De Fontenay hung his lantern on a brass spike at the side of the stairs, then turned and lightly ascended the rungs. From the platform above, two musketmen covered his approach with flintlocks. He saluted them, then disappeared.
As Winston waited, Atiba at his side, he heard a faint human voice, a low moaning sound, coming from somewhere near their feet. He looked down and noticed a doorway at the base of the rock, leading into what appeared to be an excavated chamber. The door was of thick hewn logs with only a small grate in its center.
Was that, he wondered, the dungeon Bartholomew called Purgatory?
Suddenly he felt an overwhelming sense of anger and betrayal at what Jacques had become. Whatever else he might have been, this was the man whose name once stood for freedom. And now . . .
He was turning to head down and inspect Purgatory first-hand when a welcome sounded from the platform above.
"Mon ami! Bienvenue, Anglais. Mon Dieu, il y a tres long- temps! A good ten years, n 'est-ce pas?'' A bearded face peered down, while a deep voice roared with pleasure. "Perhaps you've finally learned something about how to shoot after all this time. Come up and let me have a look at you."
"And maybe you've improved your aim, Jacques. Your last pistol ball didn't get you a hide." Winston turned back and reached for the ladder.
"Oui, truly it did not, Anglais. How near did I come?" He extended a rough hand as Winston emerged.
"Close enough." Winston stepped onto the platform of the citadel.
In the flickering torchlight he recognized the old leader of the boucaniers, now grown noticeably heavier; his thick beard, once black as onyx, was liberally threaded with white. He sported a ruffled doublet of red silk and had stuffed his dark calico breeches into bucket-top sea boots of fine Spanish leather. The gold rings on several fingers glistened with jewels, and the squint in his eyes was deep and malevolent.