The negro general into whose presence I had been introduced was short and of vulgar aspect, whilst his face showed a strange mixture of cunning and cruelty. After looking at me for some time in silence, with a bitter omen on his face, he said—
“I am Biassou.”
I expected this, but I could not hear it from his mouth, distorted as it was by a cruel smile, without an inward trembling; but my face remained unchanged, and I made no reply.
“Well,” continued he, in his bad French, “have they already impaled you, that you are unable to bend before Biassou, generalissimo of this conquered land, and brigadier of His Most Catholic Majesty?” (The rebel chiefs sometimes affected to be acting for the King of France, sometimes for the Republic, and at others for the King of Spain.)
I crossed my arms upon my chest, and looked him firmly in the face.
He again sneered. “Ho, ho,” said he, “me pareces hombre de buen corazon (“You seem a courageous man”); well, listen to my questions. Were you born in the island?”
“No, I am a Frenchman.”
My calmness irritated him.
“All the better; I see by your uniform that you are an officer. How old are you?”
“Twenty.”