Jamestown - The New World: The Coin, #2

By Joyce Crawford

Richard de Burton is a prisoner of his own mind. His past haunts him. He did not complete knights' training due to physical limitations. Consequently, each time he walks down the endless corridor of his ancestral home, he feels deep despair. Portraits of his knighted and venerated ancestors seem to peer down at him and hiss their condemnation. He would never earn the title of knight of the realm nor live up to their expectations.

Adding heartbreak to his self-loathing, he lost the love of his life, Elizabeth.

Feeling he has nothing to live for, Richard leaves his ancestral manor in Staffordshire, England, in November of 1605 and sails to The New World. In leaving England, he hopes he can start a new life where he does not feel the weight of failure and loss on his shoulders.

After a harrowing journey across the sea, Jamestown is not quite what Richard expects, but it is a new place to prove himself, find a new home, and hopefully find someone with whom he can share his meager home. But there's only one woman he wants to spend his life with, Elizabeth, his first love. But that is not to be, for her parents promised Elizabeth to an Earl, a man of great wealth and advanced age, in an arranged marriage. Can anyone take the place of his dear Elizabeth?

Richard finds friendships with the most unlikely people in the Virginia colony's virgin forest. He learns what it means to start fresh and show God's love to everyone, even those deemed savages by everyone else.

What awaits Richard in Jamestown? Will he find a new home with love and hope and prove that he's more than a title?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joyce Crawford
• Release date: Apr 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781736985717

Joyce Crawford

Joyce Crawford is a gifted author whose childhood memories have become an integral part of her books. As a fifth-generation Floridian, she grew up surrounded by her extended family in a small town in north-central Florida. Her memories of church, hymns, Bible reading, songbirds, magnolia trees, railway tracks running through the town, cows eating citrus, and thistles growing in the pasture are all part of her biography and seamlessly woven into her writing.   Despite struggling with reading since the fourth grade and being diagnosed with dyslexia and a brain imbalance in her later years, Joyce never allowed her handicap to deter her. In fact, she believes that her vivid imagination and desire to learn and achieve were gifts from God, who helped her overcome her challenges.   Joyce began her writing career with a successful children's chapter book series, 'The Adventures of Thelma Thistle and Her Friends.' However, her shift to Christian historical novels is a strategic move that showcases her versatility and highlights her ability to address a broader audience. Her writing emphasizes a God who respects humanity, never dictating but generously giving free will.   One of Joyce's primary strengths is her ability to transform something simple into its most extraordinary potential by revealing its cryptic meaning. Her writing is filled with excitement, discovery, and magical moments, taking readers deep into the story and to greater heights. With a passion for living and a love of life and God, Joyce is in her best element in this genre.   In conclusion, Joyce Crawford is an author who has overcome challenges to become a gifted storyteller. Her writing is captivating, and her ability to weave memories into her work makes it all the more special. Her transformation from children's books to Christian historical novels is an excellent move, highlighting her versatility and showcasing her ability to address diverse audiences.

Book preview

Chapter 1

SAYING GOODBYE

Hear thou, my son, and be wise,

and guide thine heart in the way.

- Proverbs 23:19

Staffordshire, England, November 25, 1605

The long and tortuous hours of my fitful sleep were finally over.

Throughout the agonizing hours, images of my heroic ancestors flashed unceasingly behind my eyelids. Although I knew and loved my nearest ancestors, my half-sleep dreams conjured grotesque images of scowling faces of disapproval and unfriendly heads, wagging in condemnation.

In the room where I once played as a child, I lay in my bed a prisoner — prisoner of my own mind. That very room Mother had tastefully decorated with magnificent tapestries, heavy velvet window dressings, and ornate wall coverings shouted accolades, tossed laurels, and heralded secret awards in honor of my de Burton ancestors, knights of the English realm. What must they think of me, Richard de Burton, the nineteen-year-old son of the famous ship’s captain, Captain Francis de Burton? I cringed at the thought and tossed again. The place on the mattress where I turned revealed no evidence of my previous presence, save my body heat.

At half past five, Betsy, the timid third-floor chamber maid, threw open the heavy velvet draperies and opened the window to let in the morning sun and cool, refreshing breeze. I groaned and rolled over; Betsy ran from the room.

An orange November sun cut through the fog, promising another beautiful but chilly day in Staffordshire. But the beauty of the morning was not inviting. Today would be just another day of self-torture and loathing.

Through painful eyes deprived of sleep, I saw the portraits of the de Burtons that adorned the walls of my bedroom. From his oversized brown gilded frame Sir Walter de Burton—a knight strong and true, faithful to God and the English monarch—stared down at me as if scowling.

I looked again, and Sir Walter’s son, Sir Milton de Burton, seemed to roll his eyes then divert his gaze as in disgust.

Ten generations of God-fearing men scorned me. Giant prayer warriors wagged their heads in pity.

I held my throbbing head in agony and cried out, I did my best! But no one heard. No one cared.

Unable to endure this torture any longer, I somehow found the strength to rebuke this anxiety that held me prisoner and stumbled from my bed to dress before going down the stairs.

Unrelenting, the thick black talons of self-loathing refused to loosen their vicious grips on my soul but dug all the deeper, holding me back from enjoying my family’s love and care.

The corridor before me lay long and silent, but whispers from family portraits dug into my heart, accusing and haunting me.

There he is. The coward.

"...a weakling. Tut tut."

How can he dare show his face in this revered hall?

He is the first of our long line of knights to fail training. Pity.

Do not scorn him so. Did he not just lose the love of his life?

"Pshaw."

When I at last traversed the gauntlet that was the corridor, I entered the manor’s dining room. The sun, now shining and illuminating the floating particles of dust, forced me to squint and shade my eyes. I cursed and held my pounding head for robbing me of the beauty of the English morning.

Golden rays of sun glistened through a bank of east-facing arched windows. Masterfully crafted mahogany and cast-iron casings embraced two-hundred beveled glass windowpanes.

When I was a lad, I joyfully tried to catch the rainbows of light that danced through the beveled edges. Today, however, I had no interest in the colored lights that kissed the centuries old mahogany paneling of the grand dining room. My all-consuming agony robbed me of the beauty of that grand dining room, and I swore.

A fire that Bess had tended in the vintage stone fireplace, danced and snapped as it devoured the morning chill from the room.

Standing majestically next to the bank of windows was a fifteenth-century mahogany buffet, always adorned with a bouquet of fresh flowers. This morning, Gracie, our housekeeper, placed upon that vintage piece, a crystal vase of yellow roses and blue hydrangeas from our garden. My self-pity made me oblivious to this beauty.

On the matching sideboard, Cook, Mrs. Hardford, had displayed an array of breakfast foods on Mother’s blue and white Ming Dynasty chinaware. Warm and savory herb muffins, sausage links, and sugary cinnamon fruit pies still hot from the kitchen oven filled the sideboard.

Next to Mother’s silver tea service, Gracie had placed the simple white China tea pot. Father had brought the blue and white Ming Dynasty Chinaware and the white tea pot back from one of his voyages to China. He had often sailed to Asia in search of spices for the king’s palace and never forgot to bring Mother a love gift home with him.

I had long admired the Ming Dynasty chinaware. I hoped that one day my wife would inherit that dinnerware, as I would inherit the fourteenth century de Burton manor in Staffordshire. Now, that was not to be. I would never be a knight, nor have a wife and children to fill my manor.

Even though the gay rainbows of light danced through the windows, and the aromas from Cook’s warm sweet and savory treats filled the room, I sat subdued in my shame. For me, the atmosphere at breakfast was somber.

A Grande Baroque silver teaspoon tinkled against his porcelain China teacup as Father stirred sugar into his tea. The spoon played musical notes as only silver can when Father lay his tiny teaspoon on the saucer. He took a pensive sip before asking, What time dost thou sail, son?

My brother rolled his eyes, having no pity for me, his older brother.

Eight-o-clock, ten days hence, sir.

Mother muffled her sobs into her linen dinner napkin trimmed with lace.

Now Maude, Mother, Father whispered, we spoke of this many times. Methought thou wast ready to let the lad try his wings.

Mother could not answer. She dabbed her eyes with the linen napkin, inhaled a stoic breath, then shook her perfectly coiffured head and averted her wet eyes.

Although everyone knew of it, for it surely must have hung over my head like a parchment, I was relieved when no one at breakfast spoke of my disastrous two-year training for the knighthood. It had been my life-long dream to be a knight like so many of my de Burton ancestors and serve King James. My desire was ready; I wanted to serve the king and his people. My mind was keen; had I not learned well the combat skills? It was my body that proved to be my downfall.

My coordination would not allow me to move fast and function with stealth as the other trainees did. During hand-to-hand combat, I often stumbled and fell. At jousting competitions, sometimes I completely missed the stirrups on my mount’s saddle. To make matters worse, I could not catch my breath. All this put my training in jeopardy.

As I sat at breakfast with my family, I withdrew into myself, remembering how during my first real campaign, even though it was a practice event, I fell under the sword of Leofwin Allso, champion of Burton County. Leofwin tried not to harm me, but his sword penetrated my armor. By tournament rules, I was out of the competition. When the doctor reported my continuing physical liabilities to the lieutenant, my superior had no alternative but to discharge me and send me home.

In my disgrace, my friend, George, rode with me back to Staffordshire. I suspicioned that George rode with me to give me aid in case I fell from my saddle, but instead, my good friend tried to cheer me.

George, I am a failure, I confided my innermost thoughts to my friend.

Nay, Richard. Your scores were high — some higher than mine. It is not your fault that you have a weak heart.

Good friend, you are so kind. It is not my weak heart that distresses me, but my failure to manage and train my body. To be a good knight one needs keen coordination and stamina, neither of which I possess.

After a long reflection of my discharge from knight training, my belabored mind returned to the breakfast table where happy conversation between Father and my younger brother reigned in my memory. However, though breakfast aromas delighted my family, the distress of my mind and resulting upset stomach would not allow me to eat the delicious treats Cook had provided.

Why can I not go, Father? I am nearly twelve, Bennet, my brother begged.

And if thou go, Ben, just who will take care of thy mother? Father teased the boy. Eight years hence, when thou art twenty, you canst go on an adventure like your brother.

I am sorry, Mother, I will take care of thee.

Richard, hast thou said goodbye to Elizabeth? I did not hear my beautiful Amie when she spoke. Amie was my always caring yet overly romantic younger sister and good friend. At seventeen, she was two years younger than me, and we had always shared our secrets.

When she asked again, I averted my eyes, not meaning to be rude. I just could not answer. I could only sit mute and swallow hard. Elizabeth had made it clear that I should not contact her again. She was betrothed to an older man through an arranged marriage, and my continued meeting with her would appear unseemly. Still, my heart ached to see her. I bit my lip.

Father broke the awkward silence and asked, Hast thou packed thy gear, son? Do not forget to pack thy wool cape. From my experience, sailing on the open seas can be freezing on deck.

My trunk is on its way to London, Father, I replied, still trying to hide my disappointment of not making knighthood.

Mother sobbed again.

I am sorry, Mother. I reached for her hand. I tried to console my darling mother, the mother who birthed me and loved me so well and for so long. How could I now make her cry? Her sadness eclipsed the small flame of excitement that flickered in my heart, and I excused myself from the table.

––––––––

Alone in my room, I picked up each of my boyhood treasures and remembered the joy they once brought me. Uncle made this small-sized longbow for me. Then, I touched the down comforter on my bed. Mother made this for me when I was but a tot. I ran my hand over the leather doublet that I wore yesterday when Father and I went hunting. Yesterday was a good day for hunting. The sky was blue and clear and the temperature crisp, on the chilly side, heralding winter.

––––––––

Happy memories of my boyhood returned to their safe places in my heart when I heard Father’s heavy footsteps climbing the stairs to my room, so I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. He tapped on the door. I remembered how it was when I was younger. He never knocked; he just came in, and I was always glad to see him. If after a short separation, him downstairs reading and me upstairs playing in my room, I jumped into his burly arms with great joy and smothered him with kisses. Aw, how I will miss those kisses.

Dost thou remember the things we talked about, son? Thou wilt be careful? A tear betrayed his strength.

Aye, Father, I remember.

Didst thou hide thy money belt inside thy clothes?

Yes, sir.

Remember to take the measure of all men before you commit thy confidences.

Aye, sir. I will.

Didst thou pack extra clothes?

Aye, Father. All that I am allowed.

Then Father yielded to his emotions and quickly grabbed me to his thick barrel chest — that thick chest in which I snuggled and felt safe and happy as a child. I returned his embrace in silence, but not really in silence, for we both groaned in our throats as we held each other with an occasional manly pat on the other’s back. Neither of us wanted to let go first. Father gave me one more hug and pat with a long sniff and wipe of his face, then he released his embrace. May I pray with thee, my son?

Yes, Father. I would like that.

Again, Father grasped me and held me close as he rocked from side to side and prayed, Our Father God, Thou hast given me a fine lad. Though it breaks my heart, I give him back to Thee. Protect him, Heavenly Father. Give him Thy wisdom and guidance and bring him home safely. Hear the prayer of Thy humble servant and grant my petition.

We stood in each other’s arms until we heard Ben stomping up the stairs.

Before Ben bounded into my room as he always had done, Father grasped my hand in his and placed something hard in the center of my palm, then closed my fingers around it.

My son, my first born, it is fitting that I pass this on to you. You surely earned it even though you did not attain the title of knight. Son, you do not have to have a title to be a brave man. You do not have to serve an earthly king to be successful. You need only to serve your Heavenly Father. Take this, and let it remind you of your ancestors and the faith for which they fought so hard and passed on to us, for you are one of them.

I slowly opened my fingers and saw a coin shining up at me.

A coin, Father?

"Aye, son. This is the very coin that King Edward awarded to your ninth great-grandfather, Walter de Burton, on the day of his knighting in 1306. This coin has been passed down to the oldest son in our de Burton family for nearly three-hundred years. Now, it is time and appropriate that I pass it to you. Take it and remember the love of your family and their love for God our Father. That is truly the greatest treasure.

Be sure to tell thy mother goodbye. Then, Father turned abruptly and left my room.

I stood in utter silence. My shoulders heavy.

Search me, Oh God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.

-  Psalm 139:23

London, December 6, 1605

In anticipation of my journey, excitement of a new life ahead eclipsed my anxiety, although that most destructive of enemies, self-loathing, still entrenched its talons in my soul.

I rode on horseback for nine days from Staffordshire to ensure I would arrive in London with one day to spare. As visions of adventure filled my mind, I breathed faster the closer I got to London. The faster I breathed, the more I encouraged my mount to run.

Run, Sonia, I urged my mare. Remember how we always ran together chasing the fox? Pretend now that we are chasing a fox. Run, faithful mare!

As if she understood my words, Sonia ran fast and free. I had to remove my hat and stow it in my bag, then I gave my hair, my mount, and my renewed soul the free reign to blow in the wind. I mused how that sensation of a free spirit was the beginning of my new life.

When I finally arrived in London, my poor Sonia was white with foamy lather despite the cold air. Still, her eyes sparkled as they did when we played together. I quickly sought out the nearest stable and drawing on my feigned courage, asked the currier to rub her down and feed her a large bag of oats. I also negotiated with the stable master on a fair sale price for my beloved mare before asking for directions to the George Inn, where I had made reservations and had my trunk shipped.

The cold streets were abuzz with people and excitement, and I picked my way through the crowd and puddles of muddy water until I found the George Inn.

Inside the inn, a warm fire in the grand fireplace competed with the chilly December air for dominance. I removed my gloves and cape and stood before the fire to warm, first with my hands extended, then turning to warm my backside. Once revived, I gathered another helping of courage and remembered that I was Richard deBurton, eldest son of Captain Francis de Burton and grandson of Sir John de Burton. Then, I strode up to the reservation desk. I reached out an unsure hand and touched the clerk’s bell on the counter. When the clerk did not appear, I rang the bell again. This time with one strong ring.

I spoke with the over-fed proprietor and was glad I took Father’s advice and wrote ahead.

"Well, sir,