Pocahontas by Joseph Bruchac Page B

IRGINIA,
BY E DWARD M ARIA W INGFIELD
    JULY 27 TH–SEPTEMBER 5 TH , 1607
    O UR EXTREME LABOR in bearing and planting pallisados had strained and bruised us. Our continual toil in the extremity of the heat had weakened us. None, save our president,
escaped want or sickness. Like all the others, I, too, became ill. But the many years spent in travel and at war had strengthened me far beyond those whose only labor had been the lifting of a finger to bid a servant wait upon them. I was among the first to regain health. By my good care, Martin and Ratliffe were preserved and relieved. Most of the soldiers recovered with the skillful diligence of Master Thomas Wotton, our chirugeon general.
    My friend, the good and simple George Percy, was among those who survived this time of sickness. Though a gentleman, he never feared tod and was in dismay at our sorry state.
    As he and I stood beside the river, Percy gestured toward those of our company who were dipping water. They did so like men half-asleep, not even troubling to brush aside the green scum which coated the surface.
    "It is full of slime and filth now," Percy said, "yet when the tide is at flood it is very salt. With no other drink than this is it any wonder that we sicken?"
    I nodded. I also bethought myself of the aqua vitae and communion wine which had vanished into the care of the president.
    The eyes of the forest were upon us. So our timid president ordered us to stay always close to the walls. Though there would be food aplenty further afield and springs of fresh water there, too, we might be found by the arrows of the naturals. From May to September, we lived upon sturgeon and sea crabs. But our nets which once brought up four or five fish at a cast now caught fewer and fewer fish.
    On the sixth of August, John Asbie died of the bloody flux. It was the beginning of a sad toll that brings tears to the eye yet to tell it. On the ninth died John Flower of the swelling. On the tenth, William Brewster, gentleman, of a wound given by the
salvages. The fourteenth day, Jerome Alikock, ancient, died of a wound; the same day, Francis Midwinter and Edward Moris, corporal, died suddenly. The fifteenth day, Edward Browne and Stephen Galthorpe; the sixteenth day, Thomas Gower, gentleman; the seventeenth day, Thomas Mounslic; the eighteenth, Robert Pennington, gentleman; the nineteenth died Drue Pig-gase, gentleman.
    Good Captain Bartholomew Gosnoll had questioned the wisdom of planting our colony in this place, preferring that point of land Master Archer most modestly named "Archer's Hope." The sod there was good and there was great store of vines, many animals and birds. Our president and the other members of the council had disliked it because the ship could not ride so near the shore, though we might have settled there to the contentment of all. Despite this disagreement, and our president's jealousy, Captain Gosnoll had yet remained a voice of reason. He never sought to overthrow, but only to give counsel. All men admired him for his kindness and wisdom. Even such plotters as Master George Kendall, who worked to sow discontent, grew silent when Gosnoll spoke his calming words.
    On the fifth of August, Gosnoll himself grew ill. Despite the efforts of our chirugeon, his condition worsened each day. I begged that his ration of food be increased, that he be given such wine as might yet remain.
    "Our rations must remain the same," President Wingfield replied, puffing his chest out like a virtuous pigeon and allowing none to enter his house, where the stores of food were jealously guarded. "Every man shall have his portion according to his place. There is no wine to be had. We cannot favor the sick over those who are well, even those who are your favorites. I will not yield to your warrants."
    I marked those words, as well as the fact that the earth was disturbed in the presidents tent, as if something had been hastily buried there. I went then and sat by the bedside of Captain