A letter recently discovered during the renovations of the St. George’s Post Office. Believed to have been written in 1609 b y Sea Venture survivor Molly Tucker, to her Aunt, Camilla Beckham.

December 1609

Dear Aunt Cam,

A Merry Christmas from the Isles of Bermuda. It isn’t the Christmas of locust and honey I was hoping for in Jamestown, although considering all that has happened in the last six months, I still feel blessed.

Will Gates and I left Plymouth in June bound for a new life in the America. The Jamestown Colony promised to be just the place for an ambitious young guy like William. They said it was a window of opportunity and Will’s determined to put windows in every house in America. And, while I could have stayed and explained to the Magistrate that the incident with the Squire’s son was a total misunderstanding, it seemed prudent to take the offer of passage to the New World. And, William promised the Captain would marry us as soon as we were at sea.

The boat, The Sea Venture, looked a bit sketchy, but what did I know. The Captain, Admiral Sir George Somers, seemed sober enough, although he never spoke to the likes of me. Nor did Slick Willie ever ask the Captain to marry us — but that’s another story. The Captain hung out on the poop deck with the rest of those to-the-manor-born types. I mostly stayed below deck. After about a week, the weather turned foul, and I was certain that the boat was going to break apart and sink. We spent three days bailing and then we smashed right into this island in the middle of the ocean. Some say that Sir George made a brilliant decision to crash and wreck the ship; I’m not so sure. I thought it was the Captains job to drive the boat safely. Now we’re stuck here. But right away we’re calling the place Somers’s Isle. It was also known as Bermuda after some Spanish guy who had also wrecked his ship here. Sink your ship and they name the place after you. Go figure.

Bermuda has turned out to be pretty decent. Very green. Plants and trees I’ve never seen. Weather is awesome. A bit hot when we first landed, but now in November it is still summer. No need for the peat fire to take the chill off the night. Good thing, ‘cause there is no peat. Lots of fish, plenty of wild hogs, and a dopey little bird called the cahow that’s ridiculously easy to catch. Tastes like chicken. We should bring some to Jamestown; if we ever leave.

There are about 150 of us stranded here. Sir George is building a new boat that will take us to America in the spring. Looks awfully small, and many of us are a little nervous about going back to sea again. Some are agitating that we should just stay here. Or, hook up with the settlers in Jamestown and become independent of England. The “Authorities” all pooh-pooh that idea. They say that Colonies will never have the resources to make it on their own. I guess they’re right; maybe we should have a referendum. Sir George and Sir Thomas do spend a lot of time sitting on a wall drinking port (at their so-called “Gates Fort”) gazing back with glassy eyes and gout at merry old England.

Five families (if you consider six women and eight men as five families) have moved away from the rest of us here in the town of St. George’s (named after Sir George - what else) to another island about a half mile away. They fish during the day, smoke dried leaves at night, and consider themselves a tribe apart from the rest of us. Led by a guy named David. I suppose he thinks he’s a Saint too. William is talking to some little fox out there. He says he still loves me and he’s coming back; but I don’t think so. It’s okay. He’ll never make anything of himself.

One of the difficulties here in Bermuda is that there is no wheat for flour. A bo’sun off the Sea Venture <$>named Brendan told me I could try and dig up this wild root, which he called cassava. I did, boiled it up, and served it to him as porridge. I didn’t like the smell, but Brendan ate it. He immediately went blind, started ranting, and pulled out all his toenails. They had to strap him down and leave him alone in a cottage on a distant hill. Now he thinks he’s a Saint too.

While we both know there were no Saints sack in our town, I will miss Christmas Eve with you back in the village. The C of E Bishop in Bermuda thinks we’re all still members of his flock. He drones on sweltering in his woollen robe, sprinkling his smells and dinging his bells. Meanwhile we have seven new churches formed in the last four months. All preaching the message of Christ, but some with considerably more personal style and vigour than others. I pray the message is getting through.

Even if it were possible, there is not much here in Bermuda that I could send you as a gift for Christmas. Everyone tells me that the shopping is much better in America. We’ll see next year. I do have a pretty little cedar tree and have hung some dainty white seashells on the boughs. It’s nice. No Christmas pudding this year, but maybe the Admiral will share some of his port on Boxing Day. A girl can only hope.

I’m safe, healthy, and my horoscope says that 1610 will be a very good year.

Merry Christmas Auntie Cam, and love to Becks,

Molly.