"Not tonight. But soon." He shoved the machete unsteadily into his waistwrap. Winston noticed that he had difficulty rising, but he managed to pull himself up weakly. Then his strength appeared to revive. "Our war is not over." Amid the gunfire and confusion, he turned and slipped down the landward side of the breastwork. Winston watched as he disappeared into the rain.
"How many more left to spike, masters?" He yelled back toward the men with the hammers. As he spoke, more musket fire sounded from the plain below.
"We've got all but two, Cap'n." Hawkins shouted back through the rain. "These damned little demi-culverin. Our spikes are too big."
"Then the hell with them. We've done what we came to do." He motioned toward Heathcott. "Let's call it a night and make a run for it. Now."
"Fine job, I must say." Heathcott was smiling broadly as he motioned the cringing planters away from the wall. "We'll hold them yet."
While the seamen opened sporadic covering fire with their flintlocks, the militia began scrambling down the wet steps. When the column of Walrond's Windward Regiment now marching up from the seaside realized they were armed, it immediately broke ranks and scattered for cover. In moments Winston and Heathcott were leading their own men safely up the road toward the camp. They met the remainder of the Barbados militia midway, a bedraggled cluster in the downpour.
"You can turn back now, sirs." Heathcott saluted the lead
officer, who was kneeling over a form fallen in the sand. "You gave us good cover when we needed you, but now it's done. The ordnance is spiked. At sunup we'll drive the Roundheads back into the sea."
"Good Christ." The officer's voice was trembling as he looked up, rain streaming down his face. "We'd as well just sue for peace and have done with it."
"What?" Heathcott examined him. "What do you mean?"