"How long has it been since you last visited us, Capitaine?" De Fontenay glanced back. "I have been matelot to Jacques for almost three years, but I don't recall the pleasure of welcoming you before this evening."
"It's been a few years. Back before Jacques became governor. ''
"Was this your home once, senhor?" Atiba was examining the shopfronts along the street, many displaying piles of silks and jewelry once belonging to the passengers on Spanish merchantmen. Along either side, patched-together taverns and brothels spilled their cacophony of songs, curses, and raucous fiddle music into the muddy paths that were streets.
Winston laughed. "Well, it was scarcely like this. There used to be thatched huts along here and piles of hides and smoked beef ready for barter. All you could find to drink in those days was a tankard of cheap kill-devil. But the main difference is the fort up there, which is a noticeable improvement over that rusty set of culverin we used to have down along the shore."
"I gather it must have been a very long time ago. Monsieur, that you were last here." De Fontenay was moving hurriedly past the rickety taverns, heading straight for the palm-lined road leading up the hill to the fort.
"Probably some ten years or so."
"Then I wonder if Jacques will still remember you."
Winston laughed. "I expect he does."
De Fontenay started purposefully up the road. About six hundred yards from the shoreline the steep slope of a hill began. The climb was long and tortuous, and the young Frenchman was breathing heavily by the time they were halfway up.
"This place is damnable strong, senhor. Very hard to attack,