As they sailed up the river John looked around eagerly for changes. He could see at once that settlers had spread out along the river in the four years he had been away. Every three or four miles there was newly cleared land and a little house set facing the water, a small wooden pontoon to serve as a quay for loading of the only crop: tobacco. John thought that Suckahanna’s mother had been right to predict that there would be no room for the two races to live alongside each other. The British were spreading themselves so prodigally that their new lands and houses lined the riverside like a ragged ribbon on both banks.

Bertram Hobert joined John at the rail. ‘That’s Isle of Wight County.’ He nodded towards it.

‘Isle of Wight?’ John exclaimed, taking in the thick forest, deep green with pine and fir tree, black and white with naked boughs filled with deep snow. Hobert laughed shortly. ‘Sounds odd, doesn’t it? Isle of Wight County there, and Surrey County next door to it.’

John looked to the other bank. ‘And there’s Jamestown at last,’ Hobert said, following his gaze. ‘I’ll tell my wife to be ready.’ He turned and went below. But John stayed on deck, straining to see the settlement, to see all the changes. The derelict land around Jamestown had spread further in the four years, like a wound gone bad, festering in the marshy ground. The tree stumps were left in the ground to rot and the unused branches were left where they had fallen. New patches of ground had been cleared by burning and were black and charred, ready to come under the plough for tobacco to be planted in spring. Drifts of snow were heaped around the cleared area as if the loss of the trees had left an opening for fierce winds and cold weather. Even the snow was dirty.

Jamestown itself looked as if it were thriving. The stone quay had been extended to handle more and more ships coming to the country for tobacco, and the warehouses along the quayside were a storey higher and broader than they had been before, laden with drifts of grimy snow which rested on the cold roofs.

There was a new paved road running parallel with the river, and someone had planted a row of trees for shade. Behind the new road were substantial stone-built houses, still no greater than a yeoman’s cottage in England, but better made than their predecessors, and with windows of oiled paper rather than shutters. In some small square panes John could see the bright glint of expensive glass.