Chapter Seventeen"Heave, masters!" Winston was waist deep in the surf, throwing his shoulder against the line attached to the bow of theDefiance. "The sea's as high as it's likely to get. There'll never be a better time to set her afloat."Joan Fuller stood on deck, by the bulwark along the waist of the ship, supporting herself with the mainmast shrouds as she peered down through the rain. She held her bonnet in her hand, leaving her yellow hair plastered across her face in water-soaked strands. At Winston's request, she had brought down one of her last kegs of kill-devil. It was waiting, safely lashed to the mainmast, a visible inducement to effort."Heave . . . ho." The cadence sounded down the line of seamen as they grunted and leaned into the chop, tugging on the slippery line. Incoming waves washed over the men, leaving them alternately choking and cursing, but the rise in sea level brought about by the storm meant theDefiancewas already virtually afloat. Helped by the men it was slowly disengaging from the sandy mud; with each wave the bow would bob upward, then sink back a few inches farther into the bay."She's all but free, masters." Winston urged them on. "Heave. For your lives, by God." He glanced back at John Mewes and yelled through the rain, "How're the stores?"Mewes spat out a mouthful of foam. "There's enough water and salt pork in the hold to get us up to Nevis Island, mayhaps. If the damned fleet doesn't blockade it first." He bobbed backward as a wave crashed against his face. "There's talk the whoresons could sail north after here.""Aye, they may stand for Virginia when they’ve done with the Caribbees. But they'll likely put in at St. Christopher and Nevis first, just to make sure they humble every freeborn Englishman in the Americas." Winston tugged again and watched theDefianceslide another foot seaward. "But with any luck we'll be north before them." He pointed toward the dim mast lanterns of the English gunships offshore. "All we have to do is slip past those frigates across the bay."The men heaved once more and the weathered bow dipped sideways. Then all at once, as though by the hand of nature, theDefiancewas suddenly drifting in the surf. A cheer rose up, and Winston pushed his way within reach of the rope ladder dangling amidships. As he clambered over the bulwark Joan was waiting with congratulations."You did it. On my honor, I thought this rotted-out tub was beached for keeps." She bussed him on the cheek. "Though I fancy you might’ve lived longer if it'd stayed where it was."Mewes pulled himself over the railing after Winston and plopped his feet down onto the wet deck. He winked at Joan and held out his arms. "No kiss for the quartermaster, yor ladyship? I was workin' too, by my life.""Get on with you, you tub of lard." She swiped at him with the waterlogged bonnet she held. "You and the rest of this crew of layabouts might get a tot of kill-devil if you're lucky. Which is more than you deserve, considering how much some of you owe me already.""Try heaving her out a little farther, masters." Winston was holding the whipstaff while he yelled from the quarterdeck. "She's coming about now. We'll drop anchor in a couple of fathoms, nothing more."While the hull drifted out into the night and surf, Winston watched John Mewes kneel by the bulwark at the waist of the ship and begin to take soundings with a length of knotted rope."Two fathoms, Cap'n, by the looks of it. What do you think?""That's enough to drop anchor, John. I want to keep her in close. No sense alerting the Roundheads we're afloat."Mewes shouted toward the portside bow and a seaman began to feed out the anchor cable. Winston watched as it rattled into the surf, then he made his way along the rainswept deck back to the starboard gallery at the stern and shoved another large anchor over the side. It splashed into the waves and disappeared, its cable whipping against the taffrail."That ought to keep her from drifting. There may be some maintopman out there in the fleet who'd take notice."Whereas fully half the Commonwealth's ships had sailed for Oistins Bay to assist in the invasion, a few of the larger frigates had kept to station, their ordnance trained on the harbor."All aboard, masters. There's a tot of kill-devil waiting for every man, down by the mainmast." Winston was calling over the railing, toward the seamen now paddling through the dark along the side of the ship. "John's taking care of it. Any man who's thirsty, come topside. We'll christen the launch."The seamen sounded their approval and began to scramble up. Many did not wait their turn to use the rope ladders. Instead they seized the rusty deadeyes that held the shrouds, found toeholds in the closed gunports, and pulled themselves up within reach of the gunwales. Winston watched approvingly as the shirtless hoard came swarming onto the deck with menacing ease. These were still his lads, he told himself with a smile. They could storm and seize a ship before most of its crew managed even to cock a musket. Good men to have on hand, given what lay ahead."When're you thinkin' you'll try for open sea?" Joan hadfollowed him up the slippery companionway to the quarterdeck. "There's a good half-dozen frigates hove-to out there, doubtless all with their bleedin' guns run out and primed. I'll wager they'd like nothing better than catchin' you to leeward.""This squall's likely to blow out in a day or so, and when it does, we're going to pick a dark night, weigh anchor, and make a run for it. By then the Roundheads will probably be moving on Bridgetown, so we won't have a lot of time to dally about." He looked out toward the lights of the English fleet. "I'd almost as soon give it a try tonight. Damn this foul weather."She studied the bobbing pinpoints at the horizon skeptically. "Do you really think you can get past them?"He smiled. "Care to wager on it? I've had a special set of short sails made up, and if it's dark enough, I think we can probably slip right through. Otherwise, we'll just run out the guns and take them on."Joan looked back. "You could be leaving just in time, I'll grant you. There're apt to be dark days ahead here. What do you think'll happen with this militia now?""Barbados' heroic freedom fighters? I'd say they'll be disarmed and sent packing. Back to the cane and tobacco fields where they'd probably just as soon be anyway. The grand American revolution is finished. Tonight, when the militia should be moving everything they've got up to Oistins, they're off worrying about cane fires, letting the Roundheads get set to offload their heavy guns. By the time the rains let up and there can be a real engagement, the English infantry'll have ordnance in place and there'll be nothing to meet them with. They can't be repulsed. It's over." He looked at her. "So the only thing left for me is to get out of here while I still can. And stand for Jamaica.""That daft scheme!" She laughed ruefully and brushed the dripping hair from her face. "You'd be better off going up toBermuda for a while, or anywhere, till things cool off. You've not got the men to do anything else.""Maybe I can still collect a few of my indentures.""And maybe you'll see Puritans dancin' at a Papist wedding." She scoffed. "Let me tell you something. Those indentures are going to scatter like a flock of hens the minute the militia's disbanded. They'll not risk their skin goin' off with you to storm that fortress over at Villa de la Vega. If you know what's good for you, you'll forget Jamaica.""Don't count me out yet. There's still another way to get the men I need." He walked to the railing and gazed out into the rain. "I've been thinking I might try getting some help another place.""And where, pray, could that be?""You're not going to think much of what I have in mind." He caught her eye and realized she'd already guessed his plan."That's a fool's errand for sure.""Kindly don't go prating it about. The truth is, I'm not sure yet what I'll do. Who's to say?""You're a lying rogue, Hugh Winston. You've already made up your mind. But if you're not careful, you'll be in a worse bind than this. . . .""Beggin' yor pardon, Cap'n, it looks as if we've got a visitor." Mewes was moving up the dark companionway to the quarterdeck. He spat into the rain, then cast an uncomfortable glance toward Joan. "Mayhaps you'd best come down and handle the orders."Winston turned and followed him onto the main deck. Through the dark a white horse could be seen prancing in the gusts of rain along the shore. A woman was in the saddle, waving silently at the ship, oblivious to the squall."Aye, permission to come aboard. Get her the longboat, John." He thumbed at the small pinnace dangling from the side of the ship. "Just don't light a lantern."Mewes laughed. "I'd give a hundred sovereigns to the man who could spark up a candle lantern in this weather!"Winston looked up to see Joan slowly descending the companionway from the quarterdeck. They watched in silence as the longboat was lowered and oarsmen began rowing it the few yards to shore."Well, this is quite a sight, if I may say." Her voice was contemptuous as she broke the silence. Suddenly she began to brush at her hair, attempting to straighten out the tangles. "I've never known 'her ladyship' to venture out on a night like this. . . ." She turned and glared at Winston. "Though I've heard talk she managed to get herself aboard theDefianceonce before in a storm.""You've got big ears.""Enough to keep track of your follies. Do you suppose your lads don't take occasion to talk when they've a bit of kill-devil in their bellies? You should be more discreet, or else pay them better.""I pay them more than they're worth now.""Well, they were most admirin' of your little conquest. Or was the conquest hers?""Joan, why don't you just let it rest?" He moved to the railing at midships and reached down to help Katherine up the rope ladder. "What's happened? This is the very devil of a night. . . .""Hugh . . ." She was about to throw her arms around him when she noticed Joan. She stopped dead still, then turned and nodded with cold formality. "Your servant . . . madam.""Your ladyship's most obedient . . ." Joan curtsied back with a cordiality hewn from ice.They examined each other a moment in silence. Then Katherine seemed to dismiss her as she turned back to Winston."Please. Won't you come back and help? just for tonight?"He reached for her hand and felt it trembling. "Help you? What do you mean?" His voice quickened. "Don't tell me the Roundheads have already started marching on Bridgetown.""Not that we know of. But now that the rain's put out the cane fires, a few of the militia have started regrouping. With their horses." She squeezed his hand in her own. "Maybe we could still try an attack on the Oistins breastwork at dawn.""You don't have a chance. Now that the rains have begun, you can't move up any cannon. The roads are like rivers. But they've got heavy ordnance. The Roundheads have doubtless got those cannons in the breastwork turned around now and covering the road. If we'd have marched last evening, we could've moved up some guns of our own, and then hit them at first light. Before they expected an attack. But now it's too late." He examined her sadly. Her face was drawn and her hair was plastered against her cheeks. "It's over, Katy. Barbados is lost.""But you said you'd fight, even if you had nobody but your own men.""Briggs and the rest of them managed to change my mind for me. Why should I risk anything? They won't."She stood unmoving, still grasping his hand. "Then you're really leaving?""I am." He looked at her. "I still wish you'd decide to go with me. God knows . . ."Suddenly she pulled down his face and kissed him on the lips, lingering as the taste of rain flooded her mouth. Finally she pulled away. "I can't think now. At least about that. But for God's sake please help us tonight. Let us use those flintlocks you've got here on the ship. They're dry. The Roundhead infantry probably has mostly matchlocks, and they'll be wet. With your muskets maybe we can make up for the difference in our numbers."He examined her skeptically. "Just exactly whose idea is this, Katy?""Who do you suppose? Nobody else knows you've got them.""Anthony Walrond knows." Winston laughed. "I'll say one thing. It would be perfect justice.""Then use them to arm our militia. With your guns, maybe –-“"I'll be needing those flintlocks where I'm going."Joan pushed forward with a scowl. "Give me leave to put you in mind, madam, that those muskets belong to Hugh. Not to the worthless militia on this island." She turned on Winston. "Don't be daft. You give those new flintlocks over to the militia and you'll never see half of them again. You know that as well as I do."He stood studying the locked fo'c'sle in silence. "I'll grant you that. I'd be a perfect fool to let the militia get hold of them.""Hugh, what happened to all your talk of honor?" Katherine drew back. "I thought you were going to fight to the last.""I told you . . ." He paused as he gazed into the rain for a long moment. Finally he looked back. "I'd say there is one small chance left. If we went in with a few men, before it gets light, maybe we could spike the cannon in the breastwork. Then at least it would be an even battle.""Would you try it?"He took her hand, ignoring Joan's withering glare. "Maybe I do owe Anthony Walrond a little farewell party. In appreciation for his selling this island, and me with it, to the God damned Roundheads.""Then you'll come?""How about this? If I can manage to get some of my lads over to Oistins before daybreak, we might try paying them a little surprise." He grinned. "It would be good practice for Jamaica.""Then stay and help us fight. How can we just give up, when there's still a chance? They can't keep up their blockade forever. Then we'll be done with England, have a free nation here. . . ."He shook his head in resignation, then turned up his face to feel the rain. He stood for a time, the two women watching him as the downpour washed across his cheeks. "There's no freedom on this island anymore. There may never be again. But maybe I do owe Anthony Walrond and his Windwards a lesson in honor." He looked back. "All right. But go back up to the compound. You'd best stay clear of this."Before she could respond, he turned and signaled toward Mewes."John. Unlock the muskets and call all hands on deck."Dalby Bedford was standing in the doorway of the makeshift tent, peering into the dark. He spotted Winston, trailed by a crowd of shirtless seamen walking up the road between the rows of rain-whipped palms."God's life. Is that who it looks to be?""What the plague! The knave had the brass to come back?" Colonel George Heathcott pushed his way through the milling crowd of militia officers and moved alongside Bedford to stare. "As though we hadn't enough confusion already."The governor's plumed hat and doublet were soaked. While the storm had swept the island, he had taken command of the militia, keeping together a remnant of men and officers. But now, only two hours before dawn, the squall still showed no signs of abating. Even with the men who had returned, the ranks of the militia had been diminished to a fraction of its former strength—since many planters were still hunting down runaways, or had barricaded themselves and their families in their homes for safety. Several plantation houses along the west coast had been burned, and through the rain random gunfire could still be heard as slaves were being pursued. Though the rebellion had been routed, a few pockets of Africans, armed with machetes, remained at large.The recapture of the slaves was now merely a matter of time. But that very time, Bedford realized, might represent the difference between victory and defeat."Those men with him are all carrying something." Heathcott squinted through the rain at the line of men trailing after Winston. "By God, I'd venture those could be muskets. Maybe he's managed to locate a few more matchlocks for us." He heaved a deep breath. "Though they'll be damned useless in this rain.""Your servant, Captain." Bedford bowed lightly as Winston ducked under the raised flap at the entrance of the lean-to shelter. "Here to join us?""I thought we might come back over for a while." He glanced around at the scattering of officers in the tent. "Who wants to help me go down to the breastwork and see if we can spike whatever guns they've got? If we did that, maybe you could muster enough men to try storming the place when it gets light.""You're apt to be met by five hundred men with pikes, sir, and Anthony Walrond at their head." Heathcott's voice was filled with dismay. "Three or four for every one we've got. We don't have the men to take and hold that breastwork now, not till some more of the militia get back.""If those guns aren't spiked by dawn, you'd as well just go ahead and surrender and have done with it." He looked around the tent. "Mind if I let the boys come in out of the rain to prime their muskets?""Muskets?" Heathcott examined him. "You'll not be using matchlocks, not in this weather. I doubt a man could keep his matchcord lit long enough to take aim.""I sure as hell don't plan to try taking the breastwork with nothing but pikes." Winston turned and gestured for the men to enter the tent. Dick Hawkins led the way, unshaven, shirtless, and carrying two oilcloth bundles. After him came Edwin Spurre, cursing the rain as he set down two bundles of his own. Over a dozen other seamen followed."This tent is for the command, sir." Heathcott advanced on Winston. "I don't know what authority you think you have to start bringing in your men.""We can't prime muskets in the rain.""Sir, you're no longer in charge here, and we've all had quite. . ." His glance fell on the bundle Spurre was unwrapping. The candle lantern cast a golden glow over a shiny new flintlock. The barrel was damascened in gold, and the stock was fine Italian walnut inlaid with mother of pearl. Both the serpentine cock and the heel plate on the stock were engraved and gilt. "Good God, where did that piece come from?""From my personal arsenal." Winston watched as Spurre slipped out the ramrod and began loading and priming the flintlock. Then he continued, "These muskets don't belong to your militia. They're just for my own men, here tonight.""If you can keep them dry," Heathcott's voice quickened, "maybe you could . . .""They should be good for at least one round, before the lock gets damp." Winston turned to Heathcott. "They won't be expecting us now. So if your men can help us hold the breastwork while we spike those cannon, we might just manage it.""And these guns?" Heathcott was still admiring the muskets."We won't use them any more than we have to." Winston walked down the line of officers. "There's apt to be some hand-to-hand fighting if their infantry gets wind of what's afoot and tries to rush the emplacement while we're still up there. How many of your militiamen have the stomach for that kind of assignment?"The tent fell silent save for the drumbeat of rain. The officers all knew that to move on the breastwork now would be the ultimate test of their will to win. The question on every man's mind was whether their militia still possessed that will. But the alternative was most likely a brief and ignominious defeat on the field, followed by unconditional surrender.They gathered in a huddle at the rear of the tent, a cluster of black hats, while Winston's men continued priming the guns. "Damn'd well-made piece, this one." Edwin Spurre was admiring the gilded trigger of his musket. "I hope she shoots as fine as she feels." He looked up at Winston. "I think we can keep the powder pan dry enough if we take care. They've all got a cover that's been specially fitted."Winston laughed. "Only the best for Sir Anthony. Let's make sure he finds out how much we appreciate the gun-1smithing he paid for.""It's a risk, sir. Damned if it's not." Heathcott broke from the huddle and approached Winston. "But with these flintlocks we might have an advantage. They'll not be expecting us now. Maybe we can find some men to back you up.""We could use the help. But I only want volunteers." Winston surveyed the tent. "And they can't be a lot of untested farmers who'll panic and run if the Roundheads try and make a charge.""Well and good." Bedford nodded, then turned to Heathcott. "I'll be the first volunteer. We're running out of time.”Winston reached for a musket. "Then let's get on with it."*Rain now, all about them, engulfing them, the dense Caribbean torrent that erases the edge between earth, sky, and sea. Winston felt as though they were swimming in it, the gusts wet against his face, soaking through his leather jerkin, awash in his boots. The earth seemed caught in a vast ephemeral river which oscillated like a pendulum between ocean and sky. In the Caribbees this water from the skies was different from anywhere else he had ever known. The heavens, like a brooding deity, first scorched the islands with a white-hot sun, then purged the heat with warm, remorseless tears.Why had he come back to Oistins? To chance his life oncemore in the service of liberty? The very thought brought a wry smile. He now realized there would never be liberty in this slave-owning corner of the Americas. Too much wealth was at stake for England to let go of this shiny new coin in Cromwell's exchequer. The Puritans who ruled England would keep Barbados at any cost, and they would see to it that slavery stayed.No. Coming back now was a personal point. Principle. If you'd go back on your word, there was little else you wouldn't scruple to do as well.Maybe freedom didn't have a chance here, but you fought the fight you were given. You didn't betray your cause, the way Anthony Walrond had."There look to be lighted linstocks up there, Cap'n. They're ready." Edwin Spurre nodded toward the tall outline of the breastwork up ahead. It was a heavy brick fortification designed to protect the gun emplacements against cannon fire from the sea. The flicker of lantern light revealed that the cannon had been rolled around, directed back toward the roadway, in open view."We've got to see those linstocks are never used." He paused and motioned for the men to circle around him. Their flintlocks were still swathed in oilcloth. "We need to give them a little surprise, masters. So hold your fire as long as you can. Anyway, we're apt to need every musket if the Windwards realize we're there and try to counterattack.""Do you really think we can get up there, Cap'n?" Dick Hawkins carefully set down a large brown sack holding spikes, hammers, and grapples—the last used for boarding vessels at sea. "It's damned high.""We're going to have to circle around and try taking it from the sea side, which is even higher. But that way they won't see us. Also, we can't have bandoliers rattling, so we've got to leave them here. Just take a couple of charge-holders in each pocket. There'll not be time for more anyway." He turned and examined the heavy brick of the breastwork. "Now look lively. Before they spot us."Hawkins silently began lifting out the grapples—heavy barbed hooks that had been swathed with sailcloth so they would land soundlessly, each with fifty feet of line. Winston picked one up and checked the wrapping on the prongs. Would it catch and hold? Maybe between the raised battlements.He watched as Hawkins passed the other grapples among the men, eighteen of them all together. Then they moved on through the night, circling around toward the seaward wall of the fortification.Behind them the first contingent of volunteers from the Barbados militia waited in the shadows. As soon as the gunners were overpowered by Winston's men, they would advance and help hold the breastwork while the guns were being spiked.In the rainy dark neither Winston nor his Seamen noticed the small band of men, skin black as the night, who now edged forward silently through the shadows behind them.They had arrived at theDefianceearlier that evening, only to discover it afloat, several yards at sea. Then they had watched in dismay as Winston led a band of seamen ashore in longboats, carrying the very muskets they had come to procure. Could it be the guns were already primed and ready to fire?Prudently Atiba had insisted they hold back. They had followed through the rain, biding their time all the five-mile trek to Oistins. Then they had waited patiently while Winston held council with thebrancochiefs. Finally they had seen the muskets being primed . . . which meant they could have been safely seized all along!But now time was running out. How to take the guns? It must be done quickly, while there still was dark to cover their escape into hiding. Atiba watched as Winston and the men quietly positioned themselves along the seaward side of the breastwork and began uncoiling the lines of their grapples. Suddenly he sensed what was to happen next.Perhaps now there was a way to get the guns after all. . . ."Wait. And be ready." He motioned the men back into the shadows of a palm grove. Then he darted through the rain.Winston was circling the first grapple above his head, intended for the copestone along the top of the breastwork, when he heard a quiet Portuguese whisper at his ear."You will not succeed, senhor. The Ingles will hear your hooks when they strike against the stone.""What the pox!" He whirled to see a tall black man standing behind him, a machete in his hand."A life for a life, senhor. Was that not what you said?" Atiba glanced around him. The seamen stared in wordless astonishment. "Do you wish to seize the great guns atop this fortress? Then let my men do it for you. This is best done the Yoruba way.""Where the hell did you come from?" Winston's whisper was almost drowned in the rain."From out of the dark. Remember, my skin is black. Sometimes that is an advantage, even on an island owned by the white Ingles.""Briggs will kill you if he catches you here."Atiba laughed. "I could have killed him tonight, but I chose to wait. I want to do it the Ingles way. With a musket." He slipped the machete into his waistwrap. "I have come to make a trade.""What do you mean?""Look around you." Atiba turned and gestured. Out of the palms emerged a menacing line of black men, all carrying cane machetes. "My men are here. We could kill all of you now, senhor, and simply take your muskets. But you once treated me as a brother, so I will barter with you fairly, as though today were market day in Ife. I and my men will seize this branco fortress and make it an offering of friendship to you—rather than watch you be killed trying to take it yourself—in trade for these guns." He smiled grimly. "A life for a life, do you recall?""The revolt you started is as good as finished, just like I warned you would happen." Winston peered through the rain. "You won't be needing any muskets now.""Perhaps it is over. But we will not die as slaves. We will die as Yoruba. And many branco will die with us.""Not with my flintlocks, they won't." Winston examined him and noticed a dark stain of blood down his shoulder.Atiba drew out his machete again and motioned the other men forward. "Then see what happens when we use these instead." He turned the machete in his hand. "It may change your mind."Before Winston could reply, he turned and whispered a few brisk phrases to the waiting men. They slipped their machetes into their waistwraps and in an instant were against the breastwork, scaling it.As the seamen watched in disbelief, a host of dark figures moved surely, silently up the sloping stone wall of the breastwork. Their fingers and toes caught the crevices and joints in the stone with catlike agility as they moved toward the top."God's blood, Cap'n, what in hell's this about?" Dick Hawkins moved next to Winston, still holding a grapple and line. "Are these savages . . .?""I'm damned if I know for sure. But I don't like it." His eyes were riveted on the line of black figures now blended against the stone of the breastwork. They had merged with the rain, all but invisible.In what seemed only moments, Atiba had reached the parapet along the top of the breastwork, followed by his men. For an instant Winston caught the glint of machetes, reflecting the glow of the lighted linstocks, and then nothing."By God, no. There'll be no unnecessary killing." He flung his grapple upward, then gestured at the men. "Let's go topside, quick!"The light clank of the grapple against the parapet was lost in the strangled cries of surprise from atop the breastwork. Then a few muted screams drifted down through the rain. The sounds died away almost as soon as they had begun, leaving only the gentle pounding of rain."It is yours, senhor." The Portuguese words came down as Atiba looked back over the side. "But come quickly. One of them escaped us. I fear he will sound a warning. There will surely be morebranco, soon.""Damn your eyes." Winston seized the line of his grapple, tested it, and began pulling himself up the face of the stone wall. There was the clank of grapples as the other men followed.The scene atop the breastwork momentarily took his breath away. All the infantrymen on gunnery duty had had their throats cut, their bodies now sprawled haphazardly across the stonework. One gunner was even slumped across the breech of a demi-culverin, still clasping one of the lighted linstocks, its oil-soaked tip smoldering inconclusively in the rain. The Yoruba warriors stood among them, wiping blood from their machetes."Good Christ!" Winston exploded and turned on Atiba. "There was no need to kill all these men. You just had to disarm them.""It is better." Atiba met his gaze. "They werebrancowarriors. Is it not a warrior's duty to be ready to die?""You bloodthirsty savage."Atiba smiled. "So tell me, what are these great Ingles guns sitting all around us here meant to do? Save lives? Or kill men by the hundreds, men whose face you never have to see? My people do not make these. So who is the savage, my Ingles friend?""Damn you, there are rules of war.""Ah yes. You are civilized." He slipped the machete into his waistwrap. "Someday you must explain to me these rules you have for civilized killing. Perhaps they are something like the 'rules' your Christians have devised to justify making my people slaves."Winston looked at him a moment longer, then at the bodies lying around them. There was nothing to be done now. Best to get on with disabling the guns. "Dick, haul up that sack with the spikes and let's make quick work of this.""Aye." Hawkins seized the line attached to his waist and walked to the edge of the parapet. At the other end, resting in the mud below, was the brown canvas bag containing the hammers and the spikes.Moments later the air rang with the sound of metal against metal, as the seamen began hammering small, nail-like spikes into the touch-holes of each cannon. That was the signal for the Barbados militiamen to advance from the landward side of the breastwork, to provide defensive cover."A life for a life, senhor." Atiba moved next to Winston. "We served you. Now it is time for your part of the trade.""You're not getting any of my flintlocks, if that's what you mean.""Don't make us take them." Atiba dropped his hand to the handle of his machete."And don't make my boys show you how they can use them." Winston stood unmoving. "There's been killing enough here tonight.""So you are not, after all, a man who keeps his word. You are merely anotherbranco. " He slowly began to draw the machete from his belt."I gave you no 'word.' And I wouldn't advise that . . ." Winston pushed back the side of his wet jerkin, clearing the pistols in his belt.Out of the dark rain a line of Barbados planters carrying homemade pikes came clambering up the stone steps. Colonel Heathcott was in the lead. "Good job, Captain, by my life." He beamed from under his gray hat. "We heard nary a peep. But you were too damned quick by half. Bedford's just getting the next lot of militia together now. He'll need . . ."As he topped the last step, he stumbled over the fallen body of a Commonwealth infantryman. A tin helmet clattered across the stonework."God's blood! What . . ." He peered through the half- light at the other bodies littering the platform, then glared at Winston. "You massacred the lads!""We had some help."Heathcott stared past Winston, noticed Atiba, and stopped stone still. Then he glanced around and saw the cluster of Africans standing against the parapet, still holding machetes."Good God." He took a step backward and motioned toward his men. "Form ranks. There're runaways up here. And they're armed.""Careful . . ." Before Winston could finish, he heard a command in Yoruba and saw Atiba start forward with his machete."No, by God!" Winston shouted in Portuguese. Before Atiba could move, he was holding a cocked pistol against the Yoruba's cheek. "I said there's been enough bloodshed. Don't make me kill you to prove it."In the silence that followed there came a series of flashes from the dark down the shore, followed by dull pops. Two of the planters at the top of the stone steps groaned, twisted, and slumped against the stonework with bleeding flesh wounds. Then a second firing order sounded through the rain. It carried the unmistakable authority of Anthony Walrond."On the double, masters. The fireworks are set to begin." Winston turned and shouted toward the seamen, still hammering in the spikes. "Spurre, get those flintlocks unwrapped and ready. It looks like Walrond has a few dry muskets of his own.""Aye, Cap'n." He signaled the seamen who had finishedtheir assigned tasks to join him, and together they took cover against the low parapet on the landward side of the breastwork. Heathcott and the planters, pikes at the ready, nervously moved behind them.Winston felt a movement and turned to see Atiba twist away. He stepped aside just in time to avoid the lunge of his machete—then brought the barrel of the pistol down hard against the side of his skull. The Yoruba groaned and staggered back against the cannon nearest them. As he struggled to regain his balance, he knocked aside the body of the Commonwealth infantryman who lay sprawled across its barrel, the smoldering linstock still in his dead grasp. The man slid slowly down the wet side of the culverin, toward the breech. Finally he tumbled forward onto the stonework, releasing his grasp on the handle of the lighted linstock.Later Winston remembered watching in paralyzed horror as the linstock clattered against the breech of the culverin, scattering sparks. The oil-soaked rag that had been its tip seemed to disintegrate as the handle slammed against the iron, and a fragment of burning rag fluttered against the shielded touch hole.A flash shattered the night, as a tongue of flame torched upward. For a moment it illuminated the breastwork like midday.In the stunned silence that followed there were yells of surprise from the far distance, in the direction of the English camp. No one had expected a cannon shot. Moments later, several rounds of musket fire erupted from the roadway below. The approaching Barbados militiamen had assumed they were being fired on from the breastwork. But now they had revealed their position. Almost immediately their fire was returned by the advance party of the Windward Regiment.Suddenly one of the Yoruba waiting at the back of the breastwork shouted incomprehensibly, broke from the group, and began clambering over the parapet. There were more yells, and in moments the others were following him. Atiba, who had been knocked sprawling by the cannon's explosion, called for them to stay, but they seemed not to hear. In seconds they had vanished over the parapet and into the night."You betrayed us, senhor." He looked up at Winston. "You will pay for it with your life.""Not tonight I won't." Winston was still holding the pistol, praying it was not too wet to fire."Not tonight. But soon." He shoved the machete unsteadily into his waistwrap. Winston noticed that he had difficulty rising, but he managed to pull himself up weakly. Then his strength appeared to revive. "Our war is not over." Amid the gunfire and confusion, he turned and slipped down the landward side of the breastwork. Winston watched as he disappeared into the rain."How many more left to spike, masters?" He yelled back toward the men with the hammers. As he spoke, more musket fire sounded from the plain below."We've got all but two, Cap'n." Hawkins shouted back through the rain. "These damned little demi-culverin. Our spikes are too big.""Then the hell with them. We've done what we came to do." He motioned toward Heathcott. "Let's call it a night and make a run for it. Now.""Fine job, I must say." Heathcott was smiling broadly as he motioned the cringing planters away from the wall. "We'll hold them yet."While the seamen opened sporadic covering fire with their flintlocks, the militia began scrambling down the wet steps. When the column of Walrond's Windward Regiment now marching up from the seaside realized they were armed, it immediately broke ranks and scattered for cover. In moments Winston and Heathcott were leading their own men safely up the road toward the camp. They met the remainder of the Barbados militia midway, a bedraggled cluster in the downpour."You can turn back now, sirs." Heathcott saluted the leadofficer, who was kneeling over a form fallen in the sand. "You gave us good cover when we needed you, but now it's done. The ordnance is spiked. At sunup we'll drive the Roundheads back into the sea.""Good Christ." The officer's voice was trembling as he looked up, rain streaming down his face. "We'd as well just sue for peace and have done with it.""What?" Heathcott examined him. "What do you mean?""He was leading us. Dalby Bedford. The Windwards caught him in the chest when they opened fire." He seemed to choke on his dismay. "The island's no longer got a governor."
"Heave, masters!" Winston was waist deep in the surf, throwing his shoulder against the line attached to the bow of theDefiance. "The sea's as high as it's likely to get. There'll never be a better time to set her afloat."
Joan Fuller stood on deck, by the bulwark along the waist of the ship, supporting herself with the mainmast shrouds as she peered down through the rain. She held her bonnet in her hand, leaving her yellow hair plastered across her face in water-soaked strands. At Winston's request, she had brought down one of her last kegs of kill-devil. It was waiting, safely lashed to the mainmast, a visible inducement to effort.
"Heave . . . ho." The cadence sounded down the line of seamen as they grunted and leaned into the chop, tugging on the slippery line. Incoming waves washed over the men, leaving them alternately choking and cursing, but the rise in sea level brought about by the storm meant theDefiancewas already virtually afloat. Helped by the men it was slowly disengaging from the sandy mud; with each wave the bow would bob upward, then sink back a few inches farther into the bay.
"She's all but free, masters." Winston urged them on. "Heave. For your lives, by God." He glanced back at John Mewes and yelled through the rain, "How're the stores?"
Mewes spat out a mouthful of foam. "There's enough water and salt pork in the hold to get us up to Nevis Island, mayhaps. If the damned fleet doesn't blockade it first." He bobbed backward as a wave crashed against his face. "There's talk the whoresons could sail north after here."
"Aye, they may stand for Virginia when they’ve done with the Caribbees. But they'll likely put in at St. Christopher and Nevis first, just to make sure they humble every freeborn Englishman in the Americas." Winston tugged again and watched theDefianceslide another foot seaward. "But with any luck we'll be north before them." He pointed toward the dim mast lanterns of the English gunships offshore. "All we have to do is slip past those frigates across the bay."
The men heaved once more and the weathered bow dipped sideways. Then all at once, as though by the hand of nature, theDefiancewas suddenly drifting in the surf. A cheer rose up, and Winston pushed his way within reach of the rope ladder dangling amidships. As he clambered over the bulwark Joan was waiting with congratulations.
"You did it. On my honor, I thought this rotted-out tub was beached for keeps." She bussed him on the cheek. "Though I fancy you might’ve lived longer if it'd stayed where it was."
Mewes pulled himself over the railing after Winston and plopped his feet down onto the wet deck. He winked at Joan and held out his arms. "No kiss for the quartermaster, yor ladyship? I was workin' too, by my life."
"Get on with you, you tub of lard." She swiped at him with the waterlogged bonnet she held. "You and the rest of this crew of layabouts might get a tot of kill-devil if you're lucky. Which is more than you deserve, considering how much some of you owe me already."
"Try heaving her out a little farther, masters." Winston was holding the whipstaff while he yelled from the quarterdeck. "She's coming about now. We'll drop anchor in a couple of fathoms, nothing more."
While the hull drifted out into the night and surf, Winston watched John Mewes kneel by the bulwark at the waist of the ship and begin to take soundings with a length of knotted rope.
"Two fathoms, Cap'n, by the looks of it. What do you think?"
"That's enough to drop anchor, John. I want to keep her in close. No sense alerting the Roundheads we're afloat."
Mewes shouted toward the portside bow and a seaman began to feed out the anchor cable. Winston watched as it rattled into the surf, then he made his way along the rainswept deck back to the starboard gallery at the stern and shoved another large anchor over the side. It splashed into the waves and disappeared, its cable whipping against the taffrail.
"That ought to keep her from drifting. There may be some maintopman out there in the fleet who'd take notice."
Whereas fully half the Commonwealth's ships had sailed for Oistins Bay to assist in the invasion, a few of the larger frigates had kept to station, their ordnance trained on the harbor.
"All aboard, masters. There's a tot of kill-devil waiting for every man, down by the mainmast." Winston was calling over the railing, toward the seamen now paddling through the dark along the side of the ship. "John's taking care of it. Any man who's thirsty, come topside. We'll christen the launch."
The seamen sounded their approval and began to scramble up. Many did not wait their turn to use the rope ladders. Instead they seized the rusty deadeyes that held the shrouds, found toeholds in the closed gunports, and pulled themselves up within reach of the gunwales. Winston watched approvingly as the shirtless hoard came swarming onto the deck with menacing ease. These were still his lads, he told himself with a smile. They could storm and seize a ship before most of its crew managed even to cock a musket. Good men to have on hand, given what lay ahead.
"When're you thinkin' you'll try for open sea?" Joan had
followed him up the slippery companionway to the quarterdeck. "There's a good half-dozen frigates hove-to out there, doubtless all with their bleedin' guns run out and primed. I'll wager they'd like nothing better than catchin' you to leeward."
"This squall's likely to blow out in a day or so, and when it does, we're going to pick a dark night, weigh anchor, and make a run for it. By then the Roundheads will probably be moving on Bridgetown, so we won't have a lot of time to dally about." He looked out toward the lights of the English fleet. "I'd almost as soon give it a try tonight. Damn this foul weather."
She studied the bobbing pinpoints at the horizon skeptically. "Do you really think you can get past them?"
He smiled. "Care to wager on it? I've had a special set of short sails made up, and if it's dark enough, I think we can probably slip right through. Otherwise, we'll just run out the guns and take them on."
Joan looked back. "You could be leaving just in time, I'll grant you. There're apt to be dark days ahead here. What do you think'll happen with this militia now?"
"Barbados' heroic freedom fighters? I'd say they'll be disarmed and sent packing. Back to the cane and tobacco fields where they'd probably just as soon be anyway. The grand American revolution is finished. Tonight, when the militia should be moving everything they've got up to Oistins, they're off worrying about cane fires, letting the Roundheads get set to offload their heavy guns. By the time the rains let up and there can be a real engagement, the English infantry'll have ordnance in place and there'll be nothing to meet them with. They can't be repulsed. It's over." He looked at her. "So the only thing left for me is to get out of here while I still can. And stand for Jamaica."
"That daft scheme!" She laughed ruefully and brushed the dripping hair from her face. "You'd be better off going up to
Bermuda for a while, or anywhere, till things cool off. You've not got the men to do anything else."
"Maybe I can still collect a few of my indentures."
"And maybe you'll see Puritans dancin' at a Papist wedding." She scoffed. "Let me tell you something. Those indentures are going to scatter like a flock of hens the minute the militia's disbanded. They'll not risk their skin goin' off with you to storm that fortress over at Villa de la Vega. If you know what's good for you, you'll forget Jamaica."
"Don't count me out yet. There's still another way to get the men I need." He walked to the railing and gazed out into the rain. "I've been thinking I might try getting some help another place."
"And where, pray, could that be?"
"You're not going to think much of what I have in mind." He caught her eye and realized she'd already guessed his plan.
"That's a fool's errand for sure."
"Kindly don't go prating it about. The truth is, I'm not sure yet what I'll do. Who's to say?"
"You're a lying rogue, Hugh Winston. You've already made up your mind. But if you're not careful, you'll be in a worse bind than this. . . ."
"Beggin' yor pardon, Cap'n, it looks as if we've got a visitor." Mewes was moving up the dark companionway to the quarterdeck. He spat into the rain, then cast an uncomfortable glance toward Joan. "Mayhaps you'd best come down and handle the orders."
Winston turned and followed him onto the main deck. Through the dark a white horse could be seen prancing in the gusts of rain along the shore. A woman was in the saddle, waving silently at the ship, oblivious to the squall.
"Aye, permission to come aboard. Get her the longboat, John." He thumbed at the small pinnace dangling from the side of the ship. "Just don't light a lantern."
Mewes laughed. "I'd give a hundred sovereigns to the man who could spark up a candle lantern in this weather!"
Winston looked up to see Joan slowly descending the companionway from the quarterdeck. They watched in silence as the longboat was lowered and oarsmen began rowing it the few yards to shore.
"Well, this is quite a sight, if I may say." Her voice was contemptuous as she broke the silence. Suddenly she began to brush at her hair, attempting to straighten out the tangles. "I've never known 'her ladyship' to venture out on a night like this. . . ." She turned and glared at Winston. "Though I've heard talk she managed to get herself aboard theDefianceonce before in a storm."
"You've got big ears."
"Enough to keep track of your follies. Do you suppose your lads don't take occasion to talk when they've a bit of kill-devil in their bellies? You should be more discreet, or else pay them better."
"I pay them more than they're worth now."
"Well, they were most admirin' of your little conquest. Or was the conquest hers?"
"Joan, why don't you just let it rest?" He moved to the railing at midships and reached down to help Katherine up the rope ladder. "What's happened? This is the very devil of a night. . . ."
"Hugh . . ." She was about to throw her arms around him when she noticed Joan. She stopped dead still, then turned and nodded with cold formality. "Your servant . . . madam."
"Your ladyship's most obedient . . ." Joan curtsied back with a cordiality hewn from ice.
They examined each other a moment in silence. Then Katherine seemed to dismiss her as she turned back to Winston.
"Please. Won't you come back and help? just for tonight?"
He reached for her hand and felt it trembling. "Help you? What do you mean?" His voice quickened. "Don't tell me the Roundheads have already started marching on Bridgetown."
"Not that we know of. But now that the rain's put out the cane fires, a few of the militia have started regrouping. With their horses." She squeezed his hand in her own. "Maybe we could still try an attack on the Oistins breastwork at dawn."
"You don't have a chance. Now that the rains have begun, you can't move up any cannon. The roads are like rivers. But they've got heavy ordnance. The Roundheads have doubtless got those cannons in the breastwork turned around now and covering the road. If we'd have marched last evening, we could've moved up some guns of our own, and then hit them at first light. Before they expected an attack. But now it's too late." He examined her sadly. Her face was drawn and her hair was plastered against her cheeks. "It's over, Katy. Barbados is lost."
"But you said you'd fight, even if you had nobody but your own men."
"Briggs and the rest of them managed to change my mind for me. Why should I risk anything? They won't."
She stood unmoving, still grasping his hand. "Then you're really leaving?"
"I am." He looked at her. "I still wish you'd decide to go with me. God knows . . ."
Suddenly she pulled down his face and kissed him on the lips, lingering as the taste of rain flooded her mouth. Finally she pulled away. "I can't think now. At least about that. But for God's sake please help us tonight. Let us use those flintlocks you've got here on the ship. They're dry. The Roundhead infantry probably has mostly matchlocks, and they'll be wet. With your muskets maybe we can make up for the difference in our numbers."
He examined her skeptically. "Just exactly whose idea is this, Katy?"
"Who do you suppose? Nobody else knows you've got them."
"Anthony Walrond knows." Winston laughed. "I'll say one thing. It would be perfect justice."
"Then use them to arm our militia. With your guns, maybe –-“
"I'll be needing those flintlocks where I'm going."
Joan pushed forward with a scowl. "Give me leave to put you in mind, madam, that those muskets belong to Hugh. Not to the worthless militia on this island." She turned on Winston. "Don't be daft. You give those new flintlocks over to the militia and you'll never see half of them again. You know that as well as I do."
He stood studying the locked fo'c'sle in silence. "I'll grant you that. I'd be a perfect fool to let the militia get hold of them."
"Hugh, what happened to all your talk of honor?" Katherine drew back. "I thought you were going to fight to the last."
"I told you . . ." He paused as he gazed into the rain for a long moment. Finally he looked back. "I'd say there is one small chance left. If we went in with a few men, before it gets light, maybe we could spike the cannon in the breastwork. Then at least it would be an even battle."
"Would you try it?"
He took her hand, ignoring Joan's withering glare. "Maybe I do owe Anthony Walrond a little farewell party. In appreciation for his selling this island, and me with it, to the God damned Roundheads."
"Then you'll come?"
"How about this? If I can manage to get some of my lads over to Oistins before daybreak, we might try paying them a little surprise." He grinned. "It would be good practice for Jamaica."
"Then stay and help us fight. How can we just give up, when there's still a chance? They can't keep up their blockade forever. Then we'll be done with England, have a free nation here. . . ."
He shook his head in resignation, then turned up his face to feel the rain. He stood for a time, the two women watching him as the downpour washed across his cheeks. "There's no freedom on this island anymore. There may never be again. But maybe I do owe Anthony Walrond and his Windwards a lesson in honor." He looked back. "All right. But go back up to the compound. You'd best stay clear of this."
Before she could respond, he turned and signaled toward Mewes.
"John. Unlock the muskets and call all hands on deck."
Dalby Bedford was standing in the doorway of the makeshift tent, peering into the dark. He spotted Winston, trailed by a crowd of shirtless seamen walking up the road between the rows of rain-whipped palms.
"God's life. Is that who it looks to be?"
"What the plague! The knave had the brass to come back?" Colonel George Heathcott pushed his way through the milling crowd of militia officers and moved alongside Bedford to stare. "As though we hadn't enough confusion already."
The governor's plumed hat and doublet were soaked. While the storm had swept the island, he had taken command of the militia, keeping together a remnant of men and officers. But now, only two hours before dawn, the squall still showed no signs of abating. Even with the men who had returned, the ranks of the militia had been diminished to a fraction of its former strength—since many planters were still hunting down runaways, or had barricaded themselves and their families in their homes for safety. Several plantation houses along the west coast had been burned, and through the rain random gunfire could still be heard as slaves were being pursued. Though the rebellion had been routed, a few pockets of Africans, armed with machetes, remained at large.
The recapture of the slaves was now merely a matter of time. But that very time, Bedford realized, might represent the difference between victory and defeat.
"Those men with him are all carrying something." Heathcott squinted through the rain at the line of men trailing after Winston. "By God, I'd venture those could be muskets. Maybe he's managed to locate a few more matchlocks for us." He heaved a deep breath. "Though they'll be damned useless in this rain."
"Your servant, Captain." Bedford bowed lightly as Winston ducked under the raised flap at the entrance of the lean-to shelter. "Here to join us?"
"I thought we might come back over for a while." He glanced around at the scattering of officers in the tent. "Who wants to help me go down to the breastwork and see if we can spike whatever guns they've got? If we did that, maybe you could muster enough men to try storming the place when it gets light."
"You're apt to be met by five hundred men with pikes, sir, and Anthony Walrond at their head." Heathcott's voice was filled with dismay. "Three or four for every one we've got. We don't have the men to take and hold that breastwork now, not till some more of the militia get back."
"If those guns aren't spiked by dawn, you'd as well just go ahead and surrender and have done with it." He looked around the tent. "Mind if I let the boys come in out of the rain to prime their muskets?"
"Muskets?" Heathcott examined him. "You'll not be using matchlocks, not in this weather. I doubt a man could keep his matchcord lit long enough to take aim."
"I sure as hell don't plan to try taking the breastwork with nothing but pikes." Winston turned and gestured for the men to enter the tent. Dick Hawkins led the way, unshaven, shirtless, and carrying two oilcloth bundles. After him came Edwin Spurre, cursing the rain as he set down two bundles of his own. Over a dozen other seamen followed.
"This tent is for the command, sir." Heathcott advanced on Winston. "I don't know what authority you think you have to start bringing in your men."
"We can't prime muskets in the rain."
"Sir, you're no longer in charge here, and we've all had quite
. . ." His glance fell on the bundle Spurre was unwrapping. The candle lantern cast a golden glow over a shiny new flintlock. The barrel was damascened in gold, and the stock was fine Italian walnut inlaid with mother of pearl. Both the serpentine cock and the heel plate on the stock were engraved and gilt. "Good God, where did that piece come from?"
"From my personal arsenal." Winston watched as Spurre slipped out the ramrod and began loading and priming the flintlock. Then he continued, "These muskets don't belong to your militia. They're just for my own men, here tonight."
"If you can keep them dry," Heathcott's voice quickened, "maybe you could . . ."
"They should be good for at least one round, before the lock gets damp." Winston turned to Heathcott. "They won't be expecting us now. So if your men can help us hold the breastwork while we spike those cannon, we might just manage it."
"And these guns?" Heathcott was still admiring the muskets.
"We won't use them any more than we have to." Winston walked down the line of officers. "There's apt to be some hand-to-hand fighting if their infantry gets wind of what's afoot and tries to rush the emplacement while we're still up there. How many of your militiamen have the stomach for that kind of assignment?"
The tent fell silent save for the drumbeat of rain. The officers all knew that to move on the breastwork now would be the ultimate test of their will to win. The question on every man's mind was whether their militia still possessed that will. But the alternative was most likely a brief and ignominious defeat on the field, followed by unconditional surrender.
They gathered in a huddle at the rear of the tent, a cluster of black hats, while Winston's men continued priming the guns. "Damn'd well-made piece, this one." Edwin Spurre was admiring the gilded trigger of his musket. "I hope she shoots as fine as she feels." He looked up at Winston. "I think we can keep the powder pan dry enough if we take care. They've all got a cover that's been specially fitted."
Winston laughed. "Only the best for Sir Anthony. Let's make sure he finds out how much we appreciate the gun-1smithing he paid for."
"It's a risk, sir. Damned if it's not." Heathcott broke from the huddle and approached Winston. "But with these flintlocks we might have an advantage. They'll not be expecting us now. Maybe we can find some men to back you up."
"We could use the help. But I only want volunteers." Winston surveyed the tent. "And they can't be a lot of untested farmers who'll panic and run if the Roundheads try and make a charge."
"Well and good." Bedford nodded, then turned to Heathcott. "I'll be the first volunteer. We're running out of time.”
Winston reached for a musket. "Then let's get on with it."*
Rain now, all about them, engulfing them, the dense Caribbean torrent that erases the edge between earth, sky, and sea. Winston felt as though they were swimming in it, the gusts wet against his face, soaking through his leather jerkin, awash in his boots. The earth seemed caught in a vast ephemeral river which oscillated like a pendulum between ocean and sky. In the Caribbees this water from the skies was different from anywhere else he had ever known. The heavens, like a brooding deity, first scorched the islands with a white-hot sun, then purged the heat with warm, remorseless tears.
Why had he come back to Oistins? To chance his life once
more in the service of liberty? The very thought brought a wry smile. He now realized there would never be liberty in this slave-owning corner of the Americas. Too much wealth was at stake for England to let go of this shiny new coin in Cromwell's exchequer. The Puritans who ruled England would keep Barbados at any cost, and they would see to it that slavery stayed.
No. Coming back now was a personal point. Principle. If you'd go back on your word, there was little else you wouldn't scruple to do as well.
Maybe freedom didn't have a chance here, but you fought the fight you were given. You didn't betray your cause, the way Anthony Walrond had.
"There look to be lighted linstocks up there, Cap'n. They're ready." Edwin Spurre nodded toward the tall outline of the breastwork up ahead. It was a heavy brick fortification designed to protect the gun emplacements against cannon fire from the sea. The flicker of lantern light revealed that the cannon had been rolled around, directed back toward the roadway, in open view.
"We've got to see those linstocks are never used." He paused and motioned for the men to circle around him. Their flintlocks were still swathed in oilcloth. "We need to give them a little surprise, masters. So hold your fire as long as you can. Anyway, we're apt to need every musket if the Windwards realize we're there and try to counterattack."
"Do you really think we can get up there, Cap'n?" Dick Hawkins carefully set down a large brown sack holding spikes, hammers, and grapples—the last used for boarding vessels at sea. "It's damned high."
"We're going to have to circle around and try taking it from the sea side, which is even higher. But that way they won't see us. Also, we can't have bandoliers rattling, so we've got to leave them here. Just take a couple of charge-holders in each pocket. There'll not be time for more anyway." He turned and examined the heavy brick of the breastwork. "Now look lively. Before they spot us."
Hawkins silently began lifting out the grapples—heavy barbed hooks that had been swathed with sailcloth so they would land soundlessly, each with fifty feet of line. Winston picked one up and checked the wrapping on the prongs. Would it catch and hold? Maybe between the raised battlements.
He watched as Hawkins passed the other grapples among the men, eighteen of them all together. Then they moved on through the night, circling around toward the seaward wall of the fortification.
Behind them the first contingent of volunteers from the Barbados militia waited in the shadows. As soon as the gunners were overpowered by Winston's men, they would advance and help hold the breastwork while the guns were being spiked.
In the rainy dark neither Winston nor his Seamen noticed the small band of men, skin black as the night, who now edged forward silently through the shadows behind them.
They had arrived at theDefianceearlier that evening, only to discover it afloat, several yards at sea. Then they had watched in dismay as Winston led a band of seamen ashore in longboats, carrying the very muskets they had come to procure. Could it be the guns were already primed and ready to fire?
Prudently Atiba had insisted they hold back. They had followed through the rain, biding their time all the five-mile trek to Oistins. Then they had waited patiently while Winston held council with thebrancochiefs. Finally they had seen the muskets being primed . . . which meant they could have been safely seized all along!
But now time was running out. How to take the guns? It must be done quickly, while there still was dark to cover their escape into hiding. Atiba watched as Winston and the men quietly positioned themselves along the seaward side of the breastwork and began uncoiling the lines of their grapples. Suddenly he sensed what was to happen next.
Perhaps now there was a way to get the guns after all. . . .
"Wait. And be ready." He motioned the men back into the shadows of a palm grove. Then he darted through the rain.
Winston was circling the first grapple above his head, intended for the copestone along the top of the breastwork, when he heard a quiet Portuguese whisper at his ear.
"You will not succeed, senhor. The Ingles will hear your hooks when they strike against the stone."
"What the pox!" He whirled to see a tall black man standing behind him, a machete in his hand.
"A life for a life, senhor. Was that not what you said?" Atiba glanced around him. The seamen stared in wordless astonishment. "Do you wish to seize the great guns atop this fortress? Then let my men do it for you. This is best done the Yoruba way."
"Where the hell did you come from?" Winston's whisper was almost drowned in the rain.
"From out of the dark. Remember, my skin is black. Sometimes that is an advantage, even on an island owned by the white Ingles."
"Briggs will kill you if he catches you here."
Atiba laughed. "I could have killed him tonight, but I chose to wait. I want to do it the Ingles way. With a musket." He slipped the machete into his waistwrap. "I have come to make a trade."
"What do you mean?"
"Look around you." Atiba turned and gestured. Out of the palms emerged a menacing line of black men, all carrying cane machetes. "My men are here. We could kill all of you now, senhor, and simply take your muskets. But you once treated me as a brother, so I will barter with you fairly, as though today were market day in Ife. I and my men will seize this branco fortress and make it an offering of friendship to you—rather than watch you be killed trying to take it yourself—in trade for these guns." He smiled grimly. "A life for a life, do you recall?"
"The revolt you started is as good as finished, just like I warned you would happen." Winston peered through the rain. "You won't be needing any muskets now."
"Perhaps it is over. But we will not die as slaves. We will die as Yoruba. And many branco will die with us."
"Not with my flintlocks, they won't." Winston examined him and noticed a dark stain of blood down his shoulder.
Atiba drew out his machete again and motioned the other men forward. "Then see what happens when we use these instead." He turned the machete in his hand. "It may change your mind."
Before Winston could reply, he turned and whispered a few brisk phrases to the waiting men. They slipped their machetes into their waistwraps and in an instant were against the breastwork, scaling it.
As the seamen watched in disbelief, a host of dark figures moved surely, silently up the sloping stone wall of the breastwork. Their fingers and toes caught the crevices and joints in the stone with catlike agility as they moved toward the top.
"God's blood, Cap'n, what in hell's this about?" Dick Hawkins moved next to Winston, still holding a grapple and line. "Are these savages . . .?"
"I'm damned if I know for sure. But I don't like it." His eyes were riveted on the line of black figures now blended against the stone of the breastwork. They had merged with the rain, all but invisible.
In what seemed only moments, Atiba had reached the parapet along the top of the breastwork, followed by his men. For an instant Winston caught the glint of machetes, reflecting the glow of the lighted linstocks, and then nothing.
"By God, no. There'll be no unnecessary killing." He flung his grapple upward, then gestured at the men. "Let's go topside, quick!"
The light clank of the grapple against the parapet was lost in the strangled cries of surprise from atop the breastwork. Then a few muted screams drifted down through the rain. The sounds died away almost as soon as they had begun, leaving only the gentle pounding of rain.
"It is yours, senhor." The Portuguese words came down as Atiba looked back over the side. "But come quickly. One of them escaped us. I fear he will sound a warning. There will surely be morebranco, soon."
"Damn your eyes." Winston seized the line of his grapple, tested it, and began pulling himself up the face of the stone wall. There was the clank of grapples as the other men followed.
The scene atop the breastwork momentarily took his breath away. All the infantrymen on gunnery duty had had their throats cut, their bodies now sprawled haphazardly across the stonework. One gunner was even slumped across the breech of a demi-culverin, still clasping one of the lighted linstocks, its oil-soaked tip smoldering inconclusively in the rain. The Yoruba warriors stood among them, wiping blood from their machetes.
"Good Christ!" Winston exploded and turned on Atiba. "There was no need to kill all these men. You just had to disarm them."
"It is better." Atiba met his gaze. "They werebrancowarriors. Is it not a warrior's duty to be ready to die?"
"You bloodthirsty savage."
Atiba smiled. "So tell me, what are these great Ingles guns sitting all around us here meant to do? Save lives? Or kill men by the hundreds, men whose face you never have to see? My people do not make these. So who is the savage, my Ingles friend?"
"Damn you, there are rules of war."
"Ah yes. You are civilized." He slipped the machete into his waistwrap. "Someday you must explain to me these rules you have for civilized killing. Perhaps they are something like the 'rules' your Christians have devised to justify making my people slaves."
Winston looked at him a moment longer, then at the bodies lying around them. There was nothing to be done now. Best to get on with disabling the guns. "Dick, haul up that sack with the spikes and let's make quick work of this."
"Aye." Hawkins seized the line attached to his waist and walked to the edge of the parapet. At the other end, resting in the mud below, was the brown canvas bag containing the hammers and the spikes.
Moments later the air rang with the sound of metal against metal, as the seamen began hammering small, nail-like spikes into the touch-holes of each cannon. That was the signal for the Barbados militiamen to advance from the landward side of the breastwork, to provide defensive cover.
"A life for a life, senhor." Atiba moved next to Winston. "We served you. Now it is time for your part of the trade."
"You're not getting any of my flintlocks, if that's what you mean."
"Don't make us take them." Atiba dropped his hand to the handle of his machete.
"And don't make my boys show you how they can use them." Winston stood unmoving. "There's been killing enough here tonight."
"So you are not, after all, a man who keeps his word. You are merely anotherbranco. " He slowly began to draw the machete from his belt.
"I gave you no 'word.' And I wouldn't advise that . . ." Winston pushed back the side of his wet jerkin, clearing the pistols in his belt.
Out of the dark rain a line of Barbados planters carrying homemade pikes came clambering up the stone steps. Colonel Heathcott was in the lead. "Good job, Captain, by my life." He beamed from under his gray hat. "We heard nary a peep. But you were too damned quick by half. Bedford's just getting the next lot of militia together now. He'll need . . ."
As he topped the last step, he stumbled over the fallen body of a Commonwealth infantryman. A tin helmet clattered across the stonework.
"God's blood! What . . ." He peered through the half- light at the other bodies littering the platform, then glared at Winston. "You massacred the lads!"
"We had some help."
Heathcott stared past Winston, noticed Atiba, and stopped stone still. Then he glanced around and saw the cluster of Africans standing against the parapet, still holding machetes.
"Good God." He took a step backward and motioned toward his men. "Form ranks. There're runaways up here. And they're armed."
"Careful . . ." Before Winston could finish, he heard a command in Yoruba and saw Atiba start forward with his machete.
"No, by God!" Winston shouted in Portuguese. Before Atiba could move, he was holding a cocked pistol against the Yoruba's cheek. "I said there's been enough bloodshed. Don't make me kill you to prove it."
In the silence that followed there came a series of flashes from the dark down the shore, followed by dull pops. Two of the planters at the top of the stone steps groaned, twisted, and slumped against the stonework with bleeding flesh wounds. Then a second firing order sounded through the rain. It carried the unmistakable authority of Anthony Walrond.
"On the double, masters. The fireworks are set to begin." Winston turned and shouted toward the seamen, still hammering in the spikes. "Spurre, get those flintlocks unwrapped and ready. It looks like Walrond has a few dry muskets of his own."
"Aye, Cap'n." He signaled the seamen who had finished
their assigned tasks to join him, and together they took cover against the low parapet on the landward side of the breastwork. Heathcott and the planters, pikes at the ready, nervously moved behind them.
Winston felt a movement and turned to see Atiba twist away. He stepped aside just in time to avoid the lunge of his machete—then brought the barrel of the pistol down hard against the side of his skull. The Yoruba groaned and staggered back against the cannon nearest them. As he struggled to regain his balance, he knocked aside the body of the Commonwealth infantryman who lay sprawled across its barrel, the smoldering linstock still in his dead grasp. The man slid slowly down the wet side of the culverin, toward the breech. Finally he tumbled forward onto the stonework, releasing his grasp on the handle of the lighted linstock.
Later Winston remembered watching in paralyzed horror as the linstock clattered against the breech of the culverin, scattering sparks. The oil-soaked rag that had been its tip seemed to disintegrate as the handle slammed against the iron, and a fragment of burning rag fluttered against the shielded touch hole.
A flash shattered the night, as a tongue of flame torched upward. For a moment it illuminated the breastwork like midday.
In the stunned silence that followed there were yells of surprise from the far distance, in the direction of the English camp. No one had expected a cannon shot. Moments later, several rounds of musket fire erupted from the roadway below. The approaching Barbados militiamen had assumed they were being fired on from the breastwork. But now they had revealed their position. Almost immediately their fire was returned by the advance party of the Windward Regiment.
Suddenly one of the Yoruba waiting at the back of the breastwork shouted incomprehensibly, broke from the group, and began clambering over the parapet. There were more yells, and in moments the others were following him. Atiba, who had been knocked sprawling by the cannon's explosion, called for them to stay, but they seemed not to hear. In seconds they had vanished over the parapet and into the night.
"You betrayed us, senhor." He looked up at Winston. "You will pay for it with your life."
"Not tonight I won't." Winston was still holding the pistol, praying it was not too wet to fire.
"Not tonight. But soon." He shoved the machete unsteadily into his waistwrap. Winston noticed that he had difficulty rising, but he managed to pull himself up weakly. Then his strength appeared to revive. "Our war is not over." Amid the gunfire and confusion, he turned and slipped down the landward side of the breastwork. Winston watched as he disappeared into the rain.
"How many more left to spike, masters?" He yelled back toward the men with the hammers. As he spoke, more musket fire sounded from the plain below.
"We've got all but two, Cap'n." Hawkins shouted back through the rain. "These damned little demi-culverin. Our spikes are too big."
"Then the hell with them. We've done what we came to do." He motioned toward Heathcott. "Let's call it a night and make a run for it. Now."
"Fine job, I must say." Heathcott was smiling broadly as he motioned the cringing planters away from the wall. "We'll hold them yet."
While the seamen opened sporadic covering fire with their flintlocks, the militia began scrambling down the wet steps. When the column of Walrond's Windward Regiment now marching up from the seaside realized they were armed, it immediately broke ranks and scattered for cover. In moments Winston and Heathcott were leading their own men safely up the road toward the camp. They met the remainder of the Barbados militia midway, a bedraggled cluster in the downpour.
"You can turn back now, sirs." Heathcott saluted the lead
officer, who was kneeling over a form fallen in the sand. "You gave us good cover when we needed you, but now it's done. The ordnance is spiked. At sunup we'll drive the Roundheads back into the sea."
"Good Christ." The officer's voice was trembling as he looked up, rain streaming down his face. "We'd as well just sue for peace and have done with it."
"What?" Heathcott examined him. "What do you mean?"
"He was leading us. Dalby Bedford. The Windwards caught him in the chest when they opened fire." He seemed to choke on his dismay. "The island's no longer got a governor."