Four days later, Chegaoo spotted land to the southwest. Having run out of water the previous day, the men were parched, but they summoned the strength to row for the shore. O’Brien determined, based on the sextant readings and his map that they’d reached the Bahamas. They made camp but were unable to locate a source of freshwater before dark. The crew spent an uncomfortable night trying to sleep despite their desperate thirst.
In the early morning, though, a breeze picked up and it began to rain. The crew put out every container they could find, managing to collect enough rainwater to keep them alive for another day. That afternoon, they located a freshwater spring, and refilled their water barrels. After another night spend resting on the island, they set sail again, riding the wind west toward the Keys. The breeze remained steady for two days, allowing them to sail into the gulf and then north along the Florida coast, where they camped for a night on the beach near the future location of the city of Fort Myers. After waiting two more days for the wind to pick up again, they set out rowing north. It took another five days for them to reach their destination, Pensacola Bay. They rowed up river about a mile and then made camp on the eastern bank of the river, in a large clearing amid a forest of pines. The mid-morning air was warm and humid under a gray sky. They had made it. It was the first of November.
The top priority, after making camp and finding freshwater, was making contact with the local Indians. The Norsemen would meet the natives sooner or later, and it was better to get on good terms at the beginning. Hopefully they could trade for a parcel of land near the river where they could begin drilling. Historically, several tribes were known to have lived nearby, including the Mobila, Pensacola, and Chatot people. The Biloxi, Tohome, Naniaba and Apalachee were nearby as well. Of course, the earliest documented contacts with these tribes wouldn’t happen for another six hundred years, so there was no telling where the tribes would be—or if they even existed—in 906 AD.
As it happened, the Indians found them: while they were unloading supplies, a party of five nearly naked men stepped out of the trees to the south. All five carried bows, and three of the men had fishing nets slung over their shoulders. O’Brien guessed they had been fishing in the bay and seen Sjávarbotn arrive. It was Dorian, who was resting on fallen log near the trees, who saw the men first. He made a shout, alerting the others. The Norsemen hadn’t even unloaded the guns yet; if there were more Indians hiding in the forest, the exhausted Norsemen would be at a disadvantage. As Fritjof and the other men nearby went for their weapons, O’Brien held up his hand. Chegaoo set down the crate he was carrying and stepped toward the men. He spoke a few words, and the five Indians halted before him.
It was unlikely Chegaoo spoke the men’s language; whatever tribe they represented, they probably spoke a language in the Muskogean family, which was only distantly related to the language of the Mi’kmaq. Still, he had a better chance of communicating than O’Brien or the Norsemen. O’Brien had little choice but to trust that Chegaoo had their best interests at heart.
O’Brien and the crew stood by as Chegaoo engaged in a halting exchange, replete with hand signals. O’Brien couldn’t follow much of it, and he didn’t really try. He was too tired to do more than watch for Chegaoo making signs to the effect of “cut the throats of the white men while they sleep.” After several minutes of this, the men turned and retreated into the woods. Chegaoo approached O’Brien.
“Their language is similar to that of the Choctaw,” he said in Frankish. O’Brien had learned on their voyage that Chegaoo spoke Frankish with more proficiency than he had let on. He did not, as far as O’Brien knew, speak Norse, but O’Brien wouldn’t bet on it. “I told them I am from the Mi’kmaq people to the north and that you come from a land across the sea, called Eidejel. I said that we are looking for land on which to hunt, and that we are willing to trade for it.”
“Hunt?” O’Brien asked.
“I do not know the Choctaw language for ‘drill’,” Chegaoo deadpanned.
“Fair enough,” O’Brien said. “Is there a local chief we need to talk to?”
“The chief will find us,” Chegaoo said.
“Great,” O’Brien replied, without enthusiasm. “Bjorn, Asger, get those guns unpacked. I want five men on guard at the perimeter of the camp. The rest of you, have your weapons within easy reach. You are not to fire unless attacked, but if fighting starts, we’re going to finish it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Osric found Höfn to be surprisingly accommodating. He was assigned a bench in a longhouse that was home to seven other new recruits, all young men and boys. It was the only male dormitory; there were four longhouses of the same size nearby for female recruits.
On the surface, Höfn was a typical Norse village inhabited by the families of shepherds and fishermen and overseen by a kindly jarl named Ake. But it soon became clear that the “families” were mostly groups of unrelated individuals who had been grouped together according to various tasks. There were fishing families, shepherding families, weaving families and house-building families, as well as individuals who moved from one task to another and often engaged in activities that were inscrutable to Osric. The sex-segregated longhouses were for new recruits like Osric, who had not yet been assigned to a “family.”
Though he had only just turned twenty-nine years old, Osric was by far the oldest of the recruits. The others ranged from age ten to their late teens. Most hailed from Britain or Frankia, but some came from as far away as Granada, Byzantium and Egypt. All except for a few of the youngest spoke at least some Frankish. It was unclear to him whether the recruits had been abducted from their homes or sold into servitude by their families; he gathered from their sheepish replies that they had been instructed not to speak of such things: they had a new home and new families now.
The day after he arrived, he received a visit from the jarl, Ake. Ake asked him where he was from, how he’d come to be at Höfn, and what sort of work he was interested in doing. This was a much friendlier interview than the one Eirik had subjected him to, but Osric suspected his answers would not stay with Ake. Ake would report some someone higher up in the hierarchy of the mysterious organization that controlled the coal and the network of ships and people who had transported Osric to Höfn. Anything Osric said to Ake would be assessed and compared to what he had told Eirik and Ivar. As before, Osric told the truth, with the exception of his visit to Rome. He had been forbidden by the Pope himself to speak of that, and in any case, it no longer mattered: Rome would never find him here.
“I’m sure you have deduced that there is more to Höfn than is first apparent,” Ake said, as they sat across from each other in the longhouse.
“My perceptions are colored by my own experiences,” Osric answered cautiously.
“The steam shovel, yes,” Ake said. “I heard about that.”
“Steam shovel?”
“The machine you saw at the mine. It is powered by steam pressure, produced by burning coal.”
“I see.”
“Do you have any questions about it?”
“I have questions about a great many things.”
“Perhaps I can help you get answers.”
“What is beyond the pass?”
Ake smiled. “There is nothing beyond the pass but a small settlement of shepherds.”
“Then you intend not to answer my questions?”
“I have no answers for you. But as I said, perhaps I can help you get them. As a priest, you know the value of discipline, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Then understand this: we have need of learned men. Men who ask questions. But to be of use to us, you must prove yourself. The first thing you must do is to accept that Höfn is an ordinary village, and that there is nothing beyond the pass but shepherds. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You are not under any circumstances to investigate beyond the pass, nor to let the village out of your sight.”
“I understand.”<
br />
“Good. Do you have any other questions?”
“Would it do me any good to ask them?”
“Probably not.”
“Then I have no more questions.”
*****
After their meeting, Ake led Osric to a nearby building, which, unlike most of the structures at Höfn, was of timber frame construction. Ake opened the door, revealing that it was comprised of a single room. Seventeen young people—twelve female and five male—sat talking among themselves on wooden benches. Mounted at the front of the room, opposite the door, was a large chalkboard. Ake handed Osric a chunk of chalk from his pocket. “Our last teacher has moved on,” he said. His tone indicated this was one of the subjects Osric was not to ask questions about.
“What… what am I supposed to do?” Osric asked, taking the chalk.
“Teach them.”
“Teach them what?”
“To read and write, to begin with.”
“In Frankish?”
“That would be a good place to start,” Ake said. “Good luck.”
Chapter Nineteen
A party of some twenty men emerged from the woods about two hours later, as the Norsemen were preparing their supper. Asger, one of the sentries, raised the alarm, and the other riflemen readied their weapons. It was clear, though, that the Indians intended no threat. At their head was a wiry man with a tuft of short hair on his head and two braids, one hanging down behind either ear. Earrings and a necklace, evidently made of seashells, marked him as a man of some importance. Chegaoo stepped forward and exchanged words with the man, then gestured toward O’Brien. He spoke O’Brien’s name and a few more words. The leader of the Indian contingent spoke a sentence to O’Brien. Chegaoo turned to confer with O’Brien.
“This is Lamochattee, a great warrior of the Capinobi people. Their chief has sent him here to ask you to come to visit him. If I understand him, we can reach their village before nightfall.”
“Just me, or all of us?” O’Brien asked.
“All are welcome,” Chegaoo said. “It would be… rude to decline.”
O’Brien nodded. He didn’t like the idea of splitting the party, but he liked the thought of leaving Sjávarbotn and their supplies unguarded even more. The priority was protecting the drilling equipment: if something happened to O’Brien, Dorian could—theoretically—see the well through to completion. He turned to face the men. “Chegaoo and I will go to see the chief. Asger and Bjorn, you will come with us. Leave your rifles here.”
“Is that wise?”
“The four of us aren’t going to stand a chance against a tribe of Indians, rifles or no,” O’Brien said. “If these men intend to kill us, they’ll do so—and then they’ll have two of our rifles. If we don’t return by tomorrow evening, you’ll know there was trouble. Pack up and head upriver at least twenty miles. Maybe we’ll have better luck with the natives there.”
After picking up a bag of trinkets intended as gifts for the Indians, O’Brien motioned for Lamochattee to lead the way. Lamochattee nodded and turned, walking back into the forest. Half of his men followed, walking single file, while the others waited for the Norsemen. O’Brien took a deep breath and stepped into the woods. Chegaoo walked behind him, followed by Asger and Bjorn. The rest of the Indians brought up the rear.
The land here was characterized by gently rolling, sandy hills covered in most places by a carpet of brown pine needles. There was no trail, but the ground was devoid of vegetation other than the occasional shrub, and the trees were spaced far enough apart that it was easy enough to pick one’s way through them. They walked in silence this way for nearly an hour, eventually reaching a trail that cut perpendicularly across their path. Lamochattee turned left, and O’Brien judged from the shadows cast by the pines that they were heading north.
After another hour, they emerged from the woods at the crest of a hill that overlooked a creek. Clustered around the creek were some three dozen huts. Several women worked nearby, weaving, washing clothes in the creek, and grinding grain into flour with stones. Young children, wearing no clothes, ran around, shouting and splashing in the creek.
Lamochattee shouted a greeting from the ridge, and several of the women turned to wave and shout back. As Lamochattee led the Norsemen down the grassy slope, all activity in the village came to a standstill. Everyone turned to watch the arrival of these pale men with yellow hair and strange clothing.
As O’Brien and the others entered the village, a few of the braver women approached them, speaking a few tentative words. One young woman even reached out to feel Asger’s impressive beard. Some of the children, emboldened by this behavior, began to walk alongside them. Lamochattee barked a word, and the women and children scattered.
The men dispersed as they reached the center of the village, forming a rough circle around one of the huts. When Lamochattee reached the hut, he turned, spoke a few words to Chegaoo, glanced at O’Brien, and then ducked inside. O’Brien heard a low murmuring inside the hut, and then the flap of animal hide that served as a door folded open. Lamochattee pointed to O’Brien and Chegaoo, beckoning them inside.
“Wait here,” O’Brien said to Asger and Bjorn, who nodded. His heart pounding, O’Brien bent down and ducked into the hut. Chegaoo followed. They could only hope that the Indians wouldn’t go to this much trouble if they intended to murder them. A strong, musky odor hit O’Brien’s nostrils as he entered.
Inside the hut, an elderly man, naked except for a loin cloth and copious jewelry of sea shells, jade and coral, sat cross-legged on a pillow. The man’s gray hair was pulled into a braid behind his head. His tanned skin shone as if it had been oiled. Lamochattee, taking a seat on a mat next to the old man, gestured for O’Brien and Chegaoo to sit as well.
Lamochattee spoke a sentence, and Chegaoo translated: “This is Chiggilli, chief of the People of the Laughing Creek.”
The old man did not seem inclined to speak, so O’Brien said, “My name is O’Brien. I am a visitor from the land of Eidejel. I have brought you gifts.” He set the bag on the ground in front of him. Chegaoo did his best to translate this.
After a long silence, Chiggilli spoke a curt sentence. He seemed displeased.
“What is he saying?” O’Brien asked, when Chegaoo didn’t translate.
“I don’t know,” Chegaoo said. “I could not understand it.” He spoke a question, which prompted some discussion among Chiggilli and Lamochattee. Lamochattee turned to Chegaoo and spoke again, touching his face as he did so, and then pointing to O’Brien.
“He says you look sick,” Chegaoo said. “You and the other pale men. He thinks you are dying.”
“Tell him we’ve been on a long voyage across the sea. Here.” He opened the bag, producing a handful of semi-precious stones, mostly jasper, peridot and quartz. The chief’s eyes widened. Lamochattee took the bag, emptying the rest of its contents before Chegaoo. In addition to forty of the stones, there were three silver spoons, a soapstone carving of a Frankish king, and a dozen other trinkets.
Chiggilli looked at O’Brien and spoke a somber sentence.
“He thanks you for your generous gift. He says we will eat well tonight as his guests.”
“You’re welcome,” O’Brien said, and Chegaoo translated. The chief spoke again.
“The chief asks how long you are staying,” Chegaoo said. “I think he believes you intend to head farther upriver.”
“Tell him we intend to buy a parcel of land from him. We can pay with tools and other items that will be useful to his people.”
Chegaoo conversed with the two men for some time. At last he turned to O’Brien. “I am having a hard time explaining our intention. They don’t think there is enough game near the mouth of the river to sustain our people. I think he’s concerned we will go hungry and beg him for food.”
O’Brien hesitated, unsure how to explain their intentions. It was doubtful the Indians in this region understood the concept of mining, much less drilling for petroleum. How was
he going to explain that there was a substance underground that his people needed?
“What’s that smell?” he asked, looking around the hut.
“Sweat and musk,” Chegaoo said.
“No, besides that. It’s an acrid smell, like pitch.”
Chegaoo nodded. “I smell it, but I do not recognize it.”
O’Brien leaned forward, inhaling deeply. The chief glowered at him. Lamochattee looked concerned.
“I think it’s the chief,” O’Brien said. “I’m going to touch him.” As he reached out his hand, Chegaoo did his best to explain what O’Brien was doing. Lamochattee voiced an objection but did not intervene. The chief continued to stare, puzzled by O’Brien’s behavior. O’Brien put his fingertips to Chiggilli’s chest, just below his collarbone, and then pulled back his fingers to sniff them.
“I’ll be damned,” O’Brien said. “Where did you get that?”
Chegaoo translated.
The chief, now seeming amused, pointed to a wooden stand in the corner of the hut, on which rested a small vial made from an animal horn. O’Brien got to his feet and retrieved the vial. He pulled the cork stopper and smelled the opening. “Oil,” he said.
“Ahama,” said the chief.
O’Brien nodded excitedly. He sat down again across from the chief, still holding the vial. “We need ahama,” he said, replacing the stopper. “Lots and lots of ahama.”
Chegaoo translated. The chief asked a question. “He wants to know what you intend to do with the oil.”
“My people burn it for fuel,” O’Brien said. “We will sell it in our country and bring back more valuables, like these.” He motioned toward the pile of trinkets. “Plus cookware, hatchets, knives and clothing.” Chegaoo translated. The chief seemed dubious.
O’Brien pulled back his mat to reveal the earth floor. He held up the vial of oil and then plunged the tapered end into the ground, twisting it back and forth until only the top was visible. He pulled the stopper and gestured to indicate oil flowing like a geyser from the vial. “We shove a pipe into the ground, and the oil comes flowing out. Lots of oil. More than you’ve ever seen.” He assumed that the Indians collected oil from somewhere it bubbled out on the surface, probably in a natural spring. He doubted they had any idea how many millions of gallons were hidden beneath them. Chegaoo again did his best to translate, and Lamochattee responded with another question.
The Voyage of the Iron Dragon Page 15
