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nodded, and out he went. He soon returned with the bag, and the Chief watched impassively as Thomas worked at undoing the sodden canvas. He rummaged inside with one hand, but stopped as he noticed the Chief stiffen.
    He wanted to dump it all out, to show it contained nothing dangerous. Then more slowly, smiling at the Chief, he took his time, feeling out his waterproof pouches. One he knew held tobacco. How carefully he had oiled and reoiled with linseed oil its several cloths to make a good waterproof covering. An arduous process, but now that stood him in good stead.
    Finally he found and drew out his stash of navy tobacco. As the Chief watched, he peeled off its coverings and handed it over.
    The Chief looked at the sticky black mess, shaped like a large sausage. He smelled it. Then he held it up and examined it again. Thomas motioned for the Chief to hand it back, and gestured for a knife. The Chief frowned, looked at the translator, who shrugged and handed his knife to Thomas.
    Thomas carefully shaved some flakes, and then rolled them in his hand as he’d seen the officers do on the man o’war. He handed that to the Chief.
    Thomas watched him put a little in his mouth, tasting it.
    Then he stuffed a portion solemnly into the stone bowl of the pipe, which had been set on the ground before them. Packing the bowl with his forefinger, he drew a brand from the fire with cedar tongs and lit the pipe. From the stem hung an arrangement of beads and feathers. The Chief inhaled and breathed out a cloud of smoke. Were his eyes glowing? Had Thomas somehow hit on the appropriate gesture? He handed over the pipe. But Thomas didn’t smoke: what should he do? Better not refuse. He took the pipe, undecided. Then he drew in a small puff. He held the smoke in his mouth and blew it out. The Chief looked stern. “Not smoke?” asked the translator.
    Thomas took another puff, and then made himself inhale.
    He coughed furiously.
    The Chief began to laugh, and so did the translator. The more Thomas coughed, the more they laughed. Finally clearing his throat, Thomas was able to stop his coughing and began to laugh too, wiping away his tears. Well, he thought, at least they’re not going to skin me alive.
    ***
    He awakened to morning sounds of the New World: songbirds, crows squawking, dogs barking, children playing. He lay on comfortable skins covering a moss underlay. Disoriented, he tried to remember where he was. Oh yes, the laughter and the exchange of views with the Chief, after which he’d been brought to this wigwam.
    The translator had said “cousin,” pointing at the Chief.
    So for the moment he was safe; and knowing that, though starving, he had fallen quickly asleep.
    He rolled over and saw a woman studying him with dark eyes, black hair parted in the middle and held back in braids. She was seated, legs bent to one side, lit by her fire, glowing in its circle of round stones smoothed by the river. He became conscious of his enormous hunger.
    They looked at each other. Then she reached over and picked up a wooden bowl. Holding it, she gestured. Her large, round eyes set in a moonlike face appeared to glisten; youthful, in spite of her worn features.
    “Food? Yes please, oh yes!” He nodded as vigorously as he could in this sleep-glazed state. But then he remembered his precious bag, towed behind him in the swim. Where was it now? Had they stolen it? No, he saw it at one side of his sleeping blanket.
    He watched as she scooped out a porridge-like substance and spooned it into a smaller holder of birchbark. Then she held it out to him.
    “Thank you very much!” This startled her. She frowned. “Thank you,” he repeated slowly. Then again: “Thank you...”
    But she did not respond. She took a wooden spoon, dipped it into the bowl, and held it out for him. Like her child, he opened his mouth. No point in tasting it; she wasn’t going to poison him. But he couldn’t stop himself from first rolling it on his tongue. Hmm,