“I don’t understand you,” McGillivray coldly replied. “I know of no personal embarrassment. The Emperor of the Creeks often gives aid. He has never received any.”
“A crisis faces the Western settlements and the Creeks. Your nation can not advance if my people go down.”
McGillivray sprang to his feet and tossed back his dark hair, snapping his long fingers impatiently and darting angry, yet curious, glances at the imperturbable borderer.
“What kind of talk is this for you to bring to me, a McGillivray of the McGillivrays, Emperor of the Creek Nation?”
“It is because you are what you are that I bother to fetch my talk. I come to the one man in the New World Spain leans on for support. Without you Spain would fall to the ground in this Western country.”
The emperor’s irritation vanished, his fierce visage softened. Such homage was very sweet, coming from John Sevier’s lips. He nodded affably. He had reminded Spain of his own importance in his various consultations with the royal governor, Don Estephan Miro.
“I believe his Majesty, Charles III, appreciates my services,” he frankly agreed. “Our treaty of six weeks ago would seem to indicate that much.”
“Could I have seen you before June first I would have urged you not to sign that secret treaty.”
Leaning across the table, his face alive with resentment, McGillivray hoarsely warned:
“Sevier, beware! Beware how you characterize any compact I sign with Spain. You mouth the word ‘secret’ as if it were something shameful. I tell you to heed your words, for you are in my power—and I am trying to forget that fact.”