Only a few more feet remained. Would the door stay open? Why had there been no musket fire?
As Winston bounded up the stone steps leading to the door, hewn oak with iron brackets, still no alarm rose up, only shouts from the direction of the cannon at the front of the breastwork. He seized the handle and heaved it wide, then waved the others after him. Atiba was already at his side, cutlass drawn.
Now they were racing down the dark stone corridor, a gothic arch above their heads, its racks of muskets untouched.
My God, he thought, they're not even going to be armed. Only a few feet more . . .
A deafening explosion sounded from the front, then a second and a third. Black smoke boiled up as a yell arose from the direction of the cannon. The guns of the fort had been fired.
When they emerged at the end of the corridor and into the smoky yard, Spanish militiamen were already rolling back
the ordnance to reload. The gunners froze and looked on dumbfounded.
“!Ingles Demonio!'' One of them suddenly found his voice and yelled out, then threw himself face down on the paving stones. One after another, all the others followed. In moments only one man remained standing, a tall officer in a silver helmet. Winston realized he must be the gunnery commander.
He drew his sword, a long Toledo-steel blade, and stood defiantly facing Winston and the line of musketmen.
"No." Winston waved his pistol. "It's no use."