Chapter 13
The Pearl River had narrowed until the cypress knees, protruding from the amber water like the gnarled knuckles of some submerged giant, threatened the very hull of the lead pirogue.
Here, the canopy of Spanish moss hung in heavy, silvered curtains, stifling the breeze and trapping a humid heat that rendered even the slightest movement an ordeal of physical exertion.
Mr. Darcy, seated in the stern, watched the rhythmic dip of the voyageurs' paddles with a grim sort of fascination.
The silence of the wilderness was not a true silence, but a discordant chorus of buzzing insects and the distant, haunting cry of birds whose names were as foreign as the terrain.
"The map indicates a tributary to the east." Mr. Maitland's voice, sharp, and carrying with a characteristic English impatience, sounded jarringly out of place. "We are behind schedule, Captain. One would think these Frenchmen could find a swifter current."
Thomas, steering with a veteran's ease, did not look back. "The current does not obey the British Crown, Mr. Maitland. We move at the speed the river allows."
Miss Elizabeth, wedged between crates of supplies and the ever-watchful Cécile, caught Mr. Darcy's eye.
A faint, ironic smile touched her lips—a silent commentary on the agent's unending dissatisfaction.
Mr. Darcy found no humor in the situation.
His thoughts were perpetually weighed by the precariousness of their position and the growing insolence of Mr. George Wickham, who occupied the prow of their own vessel, sprawled with an air of studied nonchalance that ill-befitted a man in his precarious standing.
The transformation of the country was sudden. The dense wall of greenery parted to reveal a stretch of higher ground, where the marsh gave way to ancient oaks. It was not the change in flora that signaled their arrival, but the abrupt cessation of the river's natural chorus.
A single whistle, flute-like and brief, echoed from the bank.
Before Thomas could call an order, the undergrowth erupted.
Figures emerged from the shadows of the oaks—men with bronze skin and detailed patterns of charcoal and ochre upon their chests.
They did not shout; they simply occupied the space.
Long-barreled rifles were leveled with a precision that chilled the blood.
"Hold!" Thomas shouted, his hands raised. "Paddles up!"
The voyageurs obeyed instantly, the pirogues drifting into the shallows. Mr. Maitland, however, was less inclined to caution. He stood, his hand going to the pistol at his belt. "See here! We are representatives of His Majesty King George! You have no authority to—"
"Sit down, you fool!" Mr. Darcy's command was low but possessed a resonance that even Maitland could not ignore.
The hunting party moved closer. A tall man, whose head was shaved except for a distinct crest of hair, stepped to the water's edge. His expression was a mask of cold appraisal. He spoke a series of sharp, rhythmic syllables, the cadence unfamiliar and demanding.
"He asks why the white men bring steel into the land of the Chata," Cécile whispered. She stood slowly, her hands empty and visible.
Mr. Sterling, the second agent, scoffed. "Tell them we are here on business of state. We have gifts and a proposal."
"They do not want your proposals," Cécile said, her voice rising as she turned toward the man on the bank. She spoke then in his own tongue, the sounds flowing more naturally from her than the English or French she usually employed.
The leader narrowed his eyes. He responded, his gesture encompassing the entirety of the expedition.
"He says," Cécile translated, her gaze fixed on the leader, "that he sees the uniform of the Long Knives' enemies and the faces of thieves. He sees too many guns for a peaceful visit."
"Inform him that our guns are for our protection against the Americans," Maitland insisted. "We seek an alliance."
Cécile ignored him. She spoke again, her tone shifting to something more melodic, almost a plea. She moved her hand in a specific pattern over her heart and then toward the leader.
The man's posture changed. The rigidity of his shoulders softened, and he stepped closer, his scrutiny now focused entirely on Cécile. A long exchange followed, one in which the name Lebrun was mentioned several times.
"What is she saying?" Miss Elizabeth watched the exchange with guarded intensity.
"She is establishing kinship." Mr. Darcy's voice was barely audible. "She is claiming a connection through her mother's blood. It is a gamble of the highest order."
The leader finally lowered his rifle. He spoke a single word, and the other hunters followed suit.
"We are not free," Cécile said, turning back to the party. "But we are not enemies yet. We are to be taken to the council at the village. We are to be... assessed."
The journey to the village was conducted in a state of high tension.
The hunters moved through the woods with a ghostly silence, keeping pace with the boats.
Upon arrival, the expedition was ushered toward a collection of large, well-constructed dwellings situated around a central clearing.
The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and dried corn.
The Chata villagers watched their progress with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. Children peered from behind their mothers' skirts, and the elders remained seated before their doors, their faces etched like the bark of the ancient trees.
They were directed to a large lodge on the periphery of the village. "You will stay here," the leader said through Cécile. "Food will be brought. You do not leave until the sun is high and the miko calls for you."
Night fell with a heavy, oppressive blanket of darkness. A single fire was permitted within the lodge, its flickering light casting long, distorted shadows against the walls. The party sat in a circle, the atmosphere thick with unspoken accusations.
"This is a disaster," Maitland muttered, pacing the dirt floor. "We should have arrived with an escort. To be detained like common trespassers!"
"We are trespassers, Mr. Maitland," Miss Elizabeth said, her voice crisp. "We have entered their home without invitation. I should think their restraint is quite remarkable."
"You speak as though we are their equals, Miss Bennet," Wickham interjected, his tone carrying that familiar, oily charm. "Surely the British Crown does not need invitations from savages."
Mr. Darcy's gaze snapped to Wickham. "Your ignorance is as vast as your insolence, Mr. Wickham. If you wish to keep your scalp, I suggest you refrain from such terminology within earshot of our hosts."
Wickham laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "Always the protector of the less fortunate, Darcy. How very noble."
The hours crawled by. Eventually, the agents and voyageurs succumbed to a fitful sleep.
Cécile and Thomas sat near the door, speaking in low tones about the upcoming council.
Miss Elizabeth, unable to find rest in the stifling air, retreated to a corner near a small opening that served as a window, seeking the faint movement of the night air.
It was then she noticed a shadow moving against the moonlight outside. Mr. Wickham had risen and was slipping toward the rear of the lodge, where the supplies had been stacked.
Curiosity, tempered by a growing suspicion, kept her still. She watched as Wickham deftly shouldered a small pack and moved toward the entrance—not the main door where Thomas stood guard, but a gap in the structure's piling.
But he was not the only one awake.
Mr. Darcy emerged from the shadows of the opposite wall with the silence of a predator. He stepped into Wickham's path just as the latter reached the edge of the lodge.
"A late-night stroll, Wickham?"
Wickham froze. He turned, a flash of something desperate crossing his features before the mask of indifference returned. "The heat, Darcy. I merely sought the river."
"With a pack of stolen rations and a map?" Mr. Darcy stepped closer, the firelight catching the cold steel of his expression. "You intended to steal a pirogue. You intended to desert us."
"And why shouldn't I?" Wickham's voice was a harsh whisper. "I am a prisoner in all but name. Do you think I don't see the way you look at me? The way they all look at me? I am a convenience for your mission, nothing more. Once we reach our destination, you will find some way to dispose of me."
"You are here because it was the only alternative to a debtor's prison or a hangman's noose," Mr. Darcy said. "But your survival is not my primary concern. It is your presence near those who deserve better that I cannot tolerate."
Wickham stepped forward, his face inches from Mr. Darcy's. "You mean Miss Bennet? Or perhaps you are still thinking of Georgiana? Still nursing that old wound?"
Miss Elizabeth, hidden in the shadows, caught her breath in a sudden, sharp intake. The name Georgiana—Mr. Darcy's sister—had been mentioned before, but never with such vitriol.
"Do not speak her name," Mr. Darcy commanded. The words were low, vibrating with a suppressed fury that made the very air seem to hum.
"Why not? It was a charming interlude, Darcy. She was so very young, so very eager for affection. It was a pity you arrived at Ramsgate when you did. Another day, and the Darcy pride would have been quite effectively humbled by a marriage into my family."
"A marriage?" Mr. Darcy's voice was like grinding stone. "It was a cold-blooded attempt to secure thirty thousand pounds. You did not care for her. You would have abandoned her the moment the funds were spent."
"Perhaps. But she didn't know that. She loved me, Darcy. Can you say the same of anyone in your life? Do you think your Miss Elizabeth loves you? Or does she simply find you a more tolerable alternative to the wilderness?"
The sound of the blow was sharp and sudden. Mr. Darcy had seized Wickham by the throat and slammed him against the wooden support of the lodge.