Because clearly, no one else gives a shit about historical accuracy. I'll do my best to finish this. I know I don't have a good track record, but I'm really going to try this time.
Nine Dead Men—A Historically Accurate Pocahontas Fanfic
Chapter 1: In which Thomas can no longer stand it
Thomas sat in the shade of the wall, fanning himself with his discarded shirt and thinking longingly of October.
Of course, he thought philosphically, once it gets to be October, I'll probably want it to be July again. That's what he told himself, although he secretly suspected that October in Virginia couldn't possibly be as bad as July had been so far. Between the biting insects, the diseases, and the lack of supplies, everyone in Jamestown had been absolutely miserable.
Thank God for Pocahontas. If she hadn't taught us what was edible, we'd probably have starved to death. Even so, I'm getting awfully sick of corn gruel and berries.
But even corn gruel was in short supply. None of the men in Jamestown knew how to farm, and most were too lazy to learn. Neither John Smith nor a new governor had arrived to take control, leaving Jamestown in a state of chaos. Thomas himself had tried planting a small patch of vegetables with seeds that Pocahontas had brought, but it had gotten trampled.
Think I might just go native, like Captain Smith did. He wouldn't, of course. Friendly as the Indians were, they were still savages, without any sort of laws or morals. A dog might bring his master food, but that didn't mean that the master should get down on four legs and bark.
"Thomas lad!"
Thomas looked up from his reverie to see Ben peering down at him.
"Aye, Ben," the younger man said.
"Dick Hatcher just died. The lads are gettin' a burial party organized. We need an extra shovel."
Thomas got to his feet. "I can't stand it," he said. "Dick's the ninth man we've lost in the past two months. There's got to be something we can do."
"Aye, there is something we can do, Tommy-lad. We can pray to God that a ship will come with a doctor, and keep our shovels handy in the meantime."
Thomas bit his lip thoughtfully. "D'you think it might help keep bugs out of the barracks if we put some muslin over the door and the windows? It might keep the night air out, too. Keep everyone from getting sick."
Ben shrugged. "Might," he said. "Worth a try, anyway. I'm sick of digging graves."
After Dick Hatcher had been dumped in a hole, prayed over a bit, and covered over with dirt, Thomas went to the storehouse to look for muslin. The lock had long since been broken off the door, so the young man had no trouble getting in to rummage.
"Muslin... muslin..." he muttered, shifting guns, kegs of powder, shovels and picks, moldy flour sacks, and other odds and ends out of the way. At length he surfaced with two bolts of the thin, unbleached cloth. By sunset, he'd found some poles to make a frame for the door.
"Thomas, go to sleep!" Lon yelled. "We've had enough of your hammering!"
Thomas finished pounding the last nail into the windowframe and stood back to survey his handiwork. A pale sheet of muslin had been tacked around the inside of the window, making it impossible for insects to get through.
"THOMAS!"
"Alright, alright, I'm done!"
Grinning to himself as he undressed, Thomas flopped onto his cot and fell asleep.