Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

"Soft. You say soft?"

"Soff?"

"Like these," he said, brushing her deer fur braids. "Soft."

"Soff," she repeated, nodding to show she understood at least the sense of what he was saying.

"Soft Rabbit, you. Soft Rabbit."

"Soff rabt," she parroted. "Arhlan. Go." She made a gesture and touched her chest.

"See you tonight, yes?"

She gave him a smoldering kiss and knelt to wrap on her skirt.

He got into his clothes and staggered outside into the thick mist of a river-bottom dawn, almost unable to find the winter house for a moment. People were already stirring, at least from the Indian side of the compound, while a soldier nodded on guard before the low fire of the night before.

"Morning, sentry," he said to alert the man before he jumped up from his nap and shot him.

"Mornin', sir!" The man leaped to his feet like a signal rocket.

"Anyone else up?"

"Nossir, not yit, sir!"

A minute later, while Alan stood there yawning and stretching the kinks of too-little sleep on too-hard a ground, McGilliveray came out of the winter house. "Good, you are up. We go to the lake and take bath. Wake your people, if you please."

"They're not going to be awfully keen on it, mind," Alan told him. "It's barely past first sparrow-fart, and the water'll be cold as charity."

"We agreed, Mister Lewrie," McGilliveray carped like a tutor who had caught him scribbling in the margins of his books again.

"Alright, alright," he said, leaning into the house and duck-walking through the low entrance. "Wakey, wakey, lash up and stow! Show a leg, show a leg, all hands on deck!" After being pestered to death by heartlessly cheerful bosun's mates chanting that dreadful tune aboard ship for years, it did his spirits good to finally get a chance to use it himself. Hmm, just as good I said show a leg, he thought. That part was to determine, when the ship was out of discipline, which occupant of a hammock or pallet on the deck was a hairy male liable for duty, and who was a hairless (mostly) female doxy or "wife" who could sleep in and not be tipped out or roused roughly. The hands had found their own arrangements with the Creek girls during the night, it seemed, privacy be damned; it had been dark enough inside the fireless winter house to allow everyone willing to enjoy a grope on the raised cots the chance to do so, and several cackling young women made their way outside, leaving their men to grumble their way awake.

"Outside and down to the lake, lads," Alan called with false cheer. "Into the water for a dip before breakfast. I know, I know, but the Indians do it, so we have to as well, long as we're here. Nobody ever died of a little less dirt. Let's go!"

"Ah, fook t'Indians," someone groused in a whisper.

"You already have. So let's get down there and see how pretty the rest of 'em are with their clothes off."

It amazed him that sailors could get soaking wet during a turn on deck, could kneel and scrub with "holystones" and "bibles" every morning and revel in the sluicing of a washdeck pump, but would turn their noses up to anything that smacked of getting wet on purpose. They stripped reluctantly, covered their privates with a sudden surge of heavy modesty, and waded into the water an inch at a time, yipping and shying as the coolness crept up their bodies.

Alan walked out, wincing with chill but determined not to make a sound, feeling the soft lake bottom ooze between his toes, stumbling now and then on a twig or reed on his unprepared soles.

Damn fine show, though, he thought, taking in the view.

Indians of every stripe and condition were splashing into the water, the children yelping and making great water-spouts as they dove in. Men congregated to one end of the bank, women much further down, and the negotiating party about midway between, far enough away from the females so they would not enrage a wet husband.

"Please, sir, kin we get out now, sir?" one of the men said shivering with cold, his arms wrapped around his chest.

"Scrub, dunk and get the worst smuts off," Alan said, staring at the dirt that was floating off the man. "Scare the lice and fleas if nothing else. Get your hair wet, it won't kill you."

"Aye, sir," the man sighed, looking down at his own scum as if he expected to be drowned in three feet of water. He held his nose and dropped out of sight, to come up puffing and blowing a second later as if shot out of the water. "Oh, Gawd!" he cried miserably.

"Hot breakfast waiting for us, lads. Get dry and we'll eat."

Alan came out of the water, shivering like a dog. He saw his girl trotting off towards the town to be the first to help with the cooking, and he waved at her. She stopped and waved, and he blew her a kiss, and she parroted his motion, laughed, then ran on to her never-ending labors, which raised a laugh out of his miserable crew, at any rate.

"Gawd, sir, yer a ram-cat, sir!"

"And it didn't even cost tuppence," Alan boasted. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I've heard. Especially if they enjoy it."

Chapter 6

The square-ground, where they assembled for their negotiations, was a series of open-sided sheds that faced inward towards each other, like huge three-walled chickees elevated the usual three feet off the ground, but with tiers of seats added which made them appear like the seats of a European theater. The inevitable fire was burning in the center of the square-ground's sandy expanse which had been trodden bare of weeds or growth; a fire laid out in a circle that would burn from the outer spiral into the center. Alan could only assume that once the fire in the center burned out, the talks were over for the day.

McGilliveray turned up in a pale, almost-white deerskin shirt trimmed in beading and embroidery. He led them to the eastern end of the council ground and sat them down on the front row of the tiered seats.

"On the north side there," he lectured, "that's where the warriors sit. It is called the Red Shed. The mikko and some of his Second Men sit on the west facing us, with the principal chiefs in the center shed."

"I thought the mikko were the chiefs," Alan commented.

"No, they are the chiefs' principal ministers, usually from one of the White Clans, dedicated to peace. They are to run things evenly, and keep order. If things go badly, they can be replaced without the hereditary chief being blamed."

"Politicians, leaders of the Commons," Alan speculated.

"If you like, it is an apt simile. Now to the south, that's the sheds for the Second Men, who brew the white drink, and that is the white shed side. And scattered on every side are the Beloved Men. The Beloved Men are very old, very wise."

"What's the difference, then, Desmond?" Cowell asked.

"Second Men are officers responsible to the mikko who see to the well-being of the tribe, and of the settlement. Beloved Men perhaps once were Second Men, but they could have been Great Warriors or retired mikkos. Maybe members of the chief's clan. There are only a few of them held in such regard for their wisdom and good works at peace or war at any one time. You see," McGilliveray said with that smug snoot-lifted expression of superiority that they had all come to know and love, "Indian society is much more organized and thought out than is commonly known, much like your own political systems."

It took a boresomely long time for things to get organized, though, with leaders and warriors and old codgers milling about and saying their hellos right and left. Delegations from other Lower Creek towns had to be seated, and the touchy Seminolee had to be given good seats. Finally a servant came from the south, or white, shed with a conch shell dripping with some hot liquid and presented it to the chiefs and mikkos on the west side, crying out "Yahola!"

"The White Drink," McGilliveray told them. "You must drink it so the council can be properly purified in spirit."

When the conch shell was refilled and brought round to them, Alan was repulsed by the smell of it, and said so. "White drink, mine arse, it's black as midnight! What the hell is it, liquid dung?"

"White men call it Black Drink. It is a tea, or a coffee, if you will. It is bitter, but it must be drunk, I told you. Now, Lieutenant, will you please shut up and don't cause a reason to break off the talks?" McGilliveray snapped.

"Lewrie, you and Cashman may run things military, but this is my responsibility, and if you cannot go along with us peaceably, then you had best go back to the house now," Cowell uttered in a low growl.

McGilliveray drank of it, then Cowell, then Cashman, each keeping a grim, set expression on their face at the taste. The conch shell was presented to Lewrie, and he tipped it up cautiously. Damned if it didn't smell a little like coffee, he allowed grudgingly. It was hot, and it was indeed bitter, and it was all Alan could do to screw up his mouth as though he had just bitten into a lime.

"Manfully done, sir," McGilliveray whispered.

"I still say it tastes like boiled turds," Alan whispered back. "I just hope I don't give way."

"It is better if you do," McGilliveray instructed. "And when you vomit, try to do it in a great arc, far away from you. You will impress them no end."

"Mine arse on a band-box!"

"The White Drink is very strong," McGilliveray whispered with evident signs of glee at Alan's discomfiture. "A physician would say that it is an excellent emetic and diuretic. You will begin to sweat, and you may feel the need to vomit, since you are not used to it. It clears the thoughts and stimulates the brain, you see, so that decisions are better thought out. They will pass the shell all during the council."

"Oh, good Christ!" Alan said as his stomach rolled over.

A pipe had to make the rounds after being presented to the east first, then the other cardinal directions, and more White Drink was handed around, at which point the actual negotiations began. The mikko of the White Town did not speak directly, but passed everything through his yatika, or interpreter. Cowell spoke for England, and McGilliveray acted as his interpreter as well, voicing aloud what Cowell said in a softer voice.

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.