Cate of the Lost Colony - Lisa Klein [47]
We were in such misery that John White allowed us to come onto the deck in small numbers, despite the objection of Fernandes. The pilot glared at the women from under his dark brows and shouted oaths at any man unfortunate enough to be in the way of a crew member. Soon the sickness abated as we became accustomed to the pitching of the ship.
On the twenty-second of June we anchored at the island of Santa Cruz, where John White would purchase sheep, plants, and salt for the colony. For the first time in six weeks I stepped on land, but could barely stand upright because of the weakness in my legs. On the sand was a turtle of immense proportions, its claws bigger than a man’s hand. The slow creature was no match for the soldiers, who killed it at once, hungry for the meat. Its blood stained the white sand.
The swift birds fared better. Their feathers flashed red, yellow, and green as they darted, squawking, among the trees. John White called them parrots, and the tree with purple blossoms a lignum vitae. The men went off in search of fresh water while the women bathed and washed clothing. The boy Edmund turned cartwheels and dug in the sand while his mother, Betty Vickers, tried not to smile. She was probably a Puritan, with her plain clothing and prayer book always at hand. The governor’s daughter, Eleanor, let her thick golden hair down and washed it in a bucket of salt water. Despite the weeks of deprivation, her belly had grown since we first boarded the ship.
A sweet scent floated upon the air, its source a green, applelike fruit. The children eagerly collected these, as we had not tasted fresh fruit in many weeks. Eleanor threw her damp hair over her shoulders and accepted one from little Edmund, who sniffed his own uncertainly.
Moments later I heard Eleanor cry out, “My lips! My mouth! They are on fire!”
At once her tongue began to swell up. She put her hands to her belly, and I could see terror in her eyes.
Dimly I remembered once eating a leaf of cow parsley and my mother trying to get me to vomit. I showed Eleanor how to put her fingers in her throat until the contents of her stomach spewed out, and I held her head while she shuddered afterward.
Panic spread as more became sick. Edmund had swallowed the fruit and his face and hands were inflamed. “Not my son; oh God, don’t let him die!” Betty prayed, clasping him to her.
Hearing the cries, the men came running, their weapons ready. Manteo broke open the stem of a plant that oozed an oily salve, indicating it was to be spread on the inflamed skin.
Ambrose Vickers, Betty’s husband, began to complain. “Why didn’t John White warn us about that fruit? It is his duty to protect us.”
George Howe, one of White’s assistants, grabbed Vickers by the collar and hoisted him off his feet. “Shut your trap and fetch some water for these suffering folk.”
George’s son, the simple boy, had bitten into the fruit, but was unharmed.
“It was bad. I spit it out. It did not hurt me. It did not hurt Georgie Howe,” he said again and again, proud of himself. It was a strange relief, to see such a sturdy youth smiling amidst so much distress.
By the following afternoon, the effects of the poison had worn off. No one died, and Eleanor did not miscarry. John White cautioned us against eating anything he did not provide. He seemed surprised that we had been so reckless. But in this new place we were like children in need of a strict father, while John White seemed to be an indulgent one.
Eleanor was convinced I had saved her life and her unborn babe, and thus I acquired a friend.
“I know you must think it foolish of me to sail in my condition,” she said. Her cheeks and lips were still swollen from the poison.