The interior of the fo'c'sle was dark, but he dared not try to make a light. The risk was too great that he might set off any gunpowder stored here. Instead he felt his way forward.
The space was crowded with racks, and in them were rows of new pikes and half-pikes, hundreds. Then his hand touched a row of long steel cylinders.
Musket barrels.
Ogun had answered their prayers.
This ship had an arsenal that would equip an entire army, a cache that would ensure their victory. The second week following, seven days hence, the time sacred to Ogun, he would bring the men and they would overwhelm the ship, seize the weapons. . . .
He had turned to grope his way back to the deck when he first saw the two silhouettes against the dim light of the doorway. A tall man was there, blocking his exit, and next to him was the outline of a branco woman.
"John, what in the name of hell are you doing in the fo'c'sle?" The voice sounded tired and annoyed. "Is this how you stand watch?"
"Hugh, take care." It was the voice of the branco woman he remembered from the first night in the boiling house.
He froze against a wall and reached for his machete.
It was missing. Like a fool he'd left it outside.