Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [225]
‘You need horsehair to make a fiddle-bow …’ Erasmus looked for a moment across the moonlit courtyard. ‘There was a fiddler,’ he said with sudden and rather startling loudness. ‘He was mentioned … They had a fiddler aboard to dance the slaves.’
‘Did they so? That may be it then. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. In the months after the Peace Treaty people came with all sorts of stories, just to gain our goodwill.’
‘Did he say where it was?’
‘He did not say exactly. It was in the country north of Cape Florida and the Miami River. That is a region of pinewood ridge and jungle hummock, completely trackless – it has never been mapped.’
‘Could the man be found again?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Not in time to be of any use to you. These fellows go off for months into the wilds. But I can make enquiries among the Mission Indians who have stayed on here. Most of them speak some Spanish, it is not difficult to find an interpreter. Someone may be found who knows something of the matter. There may be trade links. It is not really so improbable that a small settlement could have survived down there. They are marshlands mainly, I believe, but game must be plentiful, fish too, and it is healthier than the west side because of the sea breezes. During the years of the war there were no troop movements or landings in the far south of Florida. What would have been the point? Miles from anywhere, no use to anyone. There are reports of mixed bands of negroes and Indians from Mississippi raiding in West Florida, but nothing south of the St John River. I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘I would be extremely grateful.’ Despite his efforts at containment, Erasmus’s voice quivered slightly. He had felt his soul expand with delight at this confirmation of his hopes.
‘It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’
Erasmus straightened up at this and glanced away. Only feelings of gratitude to Redwood prevented him from resenting this intimate question more. He felt the eyes of the other man fixed on him still. ‘I have come from England expressly to see justice done,’ he said.
‘Ah, yes, I forgot – justice.’ Redwood raised his head and smiled and his strong teeth gleamed in the moonlight. It was a careless smile, though with something bitter in it, not the smile of a stupid man. ‘Justice is a mighty fine thing,’ he said.
FORTY-TWO
Mr George Watson, Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the Southern District, arrived from Savannah on the following afternoon. He was a tall man, rather cadaverous, with a thin, high-bridged nose through which the breath seemed to come with some difficulty or reluctance. There were few men who knew more about the ways of Indians than Watson. He said as much himself to Erasmus not long after his arrival. In the name of the Great White King he had made deals of one sort or another with them throughout Georgia and the Carolinas, from Pantico Sound to Brunswick. The Tuscarora, the Yamassee, the Choctaw, the Chickasee and the confederate tribes of the Creeks – Watson knew them all. Perhaps because of this long experience his manner had become like theirs: slow and dignified and impassive.
He spent much of the time before the conference closeted with Campbell, deciding on policy, studying maps of the northeast tidewater area, which was where they hoped to obtain the major concessions. Occasionally they emerged to pace together on the terrace or in the gardens behind the house, affording as they did so a remarkable study in contrasts, the wiry, tenacious Governor with his soft voice and emphatic gestures and the dignified, sonorous Agent in his long-skirted coat and old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig.
For the most part, however, Erasmus saw little of either, a circumstance he did not mind, as it left him free to explore the district surrounding St Augustine and compile his report; he had been perfectly sincere, while at the same time knowing it would be a powerful inducement to Campbell, in what he had said about the possibilities of investments in the colony.
It did not take him