“You wish for promotion, then?” asked Biassou of the true black. “Well, I am willing enough to grant it to you. What grade do you wish for?”
“I wish to be an officer.”
“An officer, eh?—and what are your claims to the epaulet founded on?”
“It was I,” answered the negro, emphatically, “who set fire to the house of Lagoscelte in the first days of August last. It was I who murdered M. Clement the planter, and carried the head of his sugar refiner on my pike. I killed ten white women and seven small children, one of whom on the point of a spear served as a standard for Bouckmann’s brave blacks. Later on I burnt alive the families of four colonists, whom I had locked up in the strong room of Fort Galifet. My father was broken on the wheel at Cap, my brother was hung at Rocrow, and I narrowly escaped being shot. I have burnt three coffee plantations, six indigo estates, and two hundred acres of sugar-cane; I murdered my master, M. Noé, and his mother——”
“Spare us the recital of your services,” said Rigaud, whose feigned benevolence was the mask for real cruelty, but who was ferocious with decency, and could not listen to this cynical confession of deeds of violence.
“I could quote many others,” continued the negro, proudly, “but you will no doubt consider that these are sufficient to insure my promotion, and to entitle me to wear a gold epaulet like my comrades there,” pointing to the staff of Biassou.
The general affected to reflect for a few minutes, and then gravely addressed the negro.
“I am satisfied with your services, and should be pleased to promote you, but you must satisfy me on one point. Do you understand Latin?”
The astonished negro opened his eyes widely.
“Eh, general?” said he.