The King`s Commission

Chapter 5

Alan had not known what to expect when they got to the Indian town. At best a cluster of chickees straggling along the lake shore. But what greeted him was a frontier fortress. Across nearly a mile of bottom land thickly sprigged with new corn stalks twined with vines laden with quickening bean pods, row upon raised row of plantings mixed with gourds and squash, plots of other vegetables and fiber plants he had never seen cultivated before, there was a huge town surrounded by a tall log palisade, with watch-towers every fifty yards or so, and gates cut into the walls with guard-towers alongside them.

McGilliveray informed them that this chiefdom, the White Town, held land about a mile and a half in depth into the forests from the shore of the lake, and ran for over six miles east and west.

In pride of place, McGilliveray mounted a magnificent Seminolee horse and rode at the forefront of their column, with Cowell at his side, now turned out in a bright blue silk suit as neatly as if he were taking a stroll along The Strand. Alan, Cashman, and their troops followed in two columns, somewhat uniform in their forest green shirts and breeches or slop trousers. Seminolee brought up the rear, leading the pack animals, yipping and curvetting their mounts to show off.

"Just like the Romans," Cashman said as they passed through the gate into the town proper. "A fightin' mound just behind the gate with another palisade, you see. Bends us to the left, you'll note, between another long mound. Opens up our weapons side to arrows, and puts our shield side on the left where it wouldn't do any good. It'd take a light artillery piece to force an entry here, if you could get close enough to un-limber under the fire o' those towers. Nacky bastards."

"Just as long as we get safely out," Alan replied, looking at all the Indians who had congregated to watch their arrival. "Goddamn, Kit, do you see 'em? Look at all those bouncers, will you! Not one stitch on above the waist! Oh, Jesus, I'm in love with that'n there!"

"Never let it be said you let a solemn moment cramp your style," Cashman drawled.

"You conquer what you want, and I'll conquer what I want."

"I doubt the Royal Academy would hang that sort of heroic portrait of you in Ranelagh Gardens. Besides, if you keep ogling all the girls, your men will get out of hand. Set an example," Cashman ordered. "For now, at least."

"Eyes to your front!" Alan barked over his shoulder.

The street they paraded was wide as any in London, wider than some in Paris, lined with what seemed to be a definite pattern of buildings. There was a fence of sorts surrounding each plot, an insubstantial thing of dried vines and cane. Behind each fence was a two-story wood house much like a chickee, with plaited mats hung from under the eaves, some open and some closed. A more substantial house of thickly woven cane walls daubed with mud sat in each plot, along with one, two or three smaller out-buildings, and each plot featured a home garden of some kind.

But, grand as it looked, the place was rough on the nose. They might bathe every morning, Alan thought, but something stinks to high heaven. It smells worse than London, that's for sure.

The plots were laid out in a rectangular pattern, so many of the plots to each… he was forced to call them town blocks, with narrower lanes leading off at right angles from the main thoroughfare. Up ahead was an open area, and what looked like a gigantic plaza raised several feet above the town's mean elevation, upon which sat a large wattle and daub structure, and beyond it a collection of open-sided sheds. Beyond that, there seemed to be a war going on.

Several hundred Creek warriors were whooping and storming from one end of the plaza to the other, all waving some kind of war club, and flowing like waves on a beach, swirling left and right in pursuit of something. It had to be some ritual war, Alan decided, by the way the clubs were raised on high and brought down on the odd head. Now and then, the shrieks and cries surged to a positive tumult as the mob congregated around a tall central pole. The mayhem was so fierce he expected to see bodies flying in the air.

One thing that amazed their party were the many people who looked almost white compared to the run-of-the-mill savage. Not just white men and women who might have gone native while on a trading venture, but a great many scarified tribespeople who sported blue or green eyes, blonde hair, or other signs of European origin. There were also lots of people much darker than average who appeared to have been sired by Blacks, or a few men and women who could be nothing but Black.

Once they stacked their goods by the winter town house and had a chance to look around, Cowell asked McGilliveray about this phenomenon.

"Runaway slaves, sir," McGilliveray said with a smile. "And men from the Colonies who found our way of life more agreeable than slaving for a harsh master. Or the Army."

"Or deserters run from a King's ship?" Alan asked.

"Possibly, Mr. Lewrie." McGilliveray laughed, at ease among his favorite kind. "Captives taken by war parties, too. Our life is hard, make no mistake of that, but it is much less hard than white man's ways. There are many captives who eventually prefer to stay when given the chance to escape. Talk to them, find out for yourself. Every child wants to play Indian, but no Indian child wants to play white man, or go willingly to live among your people. The ball game will go on for hours yet. I shall go find my mother's people, and tell her we are here. You rest here in the shade. Do not raise your hand to any man, or give any offense, I warn you now. Keep your goods safe in the center of your group, and don't wander too far. You are safe, so there is no call to brandish weapons, I swear it. One thing, though," he warned as he left, "don't show any liquor until you are safely housed."

There was nothing for it but to gather their boxes and chests together and use them for furniture. They sat in the welcome shade and fanned flies. Some of the men might have been tired enough from their marches to sleep, but the swarming activity of a whole town full of savages kept them awake and near their weapons.

The Creeks walked by without a care in the world, laughing and pointing to the white party now and then, calling out what seemed to be friendly greetings. Some scowled at them and made threatening gestures from a distance, but the White Town was supposedly, according to McGilliveray, a place of sanctuary and peace, where grudges could not be acted out.

"We should have waited outside the town walls until tomorrow," Cashman finally mumbled, almost asleep.

"Why is that, sir?" Cowell asked.

"We're bein' made to wait, sir," Cashman said. "Coolin' our heels in the ante-room. Best they got their damned game over and been ready to receive us at once, with no excuses. We lose authority by being kept waitin' like this. Devilish shabby way to treat an embassy."

"Desmond knows best, surely," Cowell complained.

"Oh, perhaps he does, sir," Cashman grunted, too sleepy to argue about it. He pulled a pipe out of his pack and started cramming tobacco into it.

"Hullo," an Indian boy said, coming up close to them while Cashman got out his flint, steel and tinder for a light. The child was only about five or so, as English in appearance as any urchin on a London street.

"Hello, yourself." Cashman grinned. "And where'd you spring from?"

"Here."

"Before," Alan prompted, not too terribly fond of children, but willing to be friendly, as long as he had to be.

"Before when?"

"Before you came here?"

"Tallipoosa town," the boy said, pointing north.

"Before you were a Creek," Alan asked.

"In belly." The child grinned widely. "What is Creek?"

"Muskogee," Cashman said.

"Me Muskogee!" the boy crowed proudly.

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.

"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.

A few minutes later, he stumbled his way back towards the fire, and she was there, stepping out from between some corn-cribs and small storage huts in the darkness. He stopped and stood very near to her, and she turned sideways to the fitful light from the fire. The light accentuated her wide and high cheekbones, the sparkle in her brown eyes, and the way her skin shone. He put out a hand gently, not knowing what the custom was, and stroked her arm with unaccustomed shyness. She stepped up to him and pressed her slim body to his, looking up into his eyes from her short stature, about five feet and no more. Those magnificent young breasts brushed his shirt, driving him mad.

He slipped an arm about her waist and she leaned into him, rubbing her loins against his with a lazy, circular motion. Her face was close to his chest and her breath raised goose-flesh as she inhaled him and gently blew air on his skin.

He bent to kiss her, and she leaned back, unused to the custom, but gave him another smile to let him know that all was still well. He took her hands and she dragged him back between the corn-cribs out of the light, where they could embrace fully, and he could stroke that incredibly firm but downy body. He placed his lips on her shoulder, and she writhed in delight. His searching hands found her breasts and lifted them, rubbing his work-hardened palms across her large dark nipples, and they sprang erect and shivery to his touch. He bent down to kiss and tongue them, and she shuddered and gave a small yip of glee.

He showered kisses along her upper body, across her nose and cheeks, and brushed his lips against hers fleetingly, working slowly at finally bringing their mouths together, and this time she was not startled, but brought her face up to his, her mouth slightly open as she discovered a new thing. Her breath went musky, and her scent of arousal wafted over his senses as he groped a hand under her loose skirt to stroke her firm young buttocks. She reached away from him and fumbled with the latch-peg to one of the corn-cribs and drew him into the dry, moldy-smelling structure, where they sank to the mats on the earth in between large cane baskets of kernels. He kicked the door shut and undid the buttons of his breeches. They rolled back and forth, first one atop then the other as he fought his way out of his clothing, and his hands found the way up between her slim thighs to press against her belly. There was very little hair at all when his fingers found an entry to her body, and it drove him even more insane with wanting her. She rolled onto her back and raised her legs about his waist, reaching down to touch his member, and gave a gasp as her fingers wrapped around it, drawing it to her belly and stroking the tip against her swollen clitoris. She bit her lower lip and cried out softly as her namesake before he lost all control and forced himself against her. She was incredibly moist, yet almost too snug to take his first thrust, and for a moment, he thought it would end right there as he struggled to enter her fully. He tried thinking of the exact wording of the Articles of War.

"'An Act for Amending, explaining and reducing into one Act of Parliament, the laws relating to the Government of His Majesty's ships, vessels and forces by sea!'" he gasped as she writhed up at him, lifting her legs around his chest and spreading them wider to allow him easier entry. Her fingers were digging into his shoulders and she was moaning with total abandon by then. "'Whereas the several laws relating to the Sea Service, made at different times, and on different occasions, have been found by experience not to be so full, so clear, so expedient or consistent…' Ah, Jesus God Almighty, what a snug'un you are!"

But finally, he was completely within her and forced her to lie still for a moment by putting all his weight on her to hold her down before she bucked him off. After a half-minute's pause in the proceedings he began to thrust gently into her, and lifted himself up to allow her to move. She clung to him like a limpet, grunted and puffed and met his every thrust, squeezing his member like a firm handshake until finally she cried out and mewed in pleasure, and he followed her into bliss.

Except for a few times during the night when she had to run her errand to check the cooking fire and keep it smoldering, they were in each other's arms, napping lightly now and again, but mostly going at it like a pair of stoats in heat. For one so young, she was expert as all hell, and eager to meet his every desire, as he was hers. They did not share a single word in common, but they giggled and teased and tried to talk between their waves of passion. Alan finally dropped off for what seemed an hour or so, and then she was nudging him, rolling over on top of him and molding her maddeningly lovely body to his for warmth in the grey pre-dawn light of a foggy morning.

"Arhlan," she whispered, kissing him. "Go." She exhausted her tiny vocabulary of English words and lapsed back into Creek or Cherokee, he had no idea which.

"Rabbit," he sighed, wrapping his arms around her with his eyes still shut. "Soft rabbit. Bunny."

"Boony," she mocked.

"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."