complain that he never goes fishing with me anymore.
The days grow long and hot. Mosquitoes buzz around my head whenever I weed the garden or sit grinding corn. More and more people fall ill with the summer flux, and Bermuda is dragged away from the tar pits to help dig graves. In the midst of it all, baby Katherine grows fat on my mother’s milk, and even starts to look a little bit pretty.
On Friday, July 30, the General Assembly has its first official meeting in the church in James Town. In attendance are the twenty-two elected burgesses, the governor and his six-member council, Reverend Buck, and the colony’s secretary, John Pory. When Samuel leaves for the tobacco fields in the morning, he tells me to go listen to the meeting from outside the church windows. He says it is an important day, and I should witness it.
