And, just in case, with cutlasses, muskets, and pistols stowed out of sight under water-proof tarred tarpaulins in the boat’s sole!

They, and their white flag of truce, were met by a guard of honour, and a fellow who introduced himself as a Colonel who spoke fluent, almost Parisian, French, and heavily accented English. The soldiers of the guard, warm though it was, were accoutred as well as any soldiers that Lewrie had seen in Paris during the Peace of Amiens, from their brass-trimmed shakoes to their trousers, with dark blue tail-coats and white waist-coats, white-leather crossbelts with brass plates shining. None wore stockings or shoes, though.

The Colonel, by name of Mirabois, wore a fore-and-aft bicorne hat with an egret plume and lots of gold lace, a snug double-breasted uniform coat with lavish gilt acanthus leaves embroidered on pocket flaps, his sleeve cuffs, and the stiff standing collars of the coat.

Sweat himself t’death, in all that wool, Lewrie thought.

“Bonjour, messieurs! Vous ’ave come to surrender to us, oui?

“Er, ehm… what?” Captain Bligh gawped, taken by surprise.

“Ze tout petite plaisanterie, ha ha? Ze wee jest?”

“Oh. Ha ha. I see, ehm,” Bligh flummoxed. “Commodore Loring, ehm… our Commodore in command of His Britannic Majesty’s squadron now lying off Cap Francois, has directed us to deliver a proposal to your General Dessalines, and a request to speak with him, should that be possible,” Bligh explained in halting schoolboy French.

As nigh-illiterate as me, Lewrie thought, noting how Captain Barre, their resident critic, pursed his lips and almost grimaced to hear it. Bligh was surely senior to him, else Barre would have been the one to conduct the negotiations. And was certain that he would’ve been more effective at it. He was frowning like an irate tutor at his student’s lack of fluency!