The council could have lasted hours; Alan didn't much care what they talked about or how long it took. His guts were roiling and the vile taste of the White Drink hovered just below his throat like some not so veiled threat. Just opening his mouth to take a puff on the pipe as it circulated was dangerous enough, and the rough tobacco set his bile flowing with each puff. He finally could hold it no longer. Sweat had been pouring off him in buckets and his clothing was soaked with it. His heart thudded and his pulse raced worse than the most horrible hangover he had ever experienced.
"Gangway," he finally said, leaning forward in hopes the contents of his stomach didn't land in his lap, and heaved. There was a smatter of applause, and some cheerful comments made at his production.
"Damme!" he gasped.
"Oh, well shot, sir." McGilliveray smirked. "I'd give you points for distance."
"Wish ya hadn't done that," Cashman grumbled through pursed lips, and then it was his turn to "cat" like a drunken trooper. They were rewarded with another of those infernal conch shells topped off with the latest batch of White Drink. Cowell turned a delicate pale green color, and sweated like a field hand, soaking his elegant suit, manfully trying to express his government's arguments between spasms.
This can't go on forever, Alan thought miserably, eyeing the circular fire and willing it to burn faster so his agony would end. Oh, burn, damn you, burn. Bet we'd get what we wanted double quick, if we could pass the port, 'stead of this muck!
Mercifully, about three hours later, the fire did burn down to the last stick of cane, and the meeting broke up, with the Indians whooping in glee and heading for the gaming ground for another match of their favorite pastime.
"Went well," Cowell stated once they were back in front of their lodge, sponged off and dressed in clean clothing.
"Did it, by God?" Alan sighed.
"Did you pay any attention at all, sir?" Cowell asked.
"Nothin' after my first broadside, I'm afraid," he admitted.
"Well, the gifts went over extremely well," Cowell said, rubbing his hands with a satisfied grunt of pleasure at his dealings. "And their Great Warrior and his war chiefs, the tustunuigi, and the big warriors and all liked the idea of having lots of muskets and shot."
"So we could get out of this dreadful place soon?"
"It's not that simple, I fear," Cowell went on. "Desmond was correct in telling us that none of them have any love for European settlers living cheek-to-jowl with them, Spanish or English. The way we've treated them in the past, you see. If pressed, they'd prefer the Dons, who leave them pretty much alone. Horrid thought, isn't it? If one wishes to make something of these climes with proper settlements and industry, even peaceable, that threatens them, while those horrible Spaniards, who so slothfully siesta and stick to their few towns are preferable to us, cruel as they have been in the past in New Granada and New Spain. No, what we offered this morning is so novel to their experience that it shall take days, perhaps weeks of conferring."
"God help us, then," Alan sighed.
"There is also the problem of all that we offer being anathema to some of them," Cowell went on relentlessly. "If they take arms with us, let our missionaries and teachers come among them, and agree to new treaty borders and all, they fear they stop being Creeks and become pale imitations of white men."
"Well, what's wrong with that?" Alan griped, fanning himself with a broad split-cane fan. The day was not that hot, but the diuretic effect of the White Drink still made his perspiration flow. "I mean, given a choice of running naked through the woods like an ignorant savage, or settling down and making something of myself, I know which one I'd choose."
"They see nothing good in our system, you see," Cowell said with a sad shake of his head. "Oh, they're more amenable than most Indians, who don't farm. Left to their own devices, with trade goods in constant supply, they'll have to become more like us eventually. But remember those corn fields we saw. Hill-rows of corn, with squash and gourds and beans vining around them. Plows would do them no good, and our way of growing corn would only exhaust the soil, even of rich bottomland. They have few needs for fancy clothing, solid houses and such. They've taken to the mule and the musket, the iron cooking pot and the pewter plate, but they don't need us or our goods all that badly. Perhaps they may even go for wagons one day, but I doubt it. Poor, sad people," Cowell intoned mournfully. "Doomed, I think. Rum and whiskey'll be their downfall, that and disease, and they know it."
"This town might as well be European, the way it's laid out," Alan countered. "So they don't have private property, but instead hold the land in common. That doesn't mean they can't do some minor adjusting to our ways."
"To adjust is to die, Mister Lewrie. Their only hope is to be so strong, so unified against all comers, that they can preserve their way of life, taking only what is useful from our society, and that'll never do. They're not unified, yet. Nor are they strong enough militarily, even with muskets and shot in plenty."
"Seems to me, then, that this mission of ours is a wasted effort," Alan said, after a long silence following Cowell's remarks. "If you think they're going to go under sooner or later."
"They shall, if they deal with the Rebels solely," Cowell said. "With us as a counter-poise, they have a chance to develop as a society. That's what we're offering, beyond the immediate military alliance to retain British Florida."
"Where would you draw the borders, then?"
"Truthfully, I don't know," Cowell admitted. "That could be settled later, once we get the region back, and fill it with new settlers more amenable to their way of thinking and dealing."
"But Mister Cowell, if they don't like settlers close by them, why should new colonists fare any better than the last batch?" Alan pointed out. "And why should the new settlers be any fairer with them than before? They'll need land, and all the land's Indian. Either that or turn Indian like that fellow Tom, and give up on civilized ways."
"Men of good will and reason may find ways to accommodate with each other," Cowell concluded stubbornly, his face aglow with conviction of the lightness of his purpose. "Ah, dinner! I must own to having developed a devilish appetite."
"One usually does, when one's stomach's been emptied so thoroughly," Alan drawled sourly.
"This is all moonshine," Alan told Cashman later that day down by the shore of the lake.
"It probably all is," Cashman agreed easily. "But it's none of our worry. We do our job of getting Cowell and McGilliveray here in one piece, get the trade goods exchanged safely, and that's that."
"But what do you think of all that talk about a whole new policy of dealing with the Creeks, all this…"
"It'll come to nothin'." Cashman shrugged. "Indians'll get the smelly end of the stick, same as usual. I even doubt we'll get the territory back, but then, nobody asks a soldier about diplomacy."
"Not even get it back?"
"Best thing for all concerned is both us and the Dons get kicked out." Cashman laughed at Alan's shocked expression. "Who in his right mind'd want the silly place? Give Florida and the whole damned coast region from here to the Mississippi to the Indians. It's all bugs and flies and alligators, not white man's country, anyway. If they want to live in it, they're more'n welcome, I say. Spain can't do anything with it, least they haven't shown signs of it yet. We can't do anything with it, either, 'less we want to shove an army in here to hold it."
"So much for becoming the new Clive of India," Alan spat.
"They had me goin' there for a minute, same as you, I expect. But once I had a chance to ponder it, I realized it's a forlorn hope at best," Cashman admitted, stripping off his shirt to splash water on his face and neck to cool off. "No, there's more profitable places just as miserable in the world we could do more with. The Far East, India, China. Could we get Capetown away from the Dutch, we'd be better off. Though, I could get to like it around here if it weren't for the Rebels up north. Or so many bloody Injuns down here. If they were a little more civilized, just a tou
ch, it'd do fine for me."
"Go native?" Alan mocked.
"Not a bit of it," Cashman chuckled. "Look around here. See how rich this soil is. Ever see cotton grown?"
"No."
"The East Indies and Egypt's full of it, and it's the coming thing, now we've the water-power looms and such back in England," Cashman enthused, kneeling to scoop up a handful of dirt. "River-bottom land is the best place to grow it, with long hot summers, just like here. I'd stake me out about a shire's worth of land, plant cotton, and cut the distance from India to the mills in half. Bring some Samboes from the East Indies over to tend to it. Corn, horses, pigs, cattle, fruit, sugar cane, you name it and I'd farm it. And while I'm about it, I'd get me a regiment of sepoys from the Far East to guard it. No more English troops who die so fast in such a climate. Sikhs or Mahrattas, Bengalis or lads from the Coromandel coast. They're used to hot, wet weather and sweat. And one thing in their favor, they're civilized, in their own fashion, not like these swamp-runners. Then you'd see this land take off and flourish! That's the way to become the new Robert Clive!"
"What about the Indians, then?" Alan smiled.
"That's their own lookout, isn't it?" Cashman replied.
"There's plenty of streams and rivers," Alan said. "Why not put your looms here, then, if you're going to bring over East Indians? Do the whole manufacturing process in one place?"
"By God, that's not such a bad idea, Alan!" Cashman agreed. "Look here, even if the Dons keep the place, a man could do a lot worse than settin' up in these parts. Cotton and flax together, looms and mills, dye-works, ready-made beddings, shirts, everything right here, even our own ships to transport the goods. We'd make thousands, millions of pounds. How'd you like to be a landed gentleman, with a fleet of merchantmen? A big house grand as the bloody Walpoles, bigger'n St. James's if you've a mind? Sure, it's trade, but given a choice of bein' a poor gentleman'r a rich lower-class tradesman, I'd take rich any day. B'sides, once you're nabob rich, the gentlemen'll catch your farts for you like you was royalty."
"With a harem in the west wing?" Alan laughed.
"We'd be so wealthy we could rotate 'em in platoons every month," Cashman hooted. "Wouldn't take much to set up, should it. Cotton and flax seed, seed-corn from the Creeks, and we're in business. Maybe only a few Hindus at first, just to get things started. Sepoys'd work cheap as a private troop to guard the place. God knows 'John Company' pays 'em little enough as it is. What do ya say, Alan? Want in on it?"
"It's tempting." Alan grinned at Cashman's daydreams. "But we're both impoverished. No way we could settle here, not the way things are."
"It's just as big a dream as Cowell's, and more profitable in the long run. I'll do it somewhere in this world, you see if I don't. And when I'm ready, I'll get in touch with you and we'll do it, damme if we shan't! Right?"
"Right!"
Every day for the rest of the week, they suffered through the council meetings, drank the White Drink and threw up, smoked pipes of kinnick-kinnick until their tongues were raw, and listened to the high-pitched, formal orations of the Indian speakers as they wavered back and forth and all round the issue of whether to take up arms and help drive the Spanish out of Florida.
Some wanted no dealings with white men on any terms, and could not have cared less if all the colonists from Louisburg to St. Augustine got in their ships and sailed back where they came from. Some wanted to take the guns and stomp on the Cherokee and Chickasaws. There were questions about why the British didn't bring their troops and run out the Rebels up north, or take on the Spanish themselves.
It was maddening that any Indian of substance or reputation, no matter how lunatick his ideas, could get up and speak for hours, raising inane irrelevancies, which would have to be thrashed out completely before they got back to the main point. And, Cowell and his officers learned, chiefs and mikkos could not just decide and get on with business; they had to form a consensus of all parties involved, which took time to wear each other down until they were tired of arguing and gave in.
Alan's only consolation was to borrow a horse from McGilliveray's clan and go for a ride around the settlement during the afternoons, or ride Soft Rabbit in the corn-crib after supper. While he could not get his tongue to work around the guttural Muskogean words, he did have some success in teaching her some English, and showed her a few tricks he had picked up from whores he had known back in London. The days she spent doing the heavy chores for her owners were galling to him, and he had to own to a growing affection for her and her ways. She was sweet and modest in public demeanor, sweet and passionate in private, with an almost insatiable lust once the crib door was kicked shut for the night. Since he had so little part in the Creek council, he napped through most of the negotiations, or part of the afternoon before supper. It was the only chance for shut-eye that he got. How she ground corn, fetched and toted water and firewood, skinned and dressed hides and cooked during the day, and then rogered all night and awoke fresh and full of energy amazed him.
After a few more boresome days spent heaving for the amusement and edification of the Muskogee, Alan finally called a halt and went hunting with his men, who had been growing restless for some time. English lads from the country did well enough to fill the pot, and the ex-soldier Tom went along to teach them some woods-craft.
They returned with several deer, one of them Alan's that he had hit with his fusil at seventy yards. He was damned proud of his shot through thick brush, and was looking forward to eating the bugger.
"Alan!" Cashman called as they entered the yard of the huti with their kills. "We're out of here!"
"Everyone finally give up?" he asked. "I say, Kit, come take a look at this. One shot, just behind the shoulder and down he went like he was pole-axed." Alan stepped to the side of the horse that bore his kill to point out how well he had done.
"Damn the deer, man. They agreed," Cashman insisted.
"To what, actually?"
"If we give them the muskets and all the accoutrements, they go to war, on our side, soon's we land a regiment'r two."
"But we have to land the guns and munitions first, I take it."
"And show up with a fleet from Jamaica, and troops. But it's a start. And no matter how it turns out, we can get back to the coast and out of this place. Cowell's pleased as punch with himself."
"And I suppose McGilliveray is trumpeting the Apocalypse," Alan said, smirking. One blessing was that he had had much less to do with the man since he had started hunting by day and topping by night with Soft Rabbit. On a good day, he would only see him at the morning bath and breakfast, and didn't have to put up with his pontificating more than an hour.
"Well, he's mighty high in council now," Cashman told him. "Not that he wasn't already. I don't know if they're all that keen on all his ideas about a Creek alphabet and teachers and such, but they finally saw the light about their future security. We may leave tomorrow."
"Thank bloody Christ!" Alan exclaimed happily. "Another week of this, and my men would have gone native on me."
"It's been all I could do to keep my troops on their toes, too."
"Then let's eat this bloody deer of mine to celebrate."
"Gad, yes, he's a big'un, ain't he? Nice shot. For a sailor."
"We've bagged enough to feed the whole town, even the way they eat. He'll do for our mess, and we'll share out the rest. That ought to make the Muskogee turn back flips."
The supper was very cheery, and the smell of roast meat floated from every huti cook-fire. McGilliveray's Muskogee relations ate with the white party in the yard between the winter house and the summer, all smiles and laughter and singing, so different from the usual stoic silence that Alan had thought was normal for Indians. Everyone seemed hellishly pleased with their new-struck bargain of support.
It was towards the end of the supper that one of McGilliveray's uncles on his mother's side came forward to sit before him on the ground and offer a pipe. They smoked, blowing the smoke to the cardin
al points, and talked back and forth in Mus-kogean for some time apart from the others.
"Ah, Mister Lewrie, this concerns you, I fear," McGilliveray said after the palaver was ended.
"Eh?" Alan asked, stuffed near to bursting and sleepy. "What the hell have I done now? I haven't offended them, have I?"
"Nothing serious." McGilliveray grinned, and if McGilliveray found it amusing, Alan was sure he wasn't going to enjoy it; their dislike for each other by that time was hotly mutual. "But it seems Rabbit, the Cherokee slave girl, no longer has need to go to the woman's house."
"The woman's house," Alan said with a dubious look, missing the drift completely.
"Surely I don't have to lecture you on what it means when a girl's courses cease, sir." McGilliveray beamed happily.
"What, you mean she's pregnant?"
"That is exactly what I mean, sir."
"Well, so what, then?" Alan asked, unable to believe it. "You're sure this isn't a jape? She's really ankled? I mean, do I have to marry her or something?"
"It would help if you did." McGilliveray chuckled.
"Well, I'm blowed, damme if I ain't," Alan gasped. "I mean, what's the difference, she's just a slave, right?"
"She's my uncle's property, you see, so that makes her part of his clan, and of this huti, this lodge," McGilliveray said, obviously enjoying every minute of it. "He would be insulted if you ran off and left your get. Marriage doesn't mean much in these circumstances, but it does preserve honor. If you don't, he can't sell her off, and he might come looking for you."
McGilliveray's uncle, a side of beef with a round moon-face, and a famous chief warrior, gave Alan a look as menacing as any he ever did see.
"He'll be stuck with a bastardly gullion, a bastard's bastard."
"But the boy'll be some kind of Wind Clan Muskogee, so he'll do alright. Or her," McGilliveray insisted.
"But we're leaving tomorrow, so…"
"Simple really. You shot that deer today? Go get a chunk of it."
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