"On the double, masters. The fireworks are set to begin." Winston turned and shouted toward the seamen, still hammering in the spikes. "Spurre, get those flintlocks unwrapped and ready. It looks like Walrond has a few dry muskets of his own."
"Aye, Cap'n." He signaled the seamen who had finished
their assigned tasks to join him, and together they took cover against the low parapet on the landward side of the breastwork. Heathcott and the planters, pikes at the ready, nervously moved behind them.
Winston felt a movement and turned to see Atiba twist away. He stepped aside just in time to avoid the lunge of his machete—then brought the barrel of the pistol down hard against the side of his skull. The Yoruba groaned and staggered back against the cannon nearest them. As he struggled to regain his balance, he knocked aside the body of the Commonwealth infantryman who lay sprawled across its barrel, the smoldering linstock still in his dead grasp. The man slid slowly down the wet side of the culverin, toward the breech. Finally he tumbled forward onto the stonework, releasing his grasp on the handle of the lighted linstock.
Later Winston remembered watching in paralyzed horror as the linstock clattered against the breech of the culverin, scattering sparks. The oil-soaked rag that had been its tip seemed to disintegrate as the handle slammed against the iron, and a fragment of burning rag fluttered against the shielded touch hole.
A flash shattered the night, as a tongue of flame torched upward. For a moment it illuminated the breastwork like midday.
In the stunned silence that followed there were yells of surprise from the far distance, in the direction of the English camp. No one had expected a cannon shot. Moments later, several rounds of musket fire erupted from the roadway below. The approaching Barbados militiamen had assumed they were being fired on from the breastwork. But now they had revealed their position. Almost immediately their fire was returned by the advance party of the Windward Regiment.
Suddenly one of the Yoruba waiting at the back of the breastwork shouted incomprehensibly, broke from the group, and began clambering over the parapet. There were more yells, and in moments the others were following him. Atiba, who had been knocked sprawling by the cannon's explosion, called for them to stay, but they seemed not to hear. In seconds they had vanished over the parapet and into the night.
"You betrayed us, senhor." He looked up at Winston. "You will pay for it with your life."
"Not tonight I won't." Winston was still holding the pistol, praying it was not too wet to fire.