“Incredible,” was all that Lewrie could think to say.
“Ze blancs ’oo stay, zey know z’ings we pauvre Noirs do not,” Mirabois said further. “ ’Ave ze education, ze dealing wis ze outside world,” he admitted, with another of those pearly-white smiles, then sobered quickly to look almost feral. “Until we learn zese z’ings, z’en…’oo knows. Moi, I desire blanc servants. Ha ha ha! I make ze pauvre plaisanterie, again, n’est-ce pas? Aw ha ha ha!”
* * *
Their escorts led them from the looted, charred shabbiness of the harbour front to wide streets leading inland to a mansion district of substantial houses, what Lewrie took for banks, and perhaps government buildings, all smoothly stuccoed and painted, once, in white and gay tropical pastels; all with even more substantial double doors and impressive sets of iron bars on the tall windows.
Most were shut tight against the victorious slave armies, their window shutters double-barred. Some had been nailed shut perhaps years before as their prosperous owners fled the colony. Some of those were now in the process of being torn open with crow-levers, or smashed open with heavy mauls, though it seemed an orderly process, not a looting by a jeering mob; the deeds were done by work-gangs or companies of Black troops, supervised by their officers.
Their escort halted in front of a pale yellow-painted government office building with blue doors and shutters, and Spanish-looking roof tiles. Soldiers in neat, clean uniforms stood guard over the entrance, though they made no moves to stop the stream of officers, runners, and idling gawkers, both military and civilian, who wandered in with pipes or cigaros fuming, chatting and pointing at their former masters’ splendours as gay as mag-pies.