Sarah nodded at him and went out of the house, followed by her husband and Francis. She led the way down to the end of the planting, stumping along with a spade in one hand. Bertram carried the pick-axe for the stubborn roots. Francis, behind them both, was pushing Sarah’s heavy wooden barrow, loaded with the precious swaying burden of small tobacco plants. John brought up the rear, carrying the two new hoes. He thought for a moment of the carving of his father on the newel post of Hatfield House. That showed a man stepping out to garden for pleasure, with his hat tilted on his head and his hoe in his hand, a rich vase under his arm spilling over with flowers and fruits. All John’s life had been filled with plants grown for beauty, filled with the idea of planting and hoeing and weeding to create a solace for the eyes, a source of joy. Now he was working for survival. Some perverse contradictory desire had driven him away from the ease and richness of his father’s life into a country where it would take all his skill and strength just to survive. His father’s inheritance, the rich joy of his father’s work, he had abandoned and left behind him. He paused and watched Hobert, Sarah and Francis as they went down the path towards the river to start planting out their tobacco crop: a small procession of determined people, planting their hopes in virgin earth.

John stayed with the Hoberts for eight nights and when he left, the field before their house was cleared of all big roots, and they had a crop of tobacco set in the ground and thriving. At his insistence they had planted a kitchen garden at the side of the house and it was set with corn, pumpkin, and beans. John would dearly have loved to grow amaracock between the rows, as the Indian women did, so that the Hoberts could have fruit in their garden as well as vegetables. But they had not tasted the fruit since the Powhatan had ceased to trade with them, and they had not thought to keep the seeds.

‘I’ll see if I can get you some seeds,’ John said.

Sarah gleamed at him. ‘Steal them,’ she said.

John was genuinely shocked. ‘I would not have thought you would have permitted thievery.’

‘It is not thieving to take from such as they,’ she said firmly. ‘Do I steal a bone from my dog’s bowl? They have no right to the land, it has been claimed by the king. Everything in the land is ours. When they put meat in their mouths they are poaching from us. This land is a new England, and everything in it belongs to English men and women.’

‘You’ll come back to help me harvest, won’t you, John?’ Hobert asked.