Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission
A youngish white man in breech-clout and head band came over to them, and spoke to the boy in Muskogean. "He botherin' you, sirs?"
"Not at all, sir." Cashman smiled, now puffing on his pipe. "I was askin' him what he was before he was Muskogee."
"He's always been," the man replied, squatting down in their circle cross-legged, fetching out a pipe of his own, this one part of a tomahawk he had in his waist thong. Cashman shared his pouch of tobacco with him. "Ah, 'tis grand, this is, sir, the genuine Virginia article. Beats kinnick-kinnick, it does, thankee kindly. Now what would be bringin' a English officer into these parts?"
"An embassy to your mikkos," Cashman allowed grudgingly, and Cowell woke up enough to huff a warning to keep their business close to their chests.
"Not seen English about since Fort St. George went under down to Pensacola in '81," the man said, having trouble with his English from long dis-use.
"And how did you know he's an officer, fellow?" Alan asked.
"Same way I knows you are, sir." The man beamed with good humor. "I was a soldier meself, back five-six year ago, at Mobile. I run off. Not much you gonna do about that, is there, sir?"
"Enjoy your honorable retirement, sir," Cashman said laughing lazily. "Good life among the Muskogee, is it?"
"Better'n fair, sir. I was once called Tom. Now I'm part of the Muskrat Clan, me name's Red Coat. Got me a Muskogee wife, and the boy, o'course."
"So what's the life like, Red Coat?" Cashman drawled.
"Oh, Injun men work, sir, don't let nobody tell ya differn't," Tom/Red Coat allowed with a shrug. "Got to hunt, fish, build things now an' agin. Keep a roof over yer heads, food in yer belly. Help with the harvests, though the wimmen tends the fields. Fight when t'other tribes stirs up a fuss. Say, you wouldn't be havin' no rum ner whiskey, would ya, sir?"
"Clean out of it, I'm afraid, Tom." Cashman frowned.
"You bringin' guns an' powder, looks like," Tom observed keenly. "Want the Muskogee to do some fightin' fer ya's? With Galvez over to New Orleans with nigh on four thousand men? Garrisons at Mobile and Pensacola, and patrols all over these parts? 'Tis a wonder ya got this far, and that's a fack. They brung five thousand outa Havana when they took Pensacola, and that's not two days' march from here."
"We're devilish fellows, Tom," Cashman grunted. "What's odds we get put up in this long house here?"
"Wouldn't hold me breath on that. Too many mikkos in from the tall timber, Seminolee, too. Who brung ya this far? Had to be a Injun guided ya?"
"White Turtle," Cashman said finally, after playing with his pipe to exchange glances with Cowell.
"White Turtle, hey? He's pretty well connected. Must be somethin' powerful important, then," Tom speculated. "Might get put up with the Wind Clan, and Green-Eyed Cat. Hey, sure ya don't have no whiskey? I could come 'round later on the sly, like, so's the bucks don't get a nose of it. I palaver Muskogean powerful good, sir. Ya might find me a useful man, so's ya don't make anybody mad if yer gonna stay a spell. Be yer interpreter an' such."
"That might be worth talking about." Cashman nodded slowly. "I can't promise anything, mind."
"Wink's as good as the nod, sir, I get yer meanin'. I go." He knocked the dottle out of his pipe, crushed it between his fingers hot, and stuffed it into a small beaded pouch, and stood up. "Oh, by the way, sir. Tell yer friend in the pretty suit not ta sit on his knees like a woman. They been laughin' at him, they has. Sit cross-legged like a man'r he'll not be welcome at the council."
"Thank you, Tom. G'day to you, then."
"Insufferable person," Cowell sniffed, shifting his seating position with a groan. "An admitted deserter, you heard him say it, with a smile on his face."
"Still, he might be useful, Mister Cowell." Cashman shrugged.
"We have Desmond, what need do we have for him?"
"Desmond can't be with us all the time, sir," Cashman said. "And we'll not always be together as a party, not if we're to bathe and do all the things he suggested to ingratiate ourselves. From what I've seen so far, there may be more of his type about this town, willing to give us a bit of advice or translation, for a sip of rum or two. Remember what Lewrie said, about our men and the native women. It's bound to happen, and Desmond doesn't seem willin' to help in that regard."
"Neither do I, sir," Cowell sniffed. "It is not our place to be topping their women. You and Lewrie should issue strict orders that we are to concentrate on the task at hand and eschew their favors."
"One thing I've learned in the Army, Mister Cowell, is never be stupid enough to issue an order I've no hope of enforcin'. What should we do, raise the cross-bars and have one of Lewrie's men fashion a cat o' nine tails? That'll make the Indians eager to join hands in our endeavor, won't it, if we have to flog our men to keep 'em chaste?"
"When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I believe you said not too long ago, sir," Alan stuck in. "And who better to steer us in the proper course than a Roman? Sure, there are a dozen former Europeans from where I sit right now, you can spot 'em for yourself if you've a mind. I wouldn't mind knowing as much as we can learn from them. Our men will want to leave the group now and then. Or we piss in squads by the numbers out in the weeds. Best we had some willing guides, I say."
"Hmm, you may have a point at that," Cowell finally agreed.
They were finally ensconced late that afternoon in one of the enclosed lots not too far from the central plaza, given what McGilliveray told them was an unused winter house belonging to his mother's family. The house was snug, a rectangular building of wattle and daub, with a roof that stuck out over the walls quite far. The door was low, about four feet high, and the way in wound in an L to keep out cold winds. It was dark and gloomy inside, but for a small smoke-hole in the center of the roof, and had it been cold enough to have need of a fire, Alan was sure that it would have been a reeking, smoky hell. There were beds around the margin of the floor space, raised up off the ground about three feet to discourage insects and snakes.
"Snug enough," Cashman said after looking the place over. "We may keep our goods safe in here, with just the one entrance I can see."
"And we're trapped in here if they turn ugly," Alan commented.
"There is that, but we could dig loop-holes through the walls if we had need, and the walls are thick enough to give some protection. I'll post a guard outside, and one just inside the doorway, just in case. No fire in here, not with all this powder. Would you be good enough to hang some of that sailcloth to separate our quarters from the rest, Alan? And before it's dark, we might as well see to settin' out a place to eat outside. Some firewood, too."
That need was being taken care of, though, for several Indian women were bustling about in the yard, laying out woven cane or willowbark mats to sit upon, laying a circular fire, and fetch-ing iron pots to do the cooking in. Some of them were rather attractive, and it was all their party could do to keep their hands to themselves.
The whole clan seemed intent on an outdoor meal, for several fires were already burning in the family compound, and the village was full of drifting wood smoke as it got darker, and other hutis, as Desmond termed them, prepared their evening meal. The streets beyond the insubstantial vine and cane fence palings were almost empty, with only a few tribesmen wandering about, on their way to supper with another group for the most part. Dogs and cats lay with their eyes aglow, sniffing and licking their chops as meat sizzled over open coals, and soups and stews bubbled and simmered.
It was a novelty for the troops and sailors to sit cross-legged on their mats before the fire while women did the cooking and fetching for them, instead of the men doing their own kitchen-work.
"Ah, McGilliveray," Alan asked, as he spotted a girl of more than usual comeliness who was smiling at him from across the cheery flames. "You were going to explain to us the difference between an unmarried Muskogee woman, and a married one. And what the customs were."
"These are safe enough, Lewrie," their host announced. "They are my daughters."
"Oh, damn."
"Any younger girl on my mother's side is my daughter to me, no matter the relation, and I address them that way. There are no married women here, except for the older ones directing things. I adjure you, make sure there is no question of force. Let things take their natural way, or the offender shall regret it for what little life he has left. If a man is favored, there is usually no problem among the Muskogee. In other tribes, they take a stricter view towards chastity."
They headed across the town for the edge of the lake before it got too dark to see, and Alan stripped out of his clothing to wade in chest-deep and wash the grit and sweat of the day from his body. There was no soap to be had, but it felt good.
"I say, McGilliveray, what are those things out there with the red eyes?" Alan asked, pointing east down the lake opposite the sunset.
"Alligators," McGilliveray replied, damnably calm about it all, still dunking and wringing out his long hair. "Now you see what I mean about not going into the water at night."
"Damned if I'm staying out here, then," Alan replied, shivering despite the warmth of the water and the soft, humid tropic eve. He thrashed to the shore and swiped himself free of water with his hands. "You staying out there, are you? Well, you're daft if you are."
He turned around to reach down for his buff breeches, and came face to face with an Indian girl, who had come down to the lake to fetch water for cooking in a ceramic pot. She smiled at him. He smiled at her. With his breeches clutched over his groin, it was a tough call as to which of the two wore less clothing. She was clad in a woolly looking short skirt from waist to just above knees, and her smile, of course. Her breasts were high and firm, her hair glossy raven-black and tumbled about her face in two loose braids wrapped in deer fur.
Exotic, he thought inanely, definitely exotic, taking in the coltish slimness of her limbs, the delicate taper of her torso to a narrow waist, and the heartbreakingly lovely swell of her hips and buttocks. Her eyes almost swam open wider and wider as they stared at each other, and her teeth gleamed pearl-white in the gloom.
"By God, I hope you're not his bloody sister!" Alan breathed. She was as lovely a girl as he had ever seen, her russet complexion so fine that even Anne Beauman was put to shame. "Hey, White Turtle, what do you say to a girl when you want to say hello?"
McGilliveray came out of the water and spoke to the girl, who turned her head to look at him. She muttered something back, dropping her eyes and looking at the ground.
"I can barely understand her. Cherokee. A slave," McGilliveray said with a deprecatory sneer. "She's nothing."
"She's damned handsome for nothing. A slave?"
"War captive, maybe, or we traded for her from the Upper Muskogee or Alabamas. I saw her around the houses. You can do better, Lewrie."
"Mustn't let the old school down all of a sudden, McGilliveray?" Alan scoffed. "Hello, my dear, and what's your name? Do you speak English? What a daft question, of course you don't. Alan," he said, thumping his bare chest. "Alan. You? Help me out, will you, McGilliveray?"
He rattled off something guttural and the girl looked down at her bare toes again, and barely whispered a longer reply.
