Affairs grew worse.  The sufferings of this colony in the summer equaled that of the Pilgrims at Plymouth in the winter and spring.  Before September forty-one were buried, says Wingfield; fifty, says Smith in one statement, and forty-six in another; Percy gives a list of twenty-four who died in August and September.  Late in August Wingfield said, “Sickness had not now left us seven able men in our town.”  “As yet,” writes Smith in September, “we had no houses to cover us, our tents were rotten, and our cabins worse than nought.”

Percy gives a doleful picture of the wretchedness of the colony:  “Our men were destroyed with cruel sickness, as swellings, fluxes, burning-fevers, and by wars, and some departed suddenly, but for the most part they died of mere famine....  We watched every three nights, lying on the cold bare ground what weather soever came, worked all the next day, which brought our men to be most feeble wretches, our food was but a small can of barley, sod in water to five men a day, our drink but cold water taken out of the river, which was at the flood very salt, at a low tide full of shrimp and filth, which was the destruction of many of our men.  Thus we lived for the space of five months in this miserable distress, but having five able men to man our bulwarks upon any occasion.  If it had not pleased God to put a terror in the savage hearts, we had all perished by those wild and cruel Pagans, being in that weak state as we were:  our men night and day groaning in every corner of the fort, most pitiful to hear.  If there were any conscience in men, it would make their hearts to bleed to hear the pitiful murmurings and outcries of our sick men, without relief, every night and day, for the space of six weeks:  some departing out of the world; many times three or four in a night; in the morning their bodies trailed out of their cabins, like dogs, to be buried.  In this sort did I see the mortality of divers of our people.”

A severe loss to the colony was the death on the 22d of August of Captain Bartholomew Gosnold, one of the Council, a brave and adventurous mariner, and, says Wingfield, a “worthy and religious gentleman.”  He was honorably buried, “having all the ordnance in the fort shot off with many volleys of small shot.”  If the Indians had known that those volleys signified the mortality of their comrades, the colony would no doubt have been cut off entirely.  It is a melancholy picture, this disheartened and half-famished band of men quarreling among themselves; the occupation of the half-dozen able men was nursing the sick and digging graves.  We anticipate here by saying, on the authority of a contemporary manuscript in the State Paper office, that when Captain Newport arrived with the first supply in January, 1608, “he found the colony consisting of no more than forty persons; of those, ten only able men.”

After the death of Gosnold, Captain Kendall was deposed from the Council and put in prison for sowing discord between the President and Council, says Wingfield; for heinous matters which were proved against him, says Percy; for “divers reasons,” says Smith, who sympathized with his dislike of Wingfield.  The colony was in very low estate at this time, and was only saved from famine by the providential good-will of the Indians, who brought them corn half ripe, and presently meat and fruit in abundance.