Jackson frowned at Auguste as if he was not sure whether he was being sarcastic, and, indeed, hearing his own words, Auguste was not quite sure how he meant them.
"Exactly," Jackson said. "The red man doesn't understand what is happening. You can help to see that this must be."
Auguste hesitated. He had not had time to think. He was not ready to decide his whole future and perhaps bargain away the future of his people in a moment. Staying here in Washington City just might be the best thing he could do for the Sauk. Working for and with Jackson, he could protect his people, warn them of danger, avert attacks on them.
But his choosing to refuse Jackson was not the outcome of a momentary impulse. His whole life had taken him to this place on his path. The path might wind; its direction might sometimes be lost in shadows. But it did not lead to Sharp Knife. Jackson was a far better man than Raoul, but they were both on the same side, the side of the dispossessors.
"What the red men don't understand, Mr. President, is how much they are giving up."
"Black Hawk said land can't be bought and sold," Jackson said. "Then it belongs to whoever can make the best use of it."
Each man owning his own land and defending it against all comers, thought Auguste, that was the centerpost of the white way of life.
"I understand that you feel a responsibility to your people, to provide them with land," Auguste said. "But whether it is legal or illegal, just or unjust, I can't help you to move my people or any other red people off the land they are living on."
Jackson's face seemed to sharpen. "You could have done much for Indians by working for me. I'm surprised that a man of your intelligence and education would prefer running around in the woods wearing a loincloth."
Auguste was reminded of Nancy's words, hunting and living in wigwams.