Katherine Elizabeth Russell: The Story of the Middle Plantation Indian Treaty

By Linda Cummins

Author Linda Simon Cummins offers an insightful, compassionate look into the daily life, conflicting cultures, and political unrest in pre-revolutionary America through the eyes of a young, adventurous girl. 

It is the year 1676, and ten-year-old Katherine Elizabeth Russell l

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seren Publishing Co., Inc.
• Release date: Sep 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985297836

Linda Cummins

Linda Simon Cummins was born in Marshall, Texas, in 1951. Her father was Cajun, and her mother was from an old East Texas family. Her grandmother's great-grandfather had left Virginia and settled in Texas, where he married a Cherokee woman. Linda grew up listening to family stories of the Chisholm Trail and traveling in wagon trains. From the age of nine, she spent every winter in Virginia's Tidewater Region and every summer back home in Texas. Her parents were history buffs, so they often traveled with Linda to historical sites in the U.S. and passed along their love of history to their daughter.Linda had an inherent talent for art and chose that as her career. However, Linda stated, "I have dyslexia, and as anyone with a learning disability knows, classrooms were not always a happy place. The problem was, I was having difficulties with my craft and was not happy with the quality of my work. Savannah College of Art & Design became my solution. They provided classes that addressed the very problem I was having, giving me a new prospective." But when a ruptured disc landed her "flat on her back," she started to write. Linda said, "Researching and writing Katherine Elizabeth Russell proved to be therapeutic. It brought me out of myself and my circumstance. The story gave me a new purpose. It was a pleasure to spend four years researching, illustrating, and writing this book."

Book preview

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Katherine

Elizabeth

Russell

The Story of the Middle Plantation Indian Treaty

Written and Illustrated

by

Linda Simon Cummins

Katherine Elizabeth Russell

Copyright © 2022 by Linda Simon Cummins. All rights reserved.

This is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known

actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination

or are used fictitiously.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Printed in the United States of America.

First Printing: 2022

Cover and Interior Illustrations: Linda Simon Cummins

Cover and Interior Design: Darlene Swanson, Van-garde Imagery, Inc.

Editor: Karin Nicely, Seren Publishing Co., Inc.

ISBN 979-8-9852978-2-9 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-9852978-3-6 (e-book)

Printed in the United States of America

Seren Publishing Co., Inc.

Ocala, Florida

www.serenpublishing.com

This book is dedicated to the memory

of Queen Cockacoeske, leader

of the Pamunkey people.

Contents

Chapter 1 Stowaway

Chapter 2 Ebo

Chapter 3 Winganuske

Chapter 4 Nukpana

Chapter 5 The Mermaid

Chapter 6 ’Tis an Ill Wind that Blows Nobody Good

Chapter 7 Plundering Time

Chapter 8 Queen Cockacoeske

Chapter 1

Stowaway

I am old now, but still I remember my childhood days as if they were yesterday. The good Lord has smiled on me, and I am in good health. This I am about to tell you is God’s own truth.

As it so happened, it was the year of our Lord 1676. My name is Katherine Elizabeth Russell, and I was then ten years of age. It had been a hard, bitter winter. Our little island was frozen and covered with ice. The trees hung, laboring under the weight of their ice-covered limbs. For three weeks, soldiers had been working night and day in an attempt to keep ice in the harbor from crushing the ships’ wooden hulls. No sooner would they free one of the out-wharfs than another would once again be frozen solid. Fear and uneasiness stalked the streets of James Towne. Terrified colonists huddled, cold and miserable, around their fires.

What I remember most is the sharp, biting chill of the wind blowing across the James River. Warring tribes from up north had been attacking both colonists and peaceful Indian villages. In the midst of all the confusion, a group of colonists seeking revenge murdered several innocent Susquehannocks. This infuriated the Susquehannocks, and they went on the war path. No one was really sure who was killing whom. Innocent Indians and terrified colonists were caught in the middle of the conflict. Governor Berkeley reluctantly agreed to send a commission with orders to investigate. Instead, the commission formed a militia to attack a large Susquehannock kaasun (village). Five weroance (chiefs) came out prepared to talk peace and were murdered while their terrified people watched.

Although winter brought a stop in the hostility, paranoia had taken its place. News from the New Haven Colony only added to the already rampant hysteria. My parents tried to keep a brave face, but I could see the terror in their eyes.

New England was in total chaos. Massasoits, chief of the Wampanoag, had died, taking with him the uneasy peace his people had with their Puritan neighbors. His son, Metacom, was now the new weroance. When Metacom became weroance of the Wampanoag Nation, he received very little respect from the New England colonists. They would often laugh and call him King Philip. He had spent his youth watching New England colonists building homesteads all across ancient tribal lands, but Metacom vowed he would not live to see his people homeless, with no place to lay their heads. When three Wampanoag braves were hung by Puritans on charges of murder, Metacom called his kwiocos (priest) to ask for council.

Late one evening, Papa arrived home from Point Comfort, where he had been trading with the Chesapeake. One look at his face, and Mother sent me to my room. It wasn’t long before men from all over James Towne began to gather in the front room. I could hear them talking in hushed voices.

Papa had grown up traveling to the coast with his father and grandfather to trade with the Chesapeake Nation. The Chesapeake were old and trusted friends. They told Papa about the dark war cloud to the north and about the wrath of the Wampanoag Nation. By nightfall, our home was filled to overflowing with colonists from all over the island.

The house came to a complete silence when Papa began to speak.

"The Wampanoag kwiocos have built a large fire in front of their quiocosin [temple]. At first light, one of the kwiocos pours a circle of grain around the fire. Offerings of apohe [tobacco], wampum [trading shells], maize, and namaske [fish] are carefully placed in the fire the moment the first star appears in the night sky. They have been gathering in a circle around the fire for many months. The kwiocos pounded their drums, and any offer of food or water was refused. But now I have been told that their drums are silent and they have summoned their manitou [spiritual power].

"My Chesapeake friends tell me Okee the War God has spoken thus: ‘The tassantassas [strangers] who came from the sea have spread across our land these many moons. Their iron tomahawks are sharp, and their eyes are fixed upon our yihakanash [homes] and fields of maize. The ohawas [crow] has cast a long shadow across our children. Our people face the lakes to the west with their backs to the rising sun.’"

Papa leaned forward with his hands on his hips and continued to speak. I was told that Okee is angry and restless. Metacom and his kwiocos are preparing for war. He has amassed a great army.

Two days later, a New England packet arrived from Boston with disastrous news. The Wampanoag Nation was indeed on the war path. One after another, towns and villages all over New England were torched. The death toll was in the thousands. Colonists were abandoning their farms and fleeing for the coast. Frightening rumors spread like wildfire through the Colonies. Everyone was heart weary and suffered from fixed melancholy. My mother told me I was not to worry. Whenever I would ask Abby, our maid, about the Indian war, she would burst into tears. All Papa would say was little girls should not worry about such things.

All of James Towne was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Betsy Rose. She was a burdensome one-hundred-fifty-ton merchant ship. Owing to a black frost that gripped the fall gardens, vegetables were in short supply. The ship, sure to be laden with fresh vegetables and fruit, was sailing from Carlisle Road in Bridgetown, Barbados. But as the days dragged on without her arrival, our emotions went from excitement to concern. The Betsy Rose was, by father’s count, two weeks overdue. We could do nothing but wait. Our poor spirits sank with each passing day.

I woke that morning to see the sun streaming through the windows. Abby was quietly building the fire. She was a tall, thin girl with red hair. Abby’s face was covered with freckles, and she had beautiful green eyes.

Oh, good. You’re awake. Sleep well, did you, little miss? Abby asked as she placed my shoes by the fire. Come on—up with you. It be the scratch o’ day, little Kate. ’Tis time you were out from the covers. Be quick now; Cook has your breakfast on the table.

Where’s Papa? I asked as I slipped from my bed and into my clothes.

Your Papa spent the night breaking ice in the harbor, she answered.

Where’s Mother?

She is in the nursery, Abby said with a smile. Now let’s get a look at you.

Abby turned me from side to side until she was sufficiently pleased with my appearance. Together we headed down the hall toward the stairs. As we passed the nursery, I looked in and saw my mother moving about the room. The windows in the small nursery were draped in black crepe. Against one wall stood an empty cradle and across from it, a small bed. At the foot of the little bed was a tiny chest with the name Nathaniel painted on the top. Near one of the windows sat a chair with a small yellow blanket hung over the back. I watched as my mother placed rosemary in the cradle. Abby grabbed my arm and held her finger to her lips. We quietly descended the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom step, I turned to Abby.

If my brother and sister are up in Heaven, why do they need a nursery?

Honestly, Katherine Elizabeth, some of the things that pop into your head, Abby whispered. Now, you know not to ask your mother about this. How’s about you help all of us out by eating your breakfast for once?

My mother’s name was Hannah Russell. She was born in York Towne and was considered the most beautiful, delicate young lady in the county. Her hair, which she wore pinned up with silver combs, was golden brown. The combs had been a gift from Papa on their wedding day. On the surface, Mother seemed well contented, but deep in her eyes lurked a grieving sadness.

Mother subscribed wholly to the good and ancient way of housekeeping. Mornings were a busy time. First, all the hearths were soundly scrubbed. This was usually done by Ethan, who worked in Papa’s store, but he was down on the out-wharf, breaking ice. Today it was left to us to cope as best we could, so I helped Abby with the hearths while Mother sprinkled dried herbs on the floors. She then took ash water and rubbed the herbs into the wooden floorboards.

Our house stood facing the river. It was made of brick that had been fired on the island. The windows were small but bright, with sturdy wooden frames and glittering crown glass. White plaster was on the walls, and the wooden floors had been carefully rubbed with oil. The fore-room was the largest room in the house, and two enormous fireplaces graced each end of it. A long table, covered with a crisp, white-linen tablecloth, stood at one end of the room. Outside, the house stood two and one-half stories tall, with massive chimney stacks on each end. The roof was tile, and the wooden trim was painted red.

I stood at the kitchen window, watching snow fall onto the river. Bell, our cook, was baking bread for the men who were working on the docks. She had only been with us for a few months. When her husband died of a fever, winter last, she’d simply had no place to go. Papa and Grandpa had traded with Bell’s father for years. He was a trapper who lived on the Chickahominy River, and her mother was a member of the Chickahominy Tribe. Bell spent most of her time at home in the kitchen. In the market, she was often given scornful looks by what Mother called the ‘idle common sort.’ They were poor, misguided souls, to be sure, who somehow held our Bell responsible for New Haven’s grim destruction.

How long will Papa have to be down on the wharfs? I asked.

Bell answered without looking up. As long as it takes, Little Kate. As long as it takes. That big old ship can’t tie up here if the harbor is frozen over.

Her words were interrupted by two cannon blasts. I ran from the kitchen, screaming, Big shot!

Mother was in the great hall behind the fore-room, folding linens. Ethan came through the side door, carrying firewood and good news. The Betsy Rose had been spied off Point Comfort. She would pause there long enough to pay duties and present her manifest before heading for James Towne to obtain a trading license.

Bell helped Ethan load food onto the wagon. I climbed up to sit between Ethan and Abby while we rode up Front Street toward Papa’s storehouse. Ethan and Abby had come to live with us three years past. We were expecting Ethan; Papa had indentured him. That meant Papa paid his passage from Bristol, England, and in turn, Ethan would work for him for seven years. It was Abby who had been the surprise. Ethan and Abby had been in the same orphanage in Bristol. Food shortages and the ever-present threat of smallpox were the reasons they decided to become indentured servants. Upon their arrival, Ethan pleaded with Papa to accept Abby and pay her passage as well. Papa agreed to the arrangement because he thought that Abby’s sweet, cheerful nature would be a good tonic for Mother. My mother was oftentimes sad and spent a lot of time in the nursery.

Our little island was deserted. The bitter cold had all but the most hardy crowded together at home around their hearths. Only the watermen traveling the James River, plying their wares, ventured out. Most of them were gathered down at Mermaid Tavern.

James Towne Island still today lies nestled on the north side of the James River, a wide, graceful body of water teaming with fish. The banks are lined with ancient cypress trees. The out-wharfs along Front Street extend out into the harbor. My father—whose name was Nathaniel Russel, but everyone called him Nate—was born in James Towne and had grown up working with Grandpa in the storehouse. Papa was tall with broad shoulders. During the most trying of times, I could always find reassuring comfort in his strength.

Papa came down the wharf to meet us. He looked cold and tired. We all sat around the fire in the storehouse while Papa and Ethan ate. News spread quickly about the incoming ship as Front Street slowly came to life with all manner of people. Yeoman in their homespun congregated, eager for news from other parts of the Colonies. Cavaliers strutted along the street in their finest gaiety, sporting enormous wide-brimmed hats. Soldiers gathered on the docks with the fife and drum, preparing to greet the incoming ship. Ordinaries and taverns began opening the shutters on their windows. Wagons, arriving on the Great Road, could be heard rumbling across Mr. Knowle’s bridge.

The Betsy Rose drifted up the James on the flood tide with a slack sail. A roar went up from the crowd as the ship came into view, obviously heavily laden, her hull sitting deep in the water. She was fine indeed. Her proud mast and spars towered over the warehouses along Front Street.

Upon the ship’s arrival, her crew set about unloading cargo. Papa and I went aboard to greet Captain Yeardley.

The merciful God took pity and saw fit to deliver us safe, Captain Yeardley said as he and Papa shook hands. Contrary winds along the outer banks and a great tumbling swell blew us off course. We limped into Roanoke Inlet and dropped anchor. We passed the hours and days waiting for the wind to blow fair.

Horace Tanner, the tidewaiter (customs officer), pushed his way down the wharf. He was a short, thin man with nary a kind word for anyone. Behind him scurried two lackeys carrying a small desk.

Now, see here! Tanner demanded, spying the cargo suspiciously. Nothing is to be unloaded until I set up my post.

Tanner crouched over his desk. His droll, little mouth was drawn tight as his beady, brown eyes inspected each broad seal. God forbid a container not carrying the Great Seal of England should slip past him. The crew was more than anxious to go ashore. After weeks at sea, they were ready to stand on God’s good soil. A steady diet of hardtack and salt pork washed down with grog had left them lean and hungry. The delicious aroma of fresh-cooked food drifted from the public houses and taverns over the harbor. Old Horace Tanner turned a cold heart to the crew’s suffering and meticulously pored over every cast, keg, barrel, and hogshead.

One more day of ship’s biscuit will only serve to make them more grateful, Tidewaiter Tanner shrieked in his high, squeaky voice. Soon enough, this ungrateful crew will be sitting fine in Thomas Swann’s Tavern, devouring a three-penny feast and reeking of tobacco.

Within hours, the James River was transformed into a maze of sundry vessels. A great throng of barges, longboats, cribs, wherries, shallops, ketches, pinnaces, and sloops were all maneuvering in and around the out-wharfs. All the confusion soon resulted in turning the harbor into a massive, tangled web, but no one seemed to mind as old friends greeted one another. For now, everyone’s station in life seemed to be forgotten. Carpenters, tile makers, and fishermen congregated with cavaliers and planters. Hostlers with their fine horses and carriages lined Front Street. Each eagerly waited in hopes of whisking wealthy passengers off to their final destinations. Anxious crowds gathered around embarking travelers.

Forgotten was the hard winter and the terrible frontier war. Everyone could look forward to good food and a full belly. Father’s storehouse was packed to the rafters. But I was beginning to feel the cold. Sharp, frigid air blowing across the river seemed to cut straight through my red cloak. Abby and I were preparing to leave for home when all the commotion started.

You, there! Horace Tanner yelled as he sprang from behind his desk. Stop at once! That barrel has no broad seal.

The startled sailor lost his footing and slipped on the icy deck. Everyone watched helplessly as the barrel rolled across the dock and fell into the frozen river. As it hit the water, the bottom of the barrel broke open. To everyone’s amazement, a small boy fell out. To be sure, I had never seen such a child. His skin was the color of coffee, and his eyes were large and dark brown. Coarse, black hair clung close to his scalp. White muslin with a blue ribbon border was wrapped tightly around his body. He was crying and speaking in a language I had never before heard.

Chapter 2

Ebo

I looked into the boy’s face and saw fear unlike anything known to me. It was absolute terror. Fear had aged his countenance, and his little face looked more like an adult than a child. He was as frightened a child as I had ever seen. Shaking uncontrollably, the small boy clung to a rope against the hull of a nearby sloop. It looked as if any moment, he would slip out of sight into the dark, murky water.

Fetch him! screamed Tidewaiter Tanner in a shrill voice. Be quick about it!

Tanner ran back and forth on the wharf. His thin, little face reddened as he jumped about, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Go fetch old Amos, Papa whispered