Colonel Mirabois left them for a long time, standing in direct sunlight and steamy heat, before returning and gesturing them inside; across the high and spacious lobby, and up a long, curving flight of stairs to the upper floor, then into a receiving room large enough to accommodate a good-sized hunt ball of two hundred or more very energetic couples at a contre-dance.

“Messieurs, mon Generals…,” Colonel Mirabois loftily began as he introduced the British delegation, then made introductions for the splendidly uniformed men who stood behind a massive oak-and-marble desk.

“General Dessalines…!” Mirabois said as that worthy glared at them, a big, tough, brutal-looking man.

“Illiterate, I heard,” Lewrie whispered to Bligh and Barre.

“General Christophe…!”

“Once a British slave, brought here. Hotel waiter here in Cap Francois,” Lewrie further whispered. “Speaks English.” Christophe was not as big as the rest, and didn’t look quite as threatening.

“General Clairveaux…!” Mirabois said of a solid Mulatto man.

“Betrayal’s his meat an’ drink,” Lewrie related. “Play any side ’gainst the other.”

Captain Barre turned his head slightly to look at Lewrie, with an eyebrow up; the sort of look one gave to a talking dog.

Damme! Lewrie thought; I must’ve picked up more than I thought I had, from the last time I was here. Useful insights… gossip!

After that, Lewrie stood aside, having no role to play as Bligh presented his formal written proposal from Commodore Loring. Colonel Mirabois took it and handed it to General Dessalines, which was fruitless, since he was illiterate, a former field slave. Grudgingly, that worthy had to pass it to either Christophe or the better-educated General Clairveaux, glowering even darker and fiercer, first at the British delegation which had put him in that embarrassment, then at his two “compatriots,” who, most-likely, were scheming to become the supreme leader of their new nation.