The Diary of Thomas Wotton

Historical fiction focusing on one of the earliest surgeons coming over to the colonization of Jamestown, Virginia.

February 17, 1608
Dear Journal,
I feel as if my time here is as dwindling as ash in a windstorm. Skies of blue and rose stretch before us, complimentary to the coo of native wildlife. The sky is infinite and clear of trouble, a reflection of our hopes for Jamestown. In the mornings, when the rubescent fingers of dawn stretch across the horizon, the waters are still. Almost as if taking cue from the water, we too are still along with it. The sounds of humanity smothered beneath a dovish tapestry. Unfortunately, dawn then gives way to morning, which gives way to a new day. Perhaps back in England I would be more grateful for another day, but here in Jamestown there is a certain quiet before the ravenous storm of us. That is why I rise so early, to escape the moans of the hungry and cries of the wounded. To put off the inevitable digression of our feeble colony, and to have a simple moment of tranquility before the leaders begin barking. The early light is the only time for me to breathe, the only time I can call mine.
Being one of the first to make the voyage to Jamestown, the entirety of our passengers were filled with a youthful vigor far past their age. Hearts soared high as the flocks of birds above as we made our way across an infinite sea of grey and navy. However, once here, the price of the new world unraveled before us. In a land unknown to our people and without much in terms of long-term provisions, it did not take long for us to suffer. If starvation, dehydration, or disease did not catch you at first injuries were always seen somewhere down the line. That is where I come in. Having spent a large portion of my medical career apprenticing and practicing with fairly successful surgeons, I am well qualified to help the people of Jamestown. Though the range of medical mishaps and suffering are truly stretching me thin, I am deeply pleased to be here. These people are in severe need of my resources. For even though there is one other surgeon here, he has proven to be quite a cowardly sloth. Where one should run, he saunters gaily- most days spending an inappropriate amount of time to himself or elsewhere.
Illness catches like a flame, and I can only do so much considering I can hardly distinguish one man’s sickness from another’s. I lose more than three quarters of the patients I treat, a leaden weight on my weary mind. Every time I feel a pulse go dull in my hands I it. I sense yet another tear in my heart as if it were nothing more than ancient paper, dry and yellowed from age. Surgeries are even more complex here than they were in England. Only phantom mockeries of the tools I once used back home can be found here, though I manage. My opium is running low, as is my cannabis incense and mafeisan. My supply of soporific sponges is adequate, but who knows for how long? I’m constantly on edge despite Mr. Smyth’s reassurances that the natives will not directly attack us in the near future. Mr. Smyth has been nothing but respectable and gentlemanly with me, but his promises have fallen through before. In spite of never having direct contact with the local heathens I have a grim feeling in the pit of my stomach.
When the sun is laid to rest and the tenebrous shadows of night seep into the receding blue of the sky, I believe I can feel them. Their devil eyes, watching. Watching and waiting until just the right moment, or until their instincts take hold and they simply snap. Our relationship is not great with the natives, but Mr. Smyth can communicate well enough, and we haven’t slaughter each other just yet. It’s just that… Well, when night comes to play I cannot shake the invisible set of fingers grazing my neck. The trees seem to shudder and whisper the names of those long gone to this place. Even the earth itself screams of a restless energy that cannot be explained, only felt. In times such as these, I find that only the memory of my exquisite Sarah can console me. The tilt of her smile, the way the light catches strands of gold in her long hair, these are the memories I use to sustain myself. I hope and pray that she is handling the children alright, and that I am lucky enough to see them soon.
Yours truly,
T. Wotton









September 1, 1609
Dear Journal,
Tremors have taken control of my entire body. Even as I proclaim this, the quill trembles like a feather in a blizzard. My body, a thousand gasping choking pieces, is just barely holding together. I can’t scream, because my lungs spurn any attempt of expansion. No one can hear me, nor will they ever. No one will ever know how I die inside, feeling sharp holes being drilled into the cage of my chest. No one can feel those holes filing up with blood and agony while I burn inside. The shell of my body is clammy, going from hot to cold too quickly. Shrapnel and debris of the shimmering mirage I once called my world scatter around me like broken stars. Revelation is no longer on the horizon, and now it has proven to be quite the hulking monster. The silhouette of a moving memory catches my eye, and I feel my being still in terror. With a hard swallow, I gather myself and subdue the tricks of my mind. In all my years of medicine I have yet to see something this grotesque in nature.
Tonight, the remaining colonist feasted on human flesh.
The woman was young, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, freshly dead from concussion. She was in fact one of my patients, tragically lost in trepanation. I had been able to drill the hole into her skull with ease, but only seconds after the dura mater was properly exposed her breath stilled. Crushed, yet somehow numb with exasperation, I went to go deliver the news to the fellow colonists. Tears were expected, mostly from friends or loved ones, but as I said before I’d been through the process enough times to acquire a certain desensitization from it all. What I had not expected was the spark of hunger in several gentlemen’s eyes when I delivered the news. My eyes roamed for some sign of dolefulness and misery, but all I could see was the ravenous hunger of the starved. I myself have been slowly growing emaciated over the past year or so, but in no way did that warrant the consumption of my fellow human being. To my unease, John Smyth was nowhere to be found. When I tried to step in the way of men in protest, I was roughly subdued by two others. They were bright enough not to severely hurt me, but they did have me watch.
Organs, things I had grown so accustomed to in my line of work, seemed more foreign and strange to me than Greek gods. Seeing them sliced like ribbons and carelessly turned aside in favor of a more muscly sections… I can picture it every time I close my eyes. They cooked it with fire, as if that made their actions civilized in some manner. Eventually I was released, only too shocked to do anything but stagger to my dwellings and collapse. I write now, afraid to keep my thoughts locked away, wanting to bleed out the poison on a page. We are starving, and dying has become as common as the sun rise. I still rise early in the mornings, only to be greeted by a blood red sun as the seasons change. Night, my once greatest fear, has become a welcomed entity. For where I once feared what might be lurking in the shadowy corners of the land, I now fear the people who call me friend. The night, so absent of color and judgment for all of our wrongdoing, has become a paradise for the underlying madness brewing within us all. I pray to God for forgiveness; the Lord to wash my soul in his holy waters and dry me in divine light. Only He can offer redemption to us.
My tremors have started to fade, and I feel the full exhaustion of the day pulling me into a much needed sleep. Nightmares will lurk behind me, quick to follow me into my dream world, but I do not care. However, there is one thing that seems to be keeping me up…
If these men of education and civility are already at this point of desperation, what does the future hold for me?
Yours truly,
T. Wotton


















March 3, 1611
Dear Journal,
Through an ebbing mist of despair I am able to gleam a ray of light. Too dim to be heavenly in nature, yet too bright for a place such as Jamestown. The once inauspicious settlement has just recently begun to receive good fortune. God smiles upon us for the first time in years, and our castle in the air is finally within our grasp. On days such as this it is almost elementary to forget the ominous days of our past. The natives who refer to themselves as the Powhatan have been fundamental to our survival. They have shown us how to use the land, though this was not done out of the kindness of their hearts. In exchange for their services they have been rewarded with weaponry, guns. Not too long ago we began to grow tobacco, which has proven rather bountiful. It has risen to my attention that these natives may not be as impaired or primitive as we had once thought.
At the moment my heart is filled with elation, for today was the most recent successful surgery in a line of many. Though I lose a patient from time to time, it is almost a night and day comparison from when we first arrived in Virginia. As I was cleaning up after today’s surgery, Mr. Smyth actually stopped by my breadth of work. Scarlet dripped in thin lines across the length of his arm, leaving blooms of bright rose on the floor behind him as he walked. Noticing the widening of my eyes, he assured me that it was merely a graze from the business he was partaking in that afternoon. Mr. Smyth isn’t prone to injuries and he is the only one who can truly comprehend the Powhatan tongue, so I have absolutely no qualms about patching him up and keeping him well. Even small things such as this I tended to take great care with. Infection could end up doing the severe damage in the end, and we both knew that. He took a seat and surely enough, the gash turned out to more of a deep scratch. As I cleansed the affected area, he began to speak.
“You know we truly do appreciate your devotion to the colony, Mr. Wotton.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I replied, eyes focused on the wound.
Silence fell on us once more as I took to wrapping the injury, the silent space around us seeming vast with all of the words we left unsaid.
“You know what my friend told me right before we embarked, Mr. Wotton?” he inquired as he stood to leave.
“What, Sir?”
The corner of Mr. Smyth’s mouth turned up in a phantom smile, “He said that it was men like myself who discovered new worlds.”
“Quite an honorable thing to say, indeed,” I agreed.
“Well, I suppose he was not completely erroneous. However, anyone can find a new world; it takes a celestial intelligence to keep a new world from fading away. ”
He placed a firm hand on my shoulder, “It is men like you who keep new worlds alive, Mr. Wotton.”
And with a brief thanks for my work he was off, gone as quickly as he came. I’m still not sure what to make of his flattery, but the comment made me glow nevertheless.
Nights and mornings come and go in a rapid succession. Sometimes I wish I could take the sunrises and sunsets and place them in a glass bottle to bring back to my darling Sarah and the children. Never in my life have I seen such otherworldly displays of beauty, and it pains me that my family is not here to see it. At the same time I am grateful to the heavens and stars in the sky that they did not travel with me. I fear that they would not have survived the first two or so years. If they did live they would still be subject to the horror of disease and starvation, which would haunt them for all eternity. Writing now I smile at the idea of my daughters sailing on a ship with my wife and my boy in the years that are to come.
Yours truly,
T. Wotton
















May 29, 1611
Dear Journal,
Mortification is not a strong enough word to describe exactly how I feel. Perhaps discombobulated or perturbed would fit the bill? Perhaps words in general are to become irrelevant in situations such as these. The dawn broke just as it had many days before, the flavescent rays molted with champagne hues peeking out from behind the horizon. As always, I awoke a bit earlier than necessary to catch a glimpse of the peacefulness when I noticed an odd rustling from the adjacent trees. Taking precaution, I slipped my hand to the dagger at my hip and drew it slowly. The jewel encrusted handle glimmered in the ripe sunlight as the dark brown earth shifted silently beneath my feet. The pulse at the base of my neck began to flutter with adrenaline. Despite my two and a half years in Virginia, I have still yet to come in direct contact with a native. Completely blind and only mildly prepared to the scenario before me, I burst through the thicket of trees from which the rustling originated from.
And oh stars do I wish I had simply slept in.
I was greeted by the sharp gasp of a young woman, perhaps a bit younger than Sarah, who looked upon me as if I were Death Himself. Her skin was copper, ebony eyes wide as a doe’s. Black hair fell around her shoulders in woven patterns along with strange necklaces. The darkened skin was covered in markings completely foreign to me, though many seemed to disappear under the thick layers of her clothing. My lungs constricted in my too tight chest for only a half of a second before I noticed that the native woman was not alone. His pale skin was like a blinding beacon next to her solid tanned skin, especially since the entirety of his chest was exposed. The man’s bright blue eyes stared back at me in horror as I began to recognize him as the only other surgeon who traveled with us to Jamestown. This is the man who keeps mostly to himself, the one who gives little to no concern when it comes to aiding others. Quite frankly the man is a twat, and if I wasn’t sure of that before I’m most definitely sure now. Intercourse with one of the natives! For the love of all the stars in the sky, he must’ve been possessed to think such an idea would be good in any way. For all he knows he could have contracted some awful disease from the girl! Flustered beyond possibility, I expeditiously removed myself from their scandal and made my way back to my dwellings. The man cursed and tried to yell after me, but I merely pretended as if he were nothing more than a gnat. In the grand scheme of existence I suppose that is all he will ever be anyways.
Yours truly,
T. Wotton











April 14, 1618
Dear Journal,
Today has been the happiest day I've had in quite some time. Usually I would not write in such a facile fashion, but my feelings truly are this simplistic. Sarah and the children just arrived in Jamestown, and though I will always have my unease of these lands, I am destroyed and rebuilt with love for them. I just left my sleeping wife in search for a sound region to write and watch the sunrise. There's a distant part of me, the dutiful husband, who hesitates leaving to go enjoy something so beauteous without her. As perspicacious as she is, I feel as if she would never be able to understand as to why I require my sunrises. She would appreciate the view surely, but this is a time of my own. A place and time in which I became to understand the cruel and kind of Virginia.
Yesterday proved the eventful and triumphant. My family along with many others have made the trek over to Jamestown. Our population swells by the day, as do our supplies and profits from tobacco production. As of yesterday Jamestown transformed for me, and despite the gruesome hellions of your riper days, I can feel Jamestown showing itself as a home for the first time. Colonization is occurring at a breathtaking pace, more and more expansion being made every day. As our numbers and resources swell threat of natives and wildlife abates as well. Mr. Smyth continues to lead us with strength and cunning. And I too am continuing to excel in my work with the help of a fresh batch of tools and antiseptics from England. The winds of inadequacy no longer stagger us, and we are becoming what we once dreamed to be: a symphony of brotherhood and progressing triumph. The castle in the air that we've constructed with our parched and battered hands has materialized before us, and thus the veils of rain are laid to rest.
Yours truly,
T. Wotton




















March 15, 1669
Dear Journal,
It's been a long time since I've written to you. Opening you reminds me of my youth, of my time in Jamestown. If you were an old friend perhaps we would reminisce about the past together over dinner. But you see dear journal, I have no old friends anymore. Sooner or later each one came to pass, and now I believe my own thread of fate is to be snipped. I've been having trouble sleeping at night, I wake frightened and disoriented as if I were still in the starving years of Jamestown. Unable to get back to sleep, I watch the wax drip down the side of the candle next to my bed. With every floral scented warm tear that falls, I think of all of my time spent on this bitter earth. I'm eighty seven years old, and oh have I lived to see some stupefying accomplishments. By the same token I've had to watch my friends and loved ones go way of all flesh throughout the years. It brings me joy in the worst way to think about my pulchritudinous love, Sarah who perished so many years into the past.
Some days I feel myself drowning. The world moves to fast for a relic like myself, and I admit that I spend more time brooding on the old rather than trying to catch up with the new. It's summer now, which means the rain has started up again. Most days I simply like to sit in my home watching it. It rains in the same exact manner as it did in my youth, and the constant is greatly appreciated. Heaven's Lamentations fall against the earth, and I mourn with them. For all that is lost, all we have gained, and all that is only behind the curtain of time. A part of me wishes I could continue to see it, but I am indisputably petered out. Besides, this new and changing world has no room for grey-haired man such as myself; no one will miss a brick like me.
Dearest journal, I write to you then, as I pray to God to give me just one more early morning. Just one more glance at the sunrise.
Yours with dolor,
T. Wotton

Author's Note

Correct grammar and everything else in between.

Reviews

[M. Black]

This was brilliant. you captured life in the early colonies very well and your use of descriptive language was fantastic :) an absolute pleasure to read :)