The King`s Commission

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.

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 touch, 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 cardinal 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."

"Now look here, McGilliveray, this…"

"Did I tell you my uncle's name is Man-Killer?" McGilliveray smiled sweetly.

"Oh, holy hell." Alan looked to Cashman, who was as amused as any of the others around their fire, laughing behind his hand. And damn their black souls, but Andrews, Cony, and the other seamen from Shrike were nudging each other and grinning at him openly! "It doesn't mean a damned thing, right? I mean, it doesn't really count, does it?"

"Even if she was properly Muskogee, it isn't official until the Green Corn Ceremony in late summer, and could be dissolved then. She'll gain status. Especially if you buy her from Man-Killer, and he adopts her as a daughter afterward. No more slavery for her then."

"Oh, alright, then," Alan sulked, burning with embarrassment at how funny everyone else seemed to think his predicament was. But he rose and fetched a large chunk of the deer from the roasting spits and brought it back to the fire-circle.

"This shows you're a man who can provide meat for her," McGilliveray said. "She'll present sofkee and corn to you to show she can provide grain from the fields, and cook it for her man. Now, before she can be married, you must buy her from Man-Killer."

There was much palavering, with a rant about how Man-Killer had gotten Rabbit in the first place, how he had slaughtered with the best of them and taken her from a traveling party of Cherokee hunting too far south of their mountain fastness, even if he was a little too far north of his usual haunts, poaching on Upper Creek lands.

Alan's bride cost him a dragoon pistol and saddle holster, with forty pre-made cartouches of round-shot and buck-shot, two of his deer hides Rabbit had already dressed, one of his shirts, and a leather cartouche pouch with George III's ornate brass seal on the flap. Alan suspected that buying the mort wasn't strictly necessary, since Man-Killer and McGilliveray/White Turtle both seemed to be enjoying it so much, but there wasn't much he could do about it, so he went along sullenly.

Once the purchase was done, Man-Killer got to his feet and went on another high-pitched, formal rant, which McGilliveray translated into short, pithy phrases now and again, the upshot being that he didn't know much about this young white man, but he would be considered "of Man-Killer's fire," which seemed a grudging sort of honor short of actually becoming Indian, more specifically of the Muskogee Wind Clan, since everyone Creek knew that they were the best people on the face of the earth, and they wouldn't adopt just any upstart as a Real Person until he had proved himself a superior sort of being, perhaps on par with a Seminolee or Apalachee, who at least could speak something like Muskogean. Man-Killer also grudgingly allowed that since this strange white man had bought the girl Rabbit from him at such a damned good knockdown price, he would allow her to remain in the Wind Clan and in his lodge as "daughter" instead of slave after the white man went back where he came from, so the offspring would be raised Muskogee, which Man-Killer thought would be the best for all concerned. He didn't like the way white men raised their children, anyway, with all that spanking and beating, which broke the spirit.

"At least the little bastard's going to be spared tutors and algebra," Alan sighed.

All through these preliminaries, the Indian women of the clan and the huti had gathered their sisters from the other hutis to witness the ceremony. Through it all they had yipped and whooped with delight, eager as harpies discovering a newly slain corpse to feed upon.

Finally, they brought Rabbit out. She had bathed and drawn her raven hair back into a single long braid, adorned with beads and a few feathers other than eagle. She wore a new, richly embroidered and beaded deerskin skirt, a little longer than her usual style, with a new upper garment much like a match-coat or bed-sitting coat, tied under the arms, which still left her right breast free.

"How much ritual does it take for her to get ready?" Alan asked as she was paraded before her new "sisters" of the Wind Clan. "I'd say this was arranged a long time before I heard about it. Well, damn their pleasures, I say!"

"More to the point, blessin's on yours, Alan," Cashman replied, sobered by how lovely the girl was, and by the solemnity of the moment, no matter how absurd it was. "If they were forcin' me to wed her, I'd think myself lucky. Damn shame you can't take her with you when you leave tomorrow."

"Oh, for God's sake," Alan groaned. Still, she was tricked out right handsome, even he had to admit that, and had been fawn-pretty before.

A way was cleared, and she knelt down before him on her knees, her eyes swimming with tears even as she beamed at him with happiness so open and adoring it silenced even the most cynical of his crew.

Man-Killer read the rites, which were simple to the extreme. He offered her the platter of venison, and she took a bite to accept him. She offered him a bowl of sojkee and an ear of corn still in the shuck, which he tasted. Then she was allowed to come sit beside him and link arms with him, pressing her young body to his side and gazing up at him in shuddering reverence.

"Now what?" Alan asked, putting an arm around her shoulders in spite of himself.

"That's it, you're married," McGilliveray said, and Man-Killer and the women said pretty much "amen" or "here, here," which raised whoops and shouts from all present. "Give you joy of this day, Lieutenant Lewrie. Go, take your bride to your new home yonder. It's only a summer chickee, but private enough. I helped built it yesterday."

"Damn your eyes, McGilliveray!" Alan said, unable to do anything other than smile as people crowded around to congratulate the "happy couple."

"Go forth, be fruitful, and multiply," Cashman called with an exaggerated bow. "Though you've a fair start on that, hey?"

It was expected that the newly-weds would retire immediately, and Rabbit was almost dragging him, so he finally allowed himself to be led off to a new and fresh-smelling chickee back towards those fatal corn-cribs, near the rear of the family huti. They climbed up onto the mat-covered floor and pulled the split-cane wall mats down for privacy. Almost before the last mat had fallen in place, Rabbit was on him like a ferret, dragging him to the floor. Taking heed of her lessons in passionate deportment from Alan's earlier teachings, she flung her arms about his neck and showered him with kisses, babbling away softly and rapidly in Cherokee/Creek/English, all the while tearing at his clothes.

"Ah-lan," she crooned, besotted with love and trembling with happiness at her freedom from slavery, and at her marriage. "You me!"

"You are mine," he corrected between kisses. She practically ripped his breeches open and rolled to sit astride of him. She took his left hand and rubbed it over her firm belly and purred like a very contented kitten, stirring her loins against him. "Baby," he said.

"Bebby, you me," she parroted. "You… ahr… mine."

"Ours," he said, tapping her stomach. "God help me."

"Ahrs, go'hemmy," she said, beaming, with tears of joy cascading down her smooth young cheeks and splashing on her upper garment and breast. Alan reached up and undid the knot that held the little match-coat together, and it fell away, revealing both of those delightfully springy young orbs. She slid further down his belly as his hands caressed her breasts and nipples, and in moments her vagina was slick and moist on his skin. She slid further down, reached and found his throbbing member. Press-ganged into marriage or not, she was still a damned attractive and nubile young piece, he decided. She steered him into her and rocked back to drive him deep inside, making them both gasp at the velvety pleasure of the first stroke of insertion, and it was as good as the first time they had coupled in the com-crib, just as full of wonder and discovery. For her perhaps it was even better, for she was fulfilling her life's role as wife and mother-to-be, and her inspired exertions communicated inspiration to him.

There was no fire for her to tend that night, no more errands to run for others now she was a freedwoman, so they could exhaust themselves totally and fall asleep together. She cuddled to him in the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder and one downy thigh flung across his belly, her breath stirring soft against his cheek and neck. Every movement he made was responded to with an unconscious hug, some little whimper of joy. She woke once briefly, sated beyond measure, and only kissed him, repeated his name and her few words of endearment in English, and sank back into sleep in his arms.

Alan woke just before dawn as it got a little chilly, and drew a red trade blanket over them. He looked down at her and snuggled to her cozy warmth, worn down to a nubbin and barely awake, savoring the last few minutes of closeness.

"Damme for a fool, but this marriage nonsense don't feel half-bad right now," he muttered. Long as it's over today, he thought. Being a daddy, though. That cuts a bit rough. Not that I'll be around to listen to the little bastard bawl, so that's not so bad. Feels good, this.

In his entire experience with women, he had rogered mop-squeezers and country girls, tumbling with them in the dark at the top of the stairs, across un-made beds, or rolling behind a hedge in the summers at the edge of a field, all quick and furious. He had lain at ease with whores between bouts of "the blanket horn-pipe," but for the life of him, as he lay there gradually coming awake, he could not actually remember sleeping with a girl. Usually his time was governed by being furtive, or the commercial nature of the transaction; on, off, and just where the hell's my hat?

This, though, this closeness and peacefulness of being in bed with a woman who wanted you as much as you wanted her, who smelled so good and intimate under the blanket, who snoozed away so trusting in his arms, and who would respond with affection to any sign of affection on his part-well, this was something else again.

Pity I can't take her with me, he decided silently, though it was a forlorn wish. She would not fit in anywhere he went, most especially aboard Shrike. It isn't that I really love her that much, he thought, but for now, she's a sweet thing, a girl with a good little heart.

As he came more awake, and listened to the sounds of the Creek town beginning to stir around their chickee, he was filled with an out-of-character sadness, not just because he had to leave her behind and probably never see her again. There was sadness regarding the whole Indian way of life, too. From all that McGilliveray and Cowell had said, there was little hope that the Creeks could retain their ancient traditions. The Rebels, who styled themselves Americans now, would press against the borders, the rum and whiskey and trade goods would contaminate the old ways. If there was unity of purpose for now between the Creeks and Seminolee and the fragments of other tribes, then it would not last long, and they would face their future uncoordinated, prey to any outside aggression. Even if Cowell and McGilliveray could convince the Shelburne government to commit troops and money to retake Florida with Indian help, the Indians would still wither away in the face of white civilization, nibbled to death instead of going out in one brave battle. There was no place for them to run, no lands further west that did not already have owners. They could survive by imitating white ways of living, but at what a price, and how much suffering and degradation?

And this dear little girl sleeping so soundly beside him would be doomed to be a part of it, one of the losing side, and, God help him, so would the child she carried-his child. Nobody had ever come back on him with a bastard and a belly-plea for support (so far, anyway), and he began to worry about what he might do, what he might be able to leave behind, some legacy or something of value to improve Rabbit's life, and the child's life, against the bad times to come.

God, what a bloody mess I've made of things, he thought, railing against his nature. If she wasn't pregnant, I could ride out of here without a backward glance, I think. Knowing our politicians, they'll not want to put out a penny more than needed, which means nothing Cowell dreamed up will ever be put into action. Rabbit'll be just another victim we've lied to. Oh shit, if this is growing up and acting like an adult, then I don't care for it, thank you very much.

He clasped his arms tighter about her and she nuzzled to him deep in sleep, her soft, satiny-smooth flesh warm against his, maddeningly sensuous and comforting. He breathed deep of her aromas of hair and flesh, clean woman-smell and hint of sweat, the faint scent of their love-making, her exotic muskiness of burned pine and loamy earth, of deer hide and cooking, native greases or oils with which she had been anointed for the marriage ceremony, and the foresty smell of the chickee and the green wood and mats around them.

"Ah-lan," she cooed, coming awake as he held her too tight.

"Dear little Soft Rabbit," he whispered back, brushing her cheek with his lips, feeling an almost fierce desire to protect her from all that would come.

"Ah-lan… mine," she said, drawing his face down to her hot round breasts inside the blanket, stroking his head and hair and making pleased noises as he sprang into sudden, overful arousal, willing as any bride for another proof of love before dawn. She rolled onto her back and stroked his back, drawing him between her open thighs.

"In for the penny, in for the bloody pound," he told her with a shaky laugh. "One for the road, old girl?"

"Ah-lan mine!" she giggled.