Katherine was relieved when she finally spotted him standing among the
gunners, his face and leather jerkin covered in a dark veneer of grime.
If anyone would know the truth behind the rumor spreading over the
island, that Jeremy Walrond had been killed, surely Hugh would. She
watched for a time, collecting her composure after the ride up from
Bridgetown, then tied her mare to the trunk of a bullet-scarred palm
and began working her way down the sandy slope toward the breastwork.
The mid-afternoon sun seared the Jamestown emplacement with the full
heat of the day, and most of the gunners and militiamen were now
shirtless and complaining about the need for rest. As she neared the
stone steps leading up to the guns, the air rang with the sounds of
hammering, iron against iron, and she realized Winston and the men were
still working to extract the spikes from the touch holes of the large
English culverin.
He looked out to study the three English warships offshore, barely
visible through the smoke that mantled the bay, then turned to Thomas
Canninge, his master gunner. "I think we've still got range, Tom. Try
another round as soon as you're set and see if you can't hole them one
last time."