As Winston and Katherine led their prisoners slowly down the shore, the
_Defiance_ stood out against the dark sky, illuminated by flashes of
lightning as it tugged at its anchor cables. The sea was up now, and
Winston watched as her prow dipped into the trough of each swell, as
though offering a curtsy. They had almost reached the water when he
spotted John Mewes, waiting by the longboat.
"Ahoy, Cap'n," he sang out through the gusts of rain. "What're you
doin'? Impressing Roundheads to sail with us now? We've already got
near to fifty of your damn'd indentures."
"Are they on board?"
"Aye, them and all the rest. You're the last." He studied Katherine and
Morris in confusion. "Though I'd not expected you'd be in such fine
company."
"Then we weigh anchor."
"In this squall?" Mewes' voice was incredulous. "We can't put on any
canvas now. It'd be ripped off the yards."
"We've got to. The Roundheads are already moving on Bridgetown. We'll
try and use those new short sails." Winston urged Morris forward with
his pistol, then turned back to Mewes. "Any sign of that African we
talked about?"
"I've seen naught of him, and that's a fact." He peered
up the beach, hoping one last cursory check would suffice. Now that the
rain had intensified, it was no longer possible to see the hills
beyond. "But I did manage to get that Spaniard from Ruyters, the one
named Vargas." He laughed. "Though I finally had to convince the ol'
King of the Butterboxes to see things our way by bringin' over a few of
the boys and some muskets."
"Good. He's on board now?"
"Safe as can be. An' happy enough to leave that damn'd Dutchman, truth
to tell. Claimed he was sick to death of the putrid smell of the
Zeelander, now that she's been turned into a slaver."
"Then to hell with the African. We can't wait any longer."
"'Tis all to the good, if you want my thinkin'." Mewes reached up and
adjusted Morris' helmet, then performed a mock salute. He watched in
glee as the English commander's face flushed with rage. "You're not
takin' these two damn'd Roundheads aboard, are you?"
"Damn you, sir." Morris ignored Mewes as he glared at Winston, then
looked down at the pistol. He had seen a double-barrelled mechanism
like this only once before--property of a Spanish diplomat in London, a
dandy far more skilled dancing the bourree than managing a weapon. But
such a device in the hands of an obvious marksman like Winston; nothing
could be more deadly. "There's been quite enough . . ."
"Get in the longboat."
"I'll do no such thing." Morris drew back. "I have no intention of
going with you, wherever it is you think you're headed."
"I said get in. If you like it here so much, you can swim back after we
weigh anchor." Winston tossed his bundle across the gunwale, seized
Morris by his doublet, and sent him sprawling after it. Then he turned
to the infantryman. "You get in as well."