than a blockade? Had Parliament really sent the English army to invade
the island?
"I'm going down to the breastwork." He glanced quickly at Katherine,
then turned and began to make his way toward the gun emplacements.
Edwin Spurre and the indentures were moving slowly through the early
half-light, carrying kegs of powder.
"I think we can manage with these guns, Cap'n." Canninge was standing
by the first cannon, his long hair matted against the sweat on his
forehead. "I've cleaned out the touch holes and checked the charge
delivered by the powder ladle we found. They're eighteen-pounders,
culverin, and there's some shot here that ought to serve."
"Then prime and load them. On the double."
"Aye."
Using a long-handled ladle, he and the men began to shove precisely
measured charges of powder, twenty pounds, into the muzzle of each
cannon. The indentures were heaving round shot onto their shoulders and
stacking piles beside the guns.
Winston watched the approaching sail, wondering how and why it had
suddenly all come to this. Was he about to be the first man in the
Americas to fire a shot declaring war against England? He looked around
to see Dalby Bedford standing behind him, with Katherine at his side.
"You know what it means if we open fire on the _Rainbowe_? I'd guess
it's Cromwell's flagship now."
"I do indeed. It'd be war. I pray it'll not come to that. I'd like to
try and talk with them first, if we can keep them out of the bay." The
governor's face was grim. "Try once across her bow. Just a warning.
Maybe she'll strike sail and let us know her business."
"Care to hold one last vote in the Assembly about this, before we fire
the first shot? Something tells me it's not likely to be the last."
"We've just talked. There's no need for a vote. No man here, royalist
or no, is going to stand by and just hand over this place.
We'll negotiate, but we'll not throw up our hands and surrender.
There's too much at stake."
Winston nodded and turned to Canninge. "They're pulling close to range.
When you're ready, lay a round across her bow. Then hold for orders."
"Aye." Canninge smiled and pointed toward a small gun at the end of the
row, its dark brass glistening in the early light. "I'll use that
little six-pounder. We'll save the eighteen-pounders for the work to
come.
"Have you got range yet?"
"Give me a minute to set her, and I'll wager I can lay a round shot two
hundred yards in front of the bow." He turned and barked an order.
Seamen hauled the tackles, rolling the gun into position. Then they
levered the breech slightly upward to lower the muzzle, jamming a
wooden wedge between the gun and the wooden truck to set it in
position.
Winston took a deep breath, then glanced back at Bedford. "This may be
the most damn foolhardy thing that's ever been done."