Poison in the Colony Read online

  ALSO BY ELISA CARBONE

  Blood on the River: James Town 1607

  Corey’s Story

  Diana’s White House Garden

  Heroes of the Surf

  Jump

  Last Dance on Holladay Street

  Many Windows: Six Kids, Five Faiths, One Community

  (Co-written with Rukhsana Khan and Uma Krishnaswami)

  Night Running

  The Pack

  Sarah and the Naked Truth

  Starting School with an Enemy

  Stealing Freedom

  Storm Warriors

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Elisa Carbone

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE.

  Ebook ISBN 9780425291849

  Version_1

  For Emma and Alex, the next generation of adventurers

  Contents

  Also by Elisa Carbone

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  1 | MemoriesChapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  2 | PoisonChapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  I AM DIFFERENT.

  That is what Samuel says, and I believe he is right.

  I was the first one born into the colony. I was the only child to survive the Starving Time. But those things are not what make me different.

  It is the knowing that makes me different.

  1

  MEMORIES

  One

  APRIL 1613

  IT IS NIGHT. I am sound asleep until Samuel lifts me up from bed. I am small, only three and a half years old. My feet dangle to his knees as he carries me out into the night.

  “Where we going?” I ask sleepily.

  “Shhh,” he whispers, and swings his long strides through the sleeping fort. I trust him. He has always been like a brother to me, a part of our family, as he has no other family. I know that he saved my life and my mother’s life when I was a tiny baby.

  “I need you to use your knowing,” he says to me.

  I rest my head against his shoulder and nod. I will do as he asks. I will use the knowing for him, and never tell another living soul about it, as Samuel has warned me not to.

  A cat scurries out of our way. An owl calls out her eerie “Who? Who? Who?”

  “They have kidnapped Matoaka,” he says. “They took her away from her family and hid her here. I want you to tell me where she is.”

  He has stopped walking now. We are at the center of the fort, near the huge cook pot. I straighten up to look into his eyes. “Why?” I ask. “Why did they take her away?” It feels like a very bad thing has happened. If I find her for Samuel, will I undo the bad thing?

  Samuel begins to try to explain it all to me: how Captain Argall is holding her for ransom, to get her father, Chief Powhatan, to send us back prisoners and guns. But it is too hard for me to understand, and I am already looking for Matoaka, searching with my mind. I feel each cottage in the fort, the sleeping babies, their dozing mothers and snoring fathers. I close my eyes—the knowing works better that way—and breathe in. I smell urine from full chamber pots, potatoes rotting in storage, lard from the soap-making kettle.

  I try to remember Matoaka. Samuel took me to meet her only once, in the Patawomeck village. I played with her little baby boy and she gave me a string of white shells to wear as a necklace. I try to remember the feel of her, her straight, proud back, her sparkling dark eyes and long black hair, her laughter as she and Samuel shared stories about when they were children, told half in English and half in Algonquian. Her husband, Kocoum, a strong young man with gentle hands, patted me on the head and said, “Netoppew.” Samuel said it meant “friend.”

  I take the feeling of her and send my thoughts out to search. Matoaka, where are you?

  A breeze lifts the dust and makes me cough. And it comes to me—like the ping when the blacksmith hits the anvil just right, or one loud clear note played on a flute. I know where she is.

  I wriggle down from Samuel’s arms and pull him past the cook pot, between the chicken coop and the barn, past the church, to the reverend’s cottage.

  “Here.” I lay my hands against the wattle and daub of the cottage. “She is here.”

  Samuel scowls and grumbles something about them hiding their “treachery” behind “piety,” words I won’t understand until I am older. Then he drops to his knees and sets to work, widening a hole in the wattle and daub already started by the rats. He pulls off chunks until the opening is as big as his fist. Then he leans in and whispers loudly.

  “Matoaka,” he says, using the name only her family and close friends use. “It’s us, Samuel and Ginny. We’ve come to get you free.”

  We hear the soft padding of bare feet. I push Samuel out of the way. I want to touch Matoaka, to give her some comfort. I reach my hand inside and feel her cold, shaky hand grasp mine. The knowing comes over me with terrible force, making clear
what her fate will be. Tears run down my cheeks. I pull my hand away.

  Samuel puts his mouth to the opening. He whispers, telling her how what they’ve done is wrong, how we’re going to get her out of here.

  But I know he is powerless. And I know that Matoaka, or Pocahontas as most people call her, will never see her husband and small son again. She will remain a kidnapped prisoner for a very long time.

  Two

  APRIL 1614

  IT IS EARLY springtime. Outside the open window, the trees wear their lacy new green, and the air is alive with insect sounds. I am four and a half years old. Inside our cottage, my mother is stirring a pot of bubbling cornmeal porridge over the fire—our midday meal. I am standing on a chair, doing my best to pound corn into meal with our large mortar and pestle. My father arrives from working in the fields.

  “Ah, my girls are cooking together, I see,” he says. He stands behind my mother and wraps his arms around her. His hands come to rest on her slightly bulging belly. I glance at my parents and am surprised to realize what I hadn’t noticed before. I flash them a huge smile.

  I want to say, Oh! A new baby is coming! But I can’t let on that I know, and they obviously think it is too early to tell me.

  I just keep pounding corn and smiling.

  * * *

  . . .

  Pocahontas has been living in Henrico, a new outer plantation far from James Town fort. We receive reports—mostly gossip—as to her well-being.

  She is happy. She is angry. She wants to stay with us. She wants to go home. She wears her new English clothing like a princess. She goes barefoot like a commoner under her long dresses. She reads the Bible. Reverend Whitaker has converted her to Christianity and her new Christian name is Rebecca. She will always believe, in her heart, in those heathen gods of theirs: Okeus, Ahone, the Great Spirit.

  There is controversy over the ransom. Some say her father has paid some of it but refuses to pay all of what Captain Argall and Governor Dale demand. Others say that her father keeps paying all that they ask, but it is never enough; they always ask for more because they have no intention of allowing her to go home. Some say she is angry at her father. Others say she is furious at Governor Dale and Captain Argall.

  The gossip continues: Rebecca is in love with John Rolfe. No, she is not in love, she misses her husband. Her marriage to Kocoum doesn’t count because it was not in a church. John Rolfe wants to marry her, and Governor Dale has given his consent.

  This last piece of gossip at least, about her marriage to John Rolfe, turns out to be true. A wedding is planned to take place at the church in James Town fort on April 5.

  The day dawns warm and sunny. Reverend Buck wears his Sunday black suit. Everyone in the fort wears their finest clothing. For the gentlemen and their wives and children, this means ruffles and starched collars, velvet, lace, and shined shoes. For me and my mother, it means newly washed and mended dresses and clean feet. For my father and Samuel, clean shirts. The Indians come, too: Pocahontas’s sister, Mattachanna, and her aunts and uncles, all with their beautiful feathers and necklaces of copper, shells, and beads.

  There is a hush, as though if someone says the wrong thing, this magical moment will dissolve—this moment of love and union between our two peoples. We are all tired of the fighting and bloodshed. We want this wedding to bring us peace.

  The “better sort” take their seats in the pews, and we stand at the back of the church with the other commoners. I can barely see Mr. Rolfe at the altar with Reverend Buck, waiting for his bride.

  Suddenly everyone is on their feet, turning toward us. No, not toward us, toward her.

  Her black hair is pulled back, her skin dark against the scarlet of her mantle. She is accompanied by her uncle Opitchapam, who will give her away. She carries a bouquet of rosemary and wears a necklace of pearls, a gift from her father. She walks slowly, her face as unreadable as a blank stone.

  I desperately want to know what she is thinking and feeling. Is she happy to be marrying John Rolfe? Is she still grief stricken that she can’t go home to Kocoum and her young son? I know I only have to touch her, and the knowing will reveal at least some of her feelings to me.

  I reach out and brush her hand as she walks by. She doesn’t even notice, but I have what I want: the blank stone becomes alive. She is determined, hopeful, nervous, interested, ready for the next step.

  Good, I think, she is making the best of what life has given her.

  I nearly doze off during Reverend Buck’s long sermon. But when the wedding is over, when John Rolfe and Rebecca have been pronounced “husband and wife,” I am wide-awake. There is joy ruffling through the crowd as we file out of the church. Joy and hope.

  Men shake Mr. Rolfe’s hand and congratulate him. Rebecca’s sister and relatives gather around her. When I see Samuel walking toward Rebecca, I trot after him. He wishes her well and grasps her shoulders as if he could put strength into them—strength she will need, as the peace of two kingdoms rests on those shoulders.

  I tug on Rebecca’s hand so that she’ll notice me. She looks down and I can see that she doesn’t recognize me.

  “Matoaka,” I say. I can’t think of anything else to say.

  She bends down and takes my face in her palms. “Ginny?” she asks in amazement. “You’re such a big girl now!”

  I grin. Then, through her hands, a memory comes to me, almost as if it is my own: a day in her village, her baby son on her lap, her loving husband, Kocoum, nearby. Her eyes fill with tears.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  But it startles her, and I realize I have said a very stupid thing on her wedding day. “Um, I mean, be happy. Be happy now,” I say.

  She blinks, quickly wipes tears from her cheeks, and laughs. “Yes, Ginny,” she says. “Thank you.”

  Three

  AUGUST 1614

  IT IS THE flush of full summer. Soon I will be five years old. My mother’s belly is tight and round, and my father has announced proudly to me that before long I will have a baby brother. I know the child is a girl, but I don’t tell him.

  Right after breakfast, Samuel arrives at our cottage. “Ready?” he asks my mother.

  She is combing the knots out of my dark brown curls and I am wincing with each pull. I’m glad Samuel has arrived to save me from this hair combing.

  “Yes,” Mum says. She ties back my hair, knots and all, and puts my bonnet on securely. “Virginia, come. Let’s see what you have learned.”

  We set off for the meadow and the forest. My mother knew herbs and healing in England, taught by her mother, and Samuel learned about the herbs here in the New World from the natives when he lived in the Warraskoyack village. Some of the herbs here are the same as in England, but many are not. Samuel taught the new ones to my mother, and they have both been teaching me.

  There is a din of crickets and cicadas, the sweet music of late summer. A crow watches from a tree, squawking out his comments, “Caw! Caw!”

  I am still too young to leave the fort on my own, and so this foray into the wild is a rare adventure. I am ecstatic. The forest is where the trees and plants, even the rocks and dirt, let me know they are alive with the same life and joy that is in me. At the edge of the wood I run to a tree and lay my palms against the trunk. I feel the life pulsing under the bark. Then I lean in close. “Hello,” I whisper. I bound away, knowing I won’t exactly hear a “hello” back.

  I find a big rock and sit down on it. There is life here, too, though it is so quiet I have to sit very still to feel it. “How are you today?” I ask softly. I already know the answer. If the rock could speak, it would say, “Happy.”

  Next, I am on to the ferns, holding their fronds, feeling the life of water and sun running through them.

  “Look at her,” I hear my mother say to Samuel. “Such a strange child.”

  I snatch my hands away fr
om the ferns. Quickly, I pick up a stick and look for some dirt to dig in. That is what other children would do.

  “She’s just having fun being out of the fort,” Samuel tells my mother.

  “Virginia, come here,” my mother says. “Let’s see what you remember.”

  I am very happy to be tested. For this, I am allowed to touch the plants without my mother worrying that I am acting strange. She thinks I am remembering what she has taught me on other visits to the meadow and forest, and some of it I do remember, but it is even easier to listen to each plant for the correct answer.

  I find a slippery elm tree. I recite how the inner bark can be made into a poultice to heal wounds, or taken as a medicine for sore throats. Then, at the forest’s edge, I find black raspberry—the leaves to speed childbirth, and the roots to treat the summer flux. Next, I find the velvet-soft leaves of mullein, for coughs and earaches. I point to the stinging nettles. These I do not touch. “For skin problems,” I say, but since touching them causes skin problems, I think that staying away from them might be the best remedy of all. I find purple coneflower in full bloom. “It’s good for infections and fevers,” I say.

  Mum claps her hands. “Good girl,” she says.

  “It’s also good for snakebites,” I say, gently stroking the large delicate petals.

  Mum shakes her head. “No, that is not correct.”

  I drop my hands to my sides. The knowing is clear. This flower can help get rid of the poison of a snakebite. “We should try it,” I say very softly.

  Mum gives Samuel a worried glance. He simply shrugs.

  “All right, you did quite well,” Mum says.

  “Soon the colonists will come to you for healing instead of your mum,” Samuel teases.

  Mum gives me scissors so that I can help cut and gather the plants. As we work, I eavesdrop. Samuel tells my mother the news he has heard as he has traveled to other plantations and to Indian villages.