even with guns." Atiba shifted the cutlass in his belt and peered up the hill, toward the line of torches. He was moving easily, his bare feet molding to the rough rock steps.
"It could never be stormed from down below, that much is sure." Winston glanced back. "But we're not here to try and take this place. He can keep Tortuga and bleed it dry for all I care. I'll just settle for some of those men I saw tonight. If they want to part company with him . . ."
"Those whoresons are not lads who fight,” Atiba commented. “They are drunkards."
"They can fight as well as they drink." Winston smiled. "Don't let the brandy fool you."
"Your brancos are a damnable curiosity, senhor." He grunted. "I am waiting to see how my peoples here live, the slaves."
"The boucaniers don't cut cane, so they don't have slaves."
"Then mayhaps I will drink with them."
"You'd best hold that till after we're finished with Jacques, my friend." Winston glanced up toward the fort. "Just keep I your cutlass handy."
They had reached the curving row of steps that led through the arched gateway of the fortress. Above them a steep wall of cut stone rose up against the dark sky, and across the top, illuminated by torches, was the row of culverin. Sentries armed with flintlocks, in helmets and flamboyant Spanish coats, barred the gateway till de Fontenay waved them aside. Then guards inside unbolted the iron gate and they moved up the final stairway.
Winston realized the fort had been built on a natural plateau, with terraces inside the walls which would permit several hundred musketmen to fire unseen down on the settlement below. From somewhere in the back he could hear the gurgle of a spring—meaning a supply of fresh water, one of the first requirements of a good fortress.