“And you confess to having fired upon his Majesty’s forces?”
“No, sir; no.”
“What, sir!” cried the captain. “Do you deny that your servants—your slaves—have done this thing?”
“Sir,” cried the planter bitterly, “for long enough my chief servant has made himself my master. I, the slave, have fought hard against what has been carried out in my name.”
“Indeed?” said the captain sharply. “But qui facit per alium jacit per se. Eh, Mr Murray? You can render that for this gentleman if he requires an interpreter.”
“I need no rendering of the old Latin proverb, sir,” said the planter sadly, “and I know that I am answerable. I am a sick man, sick to death, sir, of the horrible life I have been forced to lead for the past two years, and I come to you ready to render you every assistance I can give in clearing away this plague spot.”
“Indeed,” said the captain, after exchanging looks with Mr Anderson, “but this plague spot is, I understand, a very prosperous one, and you seem to lead rather a lordly life with your state barge and retinue of slaves.”
“I beg that you will not mock me, sir,” said the planter. “I am indeed sincere in what I say, and I offer to do everything possible to enable you and your men to root out this nest of slavery.”
“Exactly,” said the captain; “now that I have found it out and do not want your help. Yours is rather a late repentance. Upon what terms do you propose this?”
“On very easy terms for you, sir,” replied the planter; “only that you will let a broken man die in peace.”