"It's just like . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"What?" He glanced back at her.
"Oh God, Hugh! I don't believe it!" She was pointing toward the southeast, and the color had drained from her face.
He whirled and squinted into the afternoon haze.
At sea, under full sail with a heading of north by northeast, were eight English warships, tawny-brown against the blue Caribbean. Their guns were not run out. Instead their decks were crowded with steel-helmeted infantry. They were making directly for Oistins Bay.
"The breastwork! Why aren't they firing!" He instinctively reached for the handle of the pistol in the left-hand side of his belt. "I've not heard a shot. Where's Walrond's Windward Regiment? They're just letting them land!"
"Oh Hugh, how could the Windwards do this to the island? They're the staunchest royalists here. Why would they betray the rest of us?"
"We've got to get back to Bridgetown, as hard as we can ride. To pull all the militia together and try to get the men down from Jamestown."
"But I've heard no warnings." She watched the English frigates begin to shorten sail as they entered the bay. Suddenly she glanced down at his pistols. "What's the signal for Oistins?"
"You're right." He slipped the flintlock from the left side of his belt and handed it to her. "It's four shots—two together, followed by two apart. Though I doubt there's anybody around close enough to hear."