"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-1 smithing 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."