"Then you've got a choice. You can have slavery, or you can win independence. Either you get them to help, or you end up a slave to the Commonwealth yourself." He glanced at Katherine, then back at Briggs as he continued. "And the same goes for your indentures. How in hell do you expect this island to hold out against England when half the men here would just as soon see you lose? But give the slaves, and the indentures, a stake in this, and you'll have a good ten or fifteen thousand fighting men here. Morris has maybe three, four hundred. He'll never take Barbados. I want you to tell that to the Council."
"I'll be party to no such undertaking." Briggs squinted through the sunshine.
"Then give my regards to the admiral when you sit down to sign the surrender. I give you a week at most." He turned and touched Katherine's arm. "Katy, if you'd like me to see you home, then wait over there by that shade tree while I make gunnery assignments."
Atiba moved noiselessly along the wet sand of the shore, crouched low, the wind in his face, just as he had once stalked a wounded leopard in the forest three days north of Ife. This part of the harbor was almost deserted now; only two frigates remained, and they were both lodged in the sand, immobile. One was the great, stinking ship that had brought him to this forlorn place. He hated it, had vowed never to be on it again. Furthermore, tonight its decks were crowded with drinking, singing branco. The other one would have to supply what he needed—the one belonging to the tall Ingles branco with the mark on his cheek.
He secured the stolen machete in his waist-wrap and waded into the water. When the first salty wave curved over him, he leaned into it with his shoulder and began to swim—out away from the shore, circling around to approach the ship from the side facing the sea.
As he swam, he thought again of what he must do. It was not a mission of his choosing. He had finally agreed to come because there was no other way to placate the elders. Until last night he had not realized how much they feared the arms of the branco. . .
"We must be like the bulrush, not like brittle grass," Tahajo, the oldest and hence presumed the wisest, had declared. "A bulrush mat will bend. A grass mat breaks to pieces. Do not be brittle grass, Atiba, be like the bulrush. Do what we ask of you."
"Tahajo's wisdom is known throughout Ife." Obewole, the strongest of them all, had next conceded his own fear. "Remember it's said you cannot go to war with only a stick in your hand; you must carry a crossbow."
Atiba had intended the meeting in his hut to be their final council of war. Last evening was carefully chosen, auspicious. It was the fourth night of the new moon on the island of Barbados. In Ife it would have been the fourth day of a new month, and also the last day of the week—a cycle of four days dedicated to major gods of the Yoruba pantheon; Shango, Obatala, Orunmila, and Ogun. The appearance of the new moon was important and signified much. By telling the beginning of the month, it scheduled which days would be market days, which were sacred, what god was responsible for the birth of a child.
They had waited quietly in his thatched hut as twilight