Perhaps now there was a way to get the guns after all. . . .
"Wait. And be ready." He motioned the men back into the shadows of a palm grove. Then he darted through the rain.
Winston was circling the first grapple above his head, intended for the copestone along the top of the breastwork, when he heard a quiet Portuguese whisper at his ear.
"You will not succeed, senhor. The Ingles will hear your hooks when they strike against the stone."
"What the pox!" He whirled to see a tall black man standing behind him, a machete in his hand.
"A life for a life, senhor. Was that not what you said?" Atiba glanced around him. The seamen stared in wordless astonishment. "Do you wish to seize the great guns atop this fortress? Then let my men do it for you. This is best done the Yoruba way."
"Where the hell did you come from?" Winston's whisper was almost drowned in the rain.
"From out of the dark. Remember, my skin is black. Sometimes that is an advantage, even on an island owned by the white Ingles."
"Briggs will kill you if he catches you here."
Atiba laughed. "I could have killed him tonight, but I chose to wait. I want to do it the Ingles way. With a musket." He slipped the machete into his waistwrap. "I have come to make a trade."