She said nothing and did not turn to him.
“I stayed to feed a hungry woman and nurse a sick man,” John said. “When I showed her how to get food and when he was better I came home again, as soon as I could.”
He waited.
“Would you have wanted me to leave them to die?” he asked.
At last she turned back to him. “Better now and by their own failure than later,” she said simply.
John gasped as the words struck him. “You speak like a heartless woman,” he protested.
She shrugged as if she did not much care whether he thought her heartless or kind; and then she turned her back on him again and went to sleep.
Spring 1644, Virginia
John did not go back to the Hoberts’ homestead for a month. He hunted with Attone and the other braves, he lived as a Powhatan. But there was a coldness between Suckahanna and him that the routine of ordinary life could not conceal.
When he judged it was time for the planting out of Bertram’s tobacco he spoke to Attone, rather than Suckahanna.
“My friend who was sick needs me to plant out his tobacco. I should go and help him now.”
“Go then, Eagle,” Attone said unhelpfully.
“Suckahanna will be angry at my going.”
“Stay then.”
“I’m not asking for help-”
“I’m not giving any.”
John paused for a moment and bit back his temper. Attone was smiling. He loved to be annoying.
“I’m telling you that I will be away for a while,” John said patiently. “I am asking you to watch Suckahanna for me and fetch me if she is in any need. She will not send for me; she is angry with me. She would not send for me even if she needed me.”
“She will be in no need. The game is coming back, the fish are spawning. What would she need you for? You can go to your smelly friends.”
John gritted his teeth. “If one of the People was in trouble you would go to his help.”
“Hobert is not one of the People. He is not one of mine.”
John hesitated. “Nor is he mine,” he said, conscious of the pain of divided loyalty. “But I cannot see him fail or fall sick or die of hunger. He was good to me once, and I have made him a promise.”
“This is a path in a circle,” Attone said cheerfully. “You are wandering like a man snow blind, ’round and ’round. What is blinding you, Eagle? Why can you not walk straight?”
“Because I am pulled two ways,” John said grimly.
“Then cut one string,” Attone said briskly. “Before it tangles around your feet and brings you down.” He rose to his feet and loped down the river toward the fish weir without looking back.
The Hoberts’ house was amid a sea of green. Bertram had started planting the fields which ran between the house and the river and the absurd flop-leaved plants were three rows thick before the house.
“John, thank God you’ve come!” Hobert said, kneeling. “I was afraid you would fail us.”
“Mr. Tradescant, you are very welcome!” Sarah said from further down the row.
John, hot in his reclaimed breeches and shirt, waved at them both.
“You should have a hat to shield you from the sun,” Sarah scolded. “Men have died of sunstroke in this country.”
John put his hand to his face and felt the heat radiating from his flushed skin. “It’s these clothes,” he said. “How can anyone wear wool in this country in spring?”
“It’s the vapors in the air,” Sarah said firmly. “When we next go to Jamestown I will buy you a hat. We’ve only just come back from town.”
“There was a letter for you,” Bertram said, remembering. “I went into Jamestown to buy a hoe and to collect some money sent me from England. I called in at your inn and there was a letter for you there.”
“For me?” John asked.
“It’s inside. I put it under the mattress you used last time to keep it safe.”
John put his hand to his head.
“There you are! Sunstroke!” Sarah exclaimed triumphantly.
“No,” John said. “I just feel… It is so odd to have a letter…”
He turned and went into the house, jumped up the ladder in one bound. In the loft bedroom was his straw mattress and underneath it was a travel-stained folded and sealed paper. John snatched it up and recognized Hester’s writing at once.
A great pain shot through John at the thought of his family in Lambeth and a great fear that one of the children, Frances, or Johnnie, was sick or dead, or that the house had been lost to passing soldiers or the garden destroyed, or Hester herself… he pulled himself back from nightmare imaginings, broke the seal and smoothed out the paper.
Lambeth, the New Year, 1644
Dear Husband,
Having heard no news from you I pray that your venture is going well and that you have found the land you wanted, cleared it and planted it. It is strange for me not knowing what the view is like from your window, nor what your kitchen is like, nor what the weather may be for you. I try to tell the children about what you are doing now but I do not know whether to tell them you are struggling through deep snow or digging in damp earth. We are reading Captain Smith’s True History in the evenings so that we may understand a little of your life, but I have to keep missing out some of his adventures as the children would be too afraid for you. I pray that you are right and that it is not such a savage place as he describes, and that the planters too have become more kindly and Christian in their doings.
Here in Lambeth we are well but troubled, as is everyone in the kingdom, by the continuance of the war. Food is very scarce and there is no coal to be had at all. There has been petty fighting on the roads into London and we never know whether meat for the markets will be driven in or not. Our men are called up to serve in the City trained bands but they have not yet been sent outside the bounds of the City, so when they are stood down they come back to work. We try to keep the Ark and the gardens open as normal and we are trading a little. There are still people who want to live as if the war were not taking place and they still want to know that gardens are growing and that strange and rare beautiful things can still be seen. It is very pitiful to me when a young gentleman comes to order some seeds or plants or trees before he goes off to join either the king or the Parliament army, and I know that he is planting for his heir and does not expect to see the trees grow. It is at those times that I realize what wickedness this war is and will be, and I confess, I blame the king very much for standing so upon his rights and driving his people into rebellion.
I did not think I would ever be able to say it, but I am glad you are not here, husband. I miss you and so do the children but I do not know how a man could keep his wits and bear the sorrow of this kingdom, especially one like you who had served the king and the queen and seen them reap the consequences of their folly. There are rights, God-given rights, on both sides of the argument and all a woman can wonder is why the two sides cannot come together and resolve to live in peace. But they cannot, they will not, and God help them we all suffer while they hammer out the victory one on the other. Parliament is now in alliance with the Scots and they have sworn to defend each other against the king. But the Scots are a long way away and the king’s armies are very close, and everyone seems to think he has the advantage. Also, he has now recruited a Papist Irish army and we are all most afraid of their coming.
What seems more and more certain to me, when this is all over, is that we shall see the king in London again with his liberties barely trimmed, and those who have stood against him will have to pray God that he is more generous in victory than he was in peace time. Prince Rupert is said to be everywhere, and the other commander of the armies is the queen, so you can imagine how the king is advised between those two. Prince Maurice serves also and they have taken Bristol and Devizes this summer. Against the wealth of the king, the Parliament army makes a pitiful showing. The king has commanders who have fought all over Europe and know how it should be done, Prince Rupert has never lost a battle. Against them the Parliament puts plowboys and apprentice lads into the fields and the gentlemen mow them down like barley. We hear constantly from the Parliament of little battles which are fought at places of no name and mean nothing but are hailed as great victories.