Dear Father,

It is I, Williamus Jenkins. Life in London has gotten worse. You were right to leave. People here are dying by the thousands. There is a disease out there, infecting those around me. All I can do is try to isolate myself, but I’m not sure how much longer I will last. The doctors are trying to cure the ill by bloodletting and burning special herbs, but these techniques are proving inefficient. I’ve never seen anything that bloodletting couldn’t cure. There are many suspicions of where this powerful disease came from. Some say that there is poison in the water. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m not taking any chances. Even if I don’t bathe for several days, I won’t be the worst looking person on the streets of London. I myself have some suspicions of where this dreadful disease came from. I blame the cats. They have a wicked look in their eyes and I feel they have nefarious motives. Many people seem to agree with me and we are working together to get rid of these scornful animals. Hopefully our efforts will prove effective. During this time of death in England, I worry about who our king really is. King James claims to be appointed by God but does nothing when the people of his land are dying. With the power and goodness of God, the king should act, and not let his people die. The king has great power, and with that power comes responsibility. There are only two reasons why the king would let his people die like this: God is not all good, or the king is not appointed by god. There is much confusion among the streets of London. I hope Jamestown is much better than here.


Williamus Jenkins