Frank went on, "But if you go back to your people, you've got to tell them—they can no more fight the United States for their land than you could fight Raoul."
A fierce heat rose in Auguste as he took another sip of brandy. "At St. George's School I read that the Indian does not make good use of the land. The whites need the land. Therefore the Indian must yield." He clenched his fist around the glass in his hand. "We were living on this land! Doesn't that mean anything?"
Frank said, "Auguste, you know better than any of your people how much power the United States have. You've got to tell them."
Auguste was silent for a moment.
The long knives, he thought. That was what his people called the American soldiers. But the British Band had no idea how very many long knives there were. He must make Black Hawk understand.
He sipped a little more of the brandy, and its fire flowed through his blood.
He sighed and nodded. "I will tell them. Frank, I need a boat."
Nicole said, "Your eyelids are drooping, Auguste. You're tired and you're still hurt. You can't go tonight."
True. And he wanted to stay long enough to see Grandpapa when he was awake.
Auguste's last memory that night was of letting Frank lead him across the corridor into a darkened bedroom, where he fell face down on an empty bed.