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

that a couple of other men had turned and were grinning at him. Was Laydon serious?
    Laydon said, “Archer is not nearby. Please. We need something to laugh at.”
    The other men nodded.
    Nat checked to make sure that no one else was looking his way, stood and went through the motions. He shook his head, snarled, jabbed his finger at Laydon, and jammed his hand on his hip, as he’d seen Archer do many times. John Laydon and the other men clutched their bony sides and howled with laughter.
    â€œGood show!” said Laydon.
    Nat sat and licked the remaining gruel from the plate.
    In the days that followed, word spread around James Towne that Nat was a comedian. He was stopped as he drew water from the well, while knee-deep in the river digging for mussels, and even as he tried to sneak away to walk in the woods.
    â€œPsst,” said one soldier standing on the bulwark. “Peacock, show me an imitation of our council president, the dreaded Edward Maria Wingfield.”
    Nat wrinkled his nose and made his lip twitch. Then he stomped his foot and leaned back, pretending to down a mug of the beer Wingfield enjoyed so much, then staggered as if intoxicated. The soldier chuckled heartily.
    â€œHey, there, boy,” said the gentleman Benjamin Beast as Nat passed Beast’s cottage late one evening on the way to his own tent. “Come in, I’ve something for you to do.” Nat went inside the cottage, which was dark and stank of diarrhea and vomit. There, another gentleman named George Walker was sick, rolled up in a blanket and shivering.
    â€œMy friend is ill. I want you to cheer him,” said Beast. “We understand you have a talent for satire. Please perform as Captain Smith, that crooked, impudent old arse!”
    So Nat pretended to be Smith the way the gentlemen saw the man. He tossed back an invisible cape, tugged at a neck ruff, and crossed his eyes as if on the verge of insanity. Then he went into a mock battle with invisible Turks, cutting off heads and bowing. Beast and George Walker chortled and nodded, then gave Nat his leave. Beast pressed a bruised half apple into Nat’s hand as a thank-you.
    Back in his tent, Nat lay down on his straw mattress near the dozing, whistle-nosed Samuel Collier, and took out pen and page. He wrote, If entertaining keeps me in good graces with the men of James Towne, so be it. I will not always have to perform at their beck and call. But for now, if they want a drunken councilor, I’ll give them one. If they want a lazy sailor, they can have him. If they ask for a constipated gentleman, thus I shall be.

16
    September 12, 1607
    â€œW HAT IS WRONG with your face, boy? It is covered with maggots! Let me get them off before they eat your eyes!”
    Nat dropped his hoe and straightened from his work in the wheat garden, beads of sweat rolling down his face. Before him, standing unsteadily with a sword in trembling hands, was Jehu Robinson. Two other gardeners stopped their work and stared.
    â€œHe’s gone mad,” one man hissed.
    â€œNathaniel Peacock,” said Jehu. His words were slurred. “You’ve got worms all over your head. Hold still while I chop them away!”
    Jehu wrapped his fingers around the handle of the sword, and with a grunt, swung it up and over. It arced by Nat’s ear and Nat jumped out of the way, swearing.
    â€œJehu! What have you eaten? You are delirious!”
    â€œNat, wait!” said Jehu. “The worms are in your nostrils now. You will smother to death!” He lifted his sword and lashed out at Nat again. Nat again darted out of the way.
    â€œJehu, drop the sword!”
    The two men in the garden ran out of the gate and up toward the fort, calling for help. “We’ve a madman!”
    Jehu continued to wield the sword, Nat continued to dodge him. The man’s awkward movements made it easy to keep away from the blow of the deadly blade. “Please, Jehu,” said Nat.