Chapter 13 #2
"You will never speak of my sister again," Mr. Darcy said, his voice trembling with a rage he could no longer contain.
"You will never approach Miss Elizabeth.
If you move from this spot, or if I see you so much as glance in her direction with that filth in your eyes, I will not wait for the law.
I will end you here, in this mud, and the world will be the better for it. "
Wickham gasped for air, his hands clawing at Mr. Darcy's wrists. "You... you haven't the stomach for it."
"Try me," Mr. Darcy hissed.
He threw Wickham to the ground. The man lay there, coughing, and trembling. Mr. Darcy did not look at him again. He reached into his pocket, produced a length of sturdy cord, and proceeded to bind Wickham's hands behind his back with efficient, brutal movements.
"Thomas!" Mr. Darcy called.
The guide appeared in the doorway instantly.
"Mr. Wickham attempted to desert with our supplies," Mr. Darcy said, his voice now perfectly controlled, though his chest still heaved. "Tie him to the center post. He is to be guarded until morning."
As Wickham was dragged away, Mr. Darcy stood alone in the center of the lodge. He looked toward the corner where Miss Elizabeth sat. Their eyes met in the dim light. There was no irony in her expression now, only a deep, unsettling clarity. She had heard everything.
Mr. Darcy turned away, his shoulders rigid, and disappeared back into the shadows.
* ? * ? *
Morning arrived with the rhythmic thud of a drum. The expedition was escorted to a larger council house in the centre of the village, where a great fire burned. The air did not move. Even the insects seemed to have retreated into the shade of the cypress knees.
The entrance of the Principal Chief, a man of advanced years whose face was inscribed with the history of his people, silenced all further commentary. He was followed by the elders and the warriors of the council. There was no fanfare, only the solemn weight of communal decision.
Miss Bennet sat among the women and children at the periphery of the circle, where her presence had been permitted with a quiet, observant hospitality.
Darcy caught her eye for a fleeting second; she was pale, the heat clearly taxing her, yet her gaze remained sharp and intelligent.
She had spent the last two days observing more than the agents, he suspected.
She had seen the way the Choctaw looked at the maps—not as territories to be traded, but as a living body being sliced for slaughter.
The negotiation resumed. Mr. Haigh stood to present the final terms of the British proposal.
His voice was thin and lacked the resonance required for such a setting.
He spoke of protection, of the Great Father across the water, and of the inevitable encroachment of the Americans.
He promised that the borders of the Choctaw lands would be guaranteed by British steel and British law.
When Haigh sat down, a silence followed that seemed to stretch until the very heart of the earth might stop. Then, the principal chief spoke, his voice the grinding of river stones.
"The Americans speak of progress," the Chief said.
"The British speak of protection. Both speak of our land as if it were a pelt to be bartered.
Tell me, Mr. Darcy—for you are the one who has said the least, and therefore I suspect you have the most to lose—why should we believe that the Great Father across the water remembers his children when the wind changes? "
Darcy stood. The burden of the maps in Haigh's hands like a physical stain.
"The question is a fair one," Darcy said. "History suggests that nations are governed by interest, not by affection."
"Is it the intention of your King," the Chief asked, "to honour these boundaries once the Americans are driven back? If the war is won, and the coast is secure, will the soldiers remain to protect us, or will they depart and leave us to the mercy of the settlers who will inevitably return?"
Darcy looked at Miss Bennet. She was watching him with a stillness that was almost painful. He knew what Haigh wanted him to say. He knew the practiced lies Wickham would have spun—the assurances of eternal friendship, the poetic evocations of shared destiny.
"No," Darcy said.
The word was small, but it seemed to echo against the thatched walls.
"No," Darcy repeated. "If the war is won, the British interest will shift.
The troops will be needed in Europe or in the East. These promises of permanent protection are made by men who will not be in power when the time comes to keep them.
My government offers you an alliance because they need a buffer against the Americans.
They do not offer it because they intend to preserve your way of life in perpetuity. "
"You have spoken the truth," the Chief said.
"It is a rare thing in a white man, and a rarer thing in a diplomat.
But truth does not provide for our children.
If you cannot promise honour, you offer us only a different master.
We will not fight the Americans for the privilege of being forgotten by the British.
We will remain as we are, and face the storm when it comes. "
The council was over.
* ? * ? *