Quietly he lifted one of the pikes from the rack and inched slowly toward the figures in the doorway.
Through the dark came a shout from the other end of the deck. The sleeping branco had awakened. "God's wounds, Cap'n. I'm watching this ship like a hawk over a henhouse. There's no need to be carry in' on." The man laughed. "Lest you upset the lady."
"John, is that you?" The tall man's voice quickened. "Then, by Jesus, who's . . .?"
Atiba lunged toward the doorway, his pike aimed at the tall shadow.
The man had already feinted back against the shrouds. He carried no sword, but a pistol had appeared in his right hand, as though by magic. With the other he shoved the branco woman back against the shrouds, out of reach. The pike missed him, tangled in a knot of lines dangling from the mast, and was lost.
Then the glint of his machete caught Atiba's notice and he dropped toward the darkness of the deck. He rolled twice, bringing himself within reach of its wooden handle. He was on his feet, swinging for the man, when he heard the crack of the pistol and felt a tremor in his wrist.
The tip of the machete blade sang into the night, but the stump was still left, and still deadly. Now the fight would be at close quarters. He told himself he welcomed that—and sprang for the dark silhouette.
He was thrusting the blade upward, toward the tall man's neck, when he heard an unexpected click from the pistol barrel, followed by a hard voice. It was a threat that needed no translation.
"No, by God. Or I'll blow your bloody head off."
The hot muzzle of the pistol was against his cheek.