1609, Winter of the Dead: A Novel of the Founding of Jamestown by Elizabeth Massie

small with rounded roofs and covered with mats of marsh reeds. In one spot there was a grove of fruit trees, and in another place a variety of crops were growing. A tiny, three-sided hut on stilts was in the center of the garden, and a boy holding a long branch peeked out and stared at the strangers. Small boys in loincloths and small girls with no clothes at all came out from the houses and watched, wide-eyed, as the Englishmen were led through the village. Adults then joined them, men and women, who knelt on the ground and dug at the dirt with their nails and made loud noises.
    Let those be sounds of joy and not of vengeance! Nat prayed.
    They came then to a cabin much longer than the others, and covered with bark instead of the reed mats. Smith, who had regained a straight, confident stride and smile, went into the longhouse with three of the natives while the rest stayed outside and worked at maintaining their composure. The wounded man had torn a strip of his white sleeve and wrapped the arm up. The citizens of the town gathered near, speaking with the native warriors who had brought the men to the village. There was laughter and dramatic waving of hands in describing the encounter. Nat watched them out of the corner of his eye, trying not to seem concerned or afraid, but trying desperately to figure out what they were conveying to each other.
    â€œAre they going to torture us?” Richard whispered.
    â€œHush!” said Nat. He tried again to decipher the natives’ words and motions. It was worthless. The language and the gestures were agonizingly alien.
    After nearly twenty minutes, John Smith came back out of the house, led by the natives who had gone in with him. And then came another native, dressed in a mantle of such feathered, pearled, and shelled finery that Nat knew he was a leader. He held his head high, and his eyes were narrowed in an expression of superiority. All the other villagers showed respect for him by stepping back and not looking him in the eye.
    They were taken next to a place near the center of the village where woven mats had been placed. The leader, who Smith explained quietly and briefly was the village weroance, lowered himself onto a mat at the head of the circle. Only then did everyone else sit. For the next half hour the Englishmen were entertained with strange dancing and singing. While a man beat on a leather instrument and sang, men and women alike took turns dancing before the weroance and the visitors. Feet stamped in rhythm with the drumming. Natives in the circle clapped along. The singing was bizarre and hypnotic.
    Then food was served, a wide array of cooked fish, beans, berries, fruits, and a bland gruel. Nat, sitting crossed-legged as everyone else, tried to eat, although his stomach would have none of it. It clamped and clenched, trying to throw the morsels back into his mouth along with stinging bile. With great effort he forced the food down. After that, he only pretended to eat. Although the air was cool, sweat beaded on his arms and neck, and he swiped at it anxiously. Next to him, Richard seemed to have as much trouble partaking of the food as Nat.
    At last the dancing and music stopped, and the weroance stretched and stood. The shells on his mantle clicked heavily. John Smith waited until the weroance nodded, and then he, too, stood. He went over and gestured to the weroance. None of it made sense to Nat. The weroance tilted his head as if considering, then swept his hand out toward the nearest field of crops.
    And then Smith pointed at Richard.
    Richard gasped.
    Nat’s heart froze. The fish he had been holding between his teeth was coughed out involuntarily. He spit it into his hand and then wiped it into the dust.
    Why is he pointing at Richard?
    â€œMutton,” Smith called. “Come over here to me.”
    The Englishmen looked at Richard. Several seemed as confused as he, but others nodded solemnly in understanding.
    â€œRichard Mutton, come