Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [228]
‘They do not trust one another’s intentions, let alone ours,’ Campbell said.
‘That is to our advantage.’ Watson’s head turned slowly as he glanced up and down the table. The wine had brought a flush to the parchment of his cheeks, but his features were as grave and composed as ever. ‘They will find it easier to trust us than to trust one another,’ he said. ‘I have seen it happen again and again. We may be few but we speak with one voice, whereas among them it is as Terence said, Quot homines tot sententiae, as many opinions as there are men. As for the ships, we differ there, Campbell, the main thing is that they should arrive and be seen to have arrived. Lying there at anchor with their holds full of rum and tobacco and trinkets they will work very powerfully in our favour. I would be opposed to making gifts of any kind until the treaty is safely signed and in our pocket.’
He got to his feet, still nodding solemnly. He was a tall man and he made an imposing figure as he stood there in his dark suit and full wig, with his deep-set eyes and long, cadaverous face. ‘I don’t speak of the corn,’ he said. ‘The red men are hungry, their stocks are low, it is fitting we should give them food. We must on no account appear to them ungenerous. It is a quality they despise above all others.’
‘I bow to your judgement in the matter of the presents,’ Campbell said. ‘They are better given out after than before.’
Watson smiled slightly. ‘This giving and withholding is a difficult balance to achieve,’ he said. ‘It calls for judgement. Well, I shall bid you goodnight, gentlemen. It is growing late and there is much to do tomorrow.’
FORTY-THREE
Fort Picolata, the site chosen for the conference, was some twenty miles distant, on the east bank of the St John River. It was a stone tower within wooden palisades, built by the Spanish during the war as an outpost against the Indians.
Watson and Campbell, accompanied by Erasmus and escorted by a detachment of troops, rode over in the morning. The headmen of the Creeks left their horses on the west bank and crossed the water by canoe with a hundred warriors. An open pine-log pavilion had been put up inside the palisade and the white men awaited their Indian visitors sitting within this. Branches of pine had been laid over the roof and sides to give protection from the sun and there was a long table in the centre to act as a speaker’s podium. Vari-coloured beads on long strings of leather lay coiled on the table like snakes. On either side poles wrapped round with blankets were laid for the chiefs to sit on.
They did not immediately take up position here, however. The whole company of Indians assembled before the pavilion at a distance of some hundred and fifty yards and formed silent ranks behind their chiefs. To Erasmus, sitting unobtrusively to one side in the shade of the pavilion, this forming of rank was strangely like a movement – and a stillness – of the sea; the white plumes of the headdresses swayed and came to rest like foam on the eddy of a dark red tide. Within the enclave of the pavilion colour was deepened. The colonel’s high-necked tunic was ruby-coloured, Watson’s wig stood out silver against the dark cloth of his suit and the cheap trade beads on the table glowed like gems of price.
At some signal not perceived by Erasmus the Indians began to move forward at an easy pace. He saw now that the chiefs leading the two centre files, distinguished by headdresses that fell below the shoulder and beaded armbands, were carrying feathered objects which he took at this distance for dead birds. They came on for some twenty paces, then rattles sounded among them and a wild, ragged singing, and the whole company broke into a shuffling, lunging dance, raising and lowering their heads and turning their bodies inwards towards the two chiefs carrying the feathered bundles.