“I will offer Rochambeau and his naval officers rescue from that fate,” Loring told them. “But, only if they sail out by the deadline he has agreed to with Dessalines, tomorrow. I will allow them to fire broadsides, as honourable tokens, before striking their colours. But, that is all I will allow. For the sake of humanity, I wish the rebel generals to accede to that arrangement. You gentlemen will deliver to Dessalines the full meaning of my terms to Rochambeau, and extract from him an agreement that he will not fire upon the French ships,”

“If they obey you, sir, and leave harbour,” Lewrie pointed out. “If Rochambeau does not? Fort Picolet’s forges are already kindled.”

“Then, let us pray that General Rochambeau has seen that, too, and will be convinced that departing Cap Francois is in his best interests, hmm?” Commodore Loring replied.

“All of us, sir?” Captain Barre, ever a skeptic, enquired with a cutty-eyed glance at Lewrie.

“Aye… all of you,” Loring told the man with a shrug, cocking his head to one side as if thinking that three was more impressive than two; or, that, seeing as how they were already up and dressed…?

“Well, then… let’s be about it, hey?” Lewrie said, tossing off his wine and plastering a confident smile on his phyz, no matter the gurgly qualms in his nether regions that threatened to make themselves known to one and all.

Aye, I’ll go, he told himself; if only to rankle Barre!

CHAPTER THREE

They landed at the quays in Commodore Loring’s barge, a rather more impressive conveyance than any of their captains’ gigs, with her oarsmen tricked out in snowy white slop-trousers, shirts and stockings, flat tarred hats with fluttering long ribbons painted with the name of Loring’s flagship, in fresh-blacked shoes with silver-plated buckles, and dark-blue short jackets with polished brass buttons.