McGilliveray had gone totally native by then, stripping off his shirt to bare more pagan tattooing, wrapping a length of cloth about his head like a Hindi's turban as Cashman styled it, naked under breech-clout, and the leggings only covering his thighs, held up by thongs from the single strap that held the breech-clout in place. Most of the sailors had tied their kerchiefs about their heads like small four-cornered mob-caps. The soldiers sported rough imitations of turbans, and had taken off their shirts as well, though their skins gleamed almost frog-belly pale in the fierce light, and several were already regretting the exposure, and patting their burns with water. At least in that regard Alan's sailors were more fortunate, since they had had months and years of continual tanning by the sun, so they appeared at first glance as ruddy as any savage.
"Apalachee scout over there," McGilliveray whispered, coming to Lewrie's side. "I shall go speak to him."
"Is that wise?" Cowell asked, almost prostrate with exhaustion, though he had not done a lick of work since plunking his posterior on a thwart the night before. Alan thought it comical to see how McGilliveray had tricked Cowell out in breech-clout, leggings, moccasins and calico checkered shirt, with a turban of his own, like a maggot done up as a man. He could not have fooled a European at a hundred yards, and any Indian running across him would have asked him how fast the pitch was at the new Lord's cricket grounds.
"We have to let them know who we are eventually, sir," McGilliveray said. "They saw us land, tracked us up-river. I had hoped we would make contact with them last night. It's only polite, seeing as how we've crossed most of their territory already."
"If this is the best real-estate they have, they're welcome to every bloody stick of it," Alan griped.
McGilliveray stood up and waved an arm, calling out in his odd language, and from where Alan thought only a mosquito could live, up popped a full half-dozen savages, dressed in breech-clouts and tattoos only, bearing long cane bows and arrows. McGilliveray took off his moccasins and waded across a shallow slough of weeds and reeds to converse with them.
"They don't look like Rousseau's noble savages, do they, Mister Cowell?" Cashman asked, coming to join them as they stood idly by watching the parley.
"Look how lithe and tall they are, how nobly they bear themselves, sir," Cowell disagreed softly. "One does not need much clothing in such climes. Mankind, reduced to Eden, without a houseful of possessions and gew-gaws, with no prating philosophies to occasion rancor, shorn of metaphysics, of confusing science. They are a handsome folk, you'll not be able to deny. All pretensions of society cast aside, and relying on Nature and our Creator and their native wit for sustenance. You may speak of barbarity, of quick anger and bloody-handed murther, but has Mankind, in all our wisdom, gone far beyond those passions for all our supposed improvements, Captain Cashman?"
"We don't kill quite so openly and easily, sir," Cashman replied.
"Life, in all its facets, is closer and more personal with them, sir. They are not like us, but we were once much like them, and still are, in many ways yet. The brave man slays with a sword, the coward with an invitation to tea, if I may paraphrase the quotation, ha ha."
"I've never been scalped at a cat-lapping," Alan quipped. "Fucked with, God yes, and damned proud of it, mind."
"We are in luck, Mister Cowell," McGilliveray told them when he returned. "There are Seminolee a few miles ahead of us, in a spring camp to fish. Lots of horses."
"Any Spanish?" Cashman pressed.
"None seen this far inland in weeks. Some parties passed north of the swamps and crossed the rivers heading west a few days ago," McGilliveray/White Turtle grunted, having seemingly given up the act of smiling for the duration. "A company of horse, and one of foot, with baggage train. But they were busy driving stolen cattle they took from British colonists far off to the east."
"According to this map, there is a small stream that leads to the Apalachicola River," Alan pointed out, folding out their large chart. "How deep is it? This one that leads west and nor'west."
"Very shallow. Dugout canoes have trouble there," their guide said, after peering at the map, and at Lewrie. "Another change, Mister Lewrie?"
"We've made good time by water so far, why change bets now?" Alan replied, mopping his face with a kerchief. "If it goes our way."
"Best we continue on north." White Turtle scowled, pointing in that direction with a chin jutted over his shoulder. "This river bends easterly to the lake. Where the lake begins we find horses. Leave the boats, and a guard over them."
"Damn, splitting our party again," Cashman spat. "What's odds these Apalachee, or your relatives the Seminolee, would keep them safe for us. For a share of the profits, of course."
"If the Seminolee want something, they take it." He shrugged.
"Well, they can't make off with anything big as a launch and a gig, can they?" Alan japed. "I saw something up at Yorktown, a set of poles lashed together from a horse so it could drag, instead of carry a load. We could take the rations, masts, oars, everything on the drag behind one horse. I assume we'll march? Right, then. We haul the boats ashore and hide them from the Spanish at least. Then if they rip out the thwarts, we may still make new ones later. Wrap everything else up in the sails and shroud lines, which we can't easily replace."
"You are a paragon, Alan," Cashman beamed. "I'd never have ever thought of anything like that. See how fortunate we are, Mister Cowell, how well the Admiralty has provided for you?"
"Let's simply be on our way. It's stifling in these swamps," Cowell fluttered petulantly.
"Right you are, then. Off we go. Andrews? Back into the boats."
They began to get back aboard, but several of the men from the launch shrank back in fear and scrambled back ashore quick as they could.
"They's a bloody snake, Mister Lewrie, sir!" one of the hands yelped.
"Well, kill it and let's go."
"No!" McGilliveray shouted. "Never kill a snake! Bad luck with my people!"
"Wot're we s'posed ter do wifem, 'em, kiss 'em an' tuck 'em inna bed'r somefin'?" one of the older men muttered loud enough to hear.
"I do it. They're poisonous," McGilliveray offered, and climbed into the boat, using a long club to lift the snake out and toss it over the side, after greeting it in Muskogean.
"Notice how his speech is getting more pidgin as we go?" Cashman noted before they shoved off.
"Yes, I had. Must be getting back into the mood of his people," Alan replied.
"Perhaps," Cashman whispered, rubbing his nose. "Perhaps."
After camping at the lake shore with the party of Seminolee men, they started out at first light after a dip in the water and a quick breakfast. The Seminolee had provided some rather good horses, and had known what Alan was driving at when he described a drag. With some of the trade goods left behind, and at least the promise that the boats would be left undisturbed, there was nothing for it but to proceed.
Once out of the swamps, the land opened out into grassy meadows almost like park land, where the heat was not so oppressive and the gentle winds could cool them on their march. It was early January, and the skies were cloudier than before, promising rain.
With a pair of cotton stockings on, rolled down to the ankle, Alan found moccasins rather comfortable to march in. They went in a single file, with soldiers and sailors gathered round the pack-horses, and Seminolee out on the flanks and rear, with a scout out ahead.
"Great warrior, the Raven," White Turtle said, pointing with his chin to the head of the column. "The bravest man. He gives call of a raven if he sees trouble. To the left, the Wolf."
"Who howls, I presume?" Alan replied, meaning to be civil.
"To the right, the Owl, who will hoot. Behind us, the Fox who will yelp." McGilliveray nodded in agreement. "The others should go all in each others' moccasin prints, so it only looks like one man. Might be a big party, might be one man alone. Makes for safety."