“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.
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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 fetching
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.
“Rabbit, she is called,” McGilliveray said, turning to dress, such as it was. “Among her own people, she was named Bright
Mirror, if I can understand her words. Cherokee cannot speak properly, not a real language like Muskogean. If you want her, there should be no problem. She is a slave, after all, only loosely of the Wind Clan.”
“Tell her I think she's lovely.”
“I think she knows that already. She has to get back to help with the cooking or she'll make the other women angry.”
“Me Alan,” he said, stepping closer to her and thumping his chest again. Then he reached out and pointed at her. “You Rabbit?”
She said her name in Muskogean, gave him another bewitching smile, and fetched a heavy sigh, then spun around and trotted back to the town with her pot of water.
“How old do you think she is, McGilliveray?” Alan wondered as he began dressing at last. “Eighteen or so?”
“More like fifteen or sixteen, I should think. Might be careful with her. Cherokee women, even married ones, can bed with anyone they please, and their husbands have to stand it. Such a thing is not done among Muskogee, any more than it is done among your people.”
“Why is it that you sound remarkably like a vicar railing against Puck's Fair?” Alan complained as he re-tied his waist sash over his shirt.
“Morals are important among my people. Unlike yours.”
They made their way back to the fire circle and took their seats on the mats laid out for them, Alan remembering to sit properly cross-legged, though it was uncomfortable to him. Within moments, food was delivered to them. There was venison enough to stuff an army, hot from the spits,
sofkee
and
succotash
, flat rounds of corn-bread piping hot from the stone baking ovens.
“Nice change from salt meats,” he noted, wishing he had a bottle of burgundy to wash things down with.
“Cattle and pigs have no souls,” McGilliveray said. “They were not made by the Great Spirits, but brought from over the ocean, and are not good to eat.”
“Will you cease your infernal carping?” Alan griped, fed up.
“I am only trying to point out those things that you should know to better deal with my people during our negotiations, sir,” McGilliveray sniffed primly. “Most whites have an abysmal ignorance of Indian society, which creates exactly the sort of misunderstandings we are attempting to correct. If I seem to be partial to my mother's people over what you think is your so-called
superior white civilization, then I own to that partiality gladly. I think Indian life is more caring of the individual, of the earth and the gifts we may take from it. We live in harmony with Nature; you plow it flat, create your parks and gardens and
call
it Nature.”
“A little less of it, please, sir,” Cashman sighed. “Our minds are quite overwhelmed already, don't ye know. Give us a rest, eh?”
McGilliveray got the hint and directed his conversation solely to Mr. Cowell after that, or to the various Indians who had condescended to eat at their fire for Cowell's edification.
Alan tucked into his supper with a strong appetite, not without casting his gaze about to see if he could spot the Cherokee girl named Rabbit, and he finally saw her off in the dark tending a cooking pot at another fire where the women had done their work and were now taking their own victuals. She sat a little apart from the accepted Creek maidens, and was not included in their conversations except to be directed to fetch something now and again. But when left to her own amusements, he was gratified and thrilled to see how she looked up and met his gaze with a fawn-like, trusting smile of welcome. And when his plate looked to be empty, she rose quickly and brought a platter of smoking venison to refill it, kneeling down before him gracefully and playing flirtatious looks at him from beneath her down-turned face. By firelight, she gleamed copper, and when she leaned close, she smelled fresh and clean and ⦠foresty was the only term he could think of.
“Looks like you've made a conquest, Alan,” Cashman said, giving him a nudge.
“I certainly bloody hope so,” Alan agreed, not taking his eyes off her. “Rabbit,” he whispered, and gave her his best smile.
“Ah ⦠Arhlan,” she attempted in a voice so soft he was not sure his ears weren't playing tricks on him. Then she was gone back to her fire, stifling a girlish giggle and looking over her shoulder at him.
After supper, there were pipes to be smoked while the women gathered up the cookware. Alan noted that they had been served off tin or pewter, with only rarely a well-crafted native pot or dish being seen. Although some Indians ate with their hands, there were a lot of spoons and knives in evidence to dip into pots or spear a slice of meat with. More wood was laid on the fire in a circular pattern, spiralling outward from the center, and some powdered tobacco was cast into the flames, which were already
redolent with cedar and pine resins. The night was now fully dark, and the sky was ablaze with stars above the swirling motes of sparks from the fires. The air was still humid, but cool and pleasant on the skin.
“Best we turn in early,” Cowell finally said, his eyelids heavy after such a repast. “We shall have to bathe in the morning, and then attend the square-ground council while all the
mikkos
are still here. 'Twill be a busy day for us, gentlemen.”
“Andrews,” Alan called to his senior hand. “Bed your people down.”
“Aye, sah. Come on, lads.”
“You be needin' anythin', sir?” Cony asked.
“No, you turn in, Cony.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Alan sat by the fire a while longer, puffing slowly on a pipe to develop the knack of doing so, killing time as the others drifted away. He looked over to the other fire, and saw that the Cherokee girl was the last one left, given the task of tidying up for her betters.
“Where's the necessary closet in these climes, McGilliveray?”
“Back in the woods, if you must. Be sure to dig a small hole and bury it when you're done. And don't use just any leaves. Some of the plants cause painful rashes. Ask the girl for some dry corn husks.”
He rose to his feet and wandered over to the other fire, bent down and picked up some husks while she sat on her knees and looked up at him. He walked away into the darkness at the back of the compound where it butted up against some trees and bushes.