"You and that ship sure as hell changed mine. After I fell in love with you, I damned near died of thirst in that leaky longboat. And then Ruyters . . ."
"Capitaine, please tell them I was the one who shot Jacques. That I am now commandant de place. " De Fontenay interrupted, his voice pleading. "That I have the authority to order them . . ."
"You're not ordering anything, by Jesus. I'm about to put an end to any more French orders here and now." Bartholomew seized a burning stick from the fire in the boucan and flung it upward, onto the veranda of the "dovecote."
A cheer went up from the English seamen clustered around,
and before Jacques's French guards could stop them, they were flinging torches and flaming logs up into the citadel.
"Messieurs, no. Please! Je vous en prie. Non!" De Fontenay stared up in horror.
Tongues of flame began to lick at the edge of the platform. Some of the guards dropped their muskets and yelled to get buckets of water from the spring behind the rock. Then they thought better of it and started edging gingerly toward the iron gates leading out of the fortress and down the hill.
The other guards who had been rifling the liquor came scurrying down the ladder, jostling de Fontenay aside. As Winston urged Katherine toward the gates, the young matelot was still lingering forlornly on the steps, gazing up at the burning "dovecote." Finally, the last to leave Forte de la Roche, he sadly turned and made his way out.
"Senhor, what is happening here?" Atiba was racing up the steps leading to the gate, carrying his cutlass. "I swam to shore and came fastly as I could."
"There's been a little revolution up here, my friend. And I'll tell you something else. There's likely to be some gunpowder in that citadel. For those demi-culverin. I don't have any idea how many kegs he had, but knowing Jacques, there was enough." He took Katherine's hand. "It's the end for this place, that much you can be sure."