He began to brood about what Virginia owed him for his risks and services. Land had been the only wages of the London Company and he was not in Virginia to stake his claims. In May 1621 he appealed to the company court and reminded them that he had risked money and peril of his life for the good of the Plantation. He had built up Jamestown, and had given five years of his life at great risk to establish Virginia, and he had spent five hundred pounds of his scant estate in the effort. Surely now he deserved remuneration either from the local treasury or from the general Virginia profit in England—but he got none. The London Company's affairs were not in good shape in either place and the massacre of 1622 made them worse. Incensed at this latest blow to his colony, Smith rashly volunteered to rush to their aid with a small army.
In all of his far-flung adventures there was nothing so satisfying to him as this colony which he had founded. Raleigh had named Virginia, while he had named New England, but Virginia was his first love, and he much preferred her sporting planters and adventurers to the pious and thrifty townsmen of New England. If there was a woman in his life, it was Virginia—not Pocahontas nor any other. Virginia had never got out of his blood. He dreamed of cementing the two coasts on one map, but this, like his every proposition, was turned down.
Rebuffed, he brought out a revised edition of his New England's Trials, and expressed his love of the American outpost eloquently, "I may call them my children for they have been my wife, hawks, my hounds, my dice and in total my best content, as indifferent to my heart as my left hand to my right." As a patroness for his handsome book The General Historie in 1624, the Duchess of Richmond came to his aid.
Smith had important male backers of his literary works now, if not of explorations. When he wrote the Seaman's Grammar in 1629, Sir Samuel Saltonstall was the backer. Among his friends was a collector and scientist whose house was called "Tradescant's Ark." If he had not been close to Smith how could his collection include Powhatan's discarded robe, Indian combs, rattles, bows and arrows, feathered crowns and tobacco pipes? Smith even willed him a fourth of his library.
Smith's True Travels appeared in 1629, and the incredible tale of his adventures read well to Londoners who were disturbed with financial depression and with the plague besides.
In order to escape the plague Smith spent much time in the country near Essex in the hospitable home of Sir Humphrey Mildmay. Mildmay dubbed his wife "the old woman," and he often escaped his family with the boisterous and masculine Smith to roam his fields, to hunt, fish, dice and drink. His six children delighted in their tarrying visitor, but Smith often eluded the happy and hearty family to write history in his own room. The huge home had wings, and it was set in a shady grove from which he could see London, thirty miles away, on clear days. He did not tarry there indefinitely being sometimes impatient for London itself where he also had a room in Saltonstall's house.
Yes, he had patronizing friends, but he was alone in his frustrated hopes. He had been so far and done so much as a leader of men whether they admitted it or not, and as such he was a being apart. He had been so as an adolescent who had lost his father by death, his mother by marriage, who had quit school and master as well as home. As an adult he had left country, colony and yet another colony, and when he wanted them back they had not wanted him. Finally, he was lonely because he had risen above his class in society without ever feeling secure among his betters in spite of their hospitality to an entertaining explorer and literary notable. Smith was ever without a home of his own, if never without a hope.
As time went on while the hands of benevolent ladies helped him over hurdles, men were usually the ones beside him, if not back of him. He could visit for months at a time as at the Mildmay's or for years as at Saltonstall's.
It was at the latter house that he died suddenly at the age of fifty-one. He had made arrangements for a dignified burial, knowing that others would not make it what it should be—before history inevitably brought him into his own. Where Shakespeare willed arms, he, Smith, the hero of legends as well as the author of them, willed books—of which he had written many and read more. An epitaph in brass extolled his feats: the victory over the three Turks; and the claim, that he had "dispersed the heathen like smoke" and made their land "a habitation for a Christian nation." Because he was buried there, St. Sepulchre's would become a shrine even as St. George's has.