Pocahontas’ Diary – Lady Rebecca Rolfe

Private Writings, Year of Our Lord 1616

March 3rd, 1616 – The Day We Set Sail

The wind bore us from the shores of my homeland this morning. I stood upon the deck beside John, my heart divided between pride and sorrow. The sails shone white as clouds, the sea restless beneath our feet, and he held my hand as though to steady my thoughts. He speaks often of England, of its gardens and halls, of people who shall greet us with open hearts. I wish to believe him. I tell myself this voyage is a bridge between our worlds, that I serve a purpose greater than myself. I should feel fear, yet I am filled with wonder. The sea stretches endlessly before us, and I pray that the spirits of my people will see not betrayal, but hope in my leaving.

April 10th, 1616 – Midway Across the Sea

The days upon the water seem without end. I spend my hours upon the deck watching the horizon rise and fall, the gulls circling like spirits that have followed us from home. John remains kind, yet there is distance in him. When I ask what awaits me in his land, he smiles and turns the question aside. Perhaps he would have me discover it with my own eyes. He still greets me with gentle words each morn, and his hand lingers upon mine, though his thoughts are elsewhere. At night I hear the sea whisper against the hull. Its rhythm reminds me of the river that once carried my reflection. I close my eyes and pretend both lands still touch.

May 22nd, 1616 – Arrival in England

We came ashore beneath a gray sky. London is vast beyond measure. The air is thick with smoke and rain, yet full of life. John led me through the crowded streets to a small park where benches stood beneath tall lamps that glowed like stars brought to earth. There we rested, and I felt the solid ground beneath me once more. The people stare but I do not shrink from them. They call me Lady Rebecca, a name they say suits me well, though it feels borrowed. I have met fine ladies, learned men, and courtiers who bow with smiles that do not reach their eyes. Still, I am charmed by the novelty of it all. The gowns, the language, the endless noise. I tell myself I will grow to love this strange and wondrous land.

May 29th, 1616 – One Week Later

The charm fades as swiftly as morning mist. Some greet me with civility, others whisper behind gloved hands. I see curiosity, and something colder, in their eyes. John spends long hours away now, meeting men of station, attending feasts where my presence is not required. I do not protest. Instead I write, I walk the gardens, I listen to the rain that falls almost daily. I practice my English, though my words still come slow and careful. I remind myself that peace is not born in comfort but in endurance. There are moments of warmth, a kind word or a passing smile, and I cling to them. The rain does not trouble me. Its touch feels familiar, like the breath of the river wind I once knew.

July 29th, 1616 – This Will Be My Last Entry

The rain has not ceased for many days. I sit again upon the same bench where I first rested upon our arrival. The city moves around me, blurred by the downpour. I find comfort in it now. The rain feels like home. It softens the stones and quiets the noise. John seldom walks with me anymore. When we speak, it is of polite nothings. He has grown distant, and I do not think he notices how still I have become. The silks feel heavy upon my skin, and the pearls about my neck are cold as river stones. I am weary, though I know not of what. I wonder if the clouds above me drift across the sea, if they pass over the forests and the river of my youth. Perhaps they carry a memory of me still. If the wind remembers my name, I pray it whispers it home.

(Art by @Bhushan_M)