The King`s Commission

'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.

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