"The name on this musket looks to be Walrond, sor, if I make it out right." One of the infantrymen was handing the flintlock to Morris.

"Walrond?" Morris reached for the gun and examined it closely, running his hand along the stock and studying the name etched on the lock. "A fine royalist name. By chance any kin to Sir Anthony Walrond?"

"My brother, and he's . . ."

"Your brother! You don't mean it." Morris' goatee twitched with surprise as he moved next to Jeremy and studied his face. "G.o.d is my witness, it's scarcely a name you need blush to give out. England never bred a braver, finer soldier, royalist or no. Is he your commander here tonight? You couldn't have one better."

"I have never heard my brother speak well of you, sir."

"Anthony Walrond? Speak well of a man who'd rid England of his precious king?" Morris laughed. "He'd sooner have G.o.d strike him dead. He's never had a good word to say for a Puritan in his life. But he's a worthy gentleman, for it all, and an honorable soldier in the field."

He turned to an officer standing nearby. "Ess.e.x, regroup the men. I think we'd best just hold this breastwork for now. It could well be Anthony Walrond's in command of this militia. If he is, you can wager he'd not countenance a retreat unless he planned to counterattack. I know his modus operandi. And his pride."

"Aye sir. As you will." The captain turned and shouted, "Men, fall back and regroup! Form lines at the breastwork and reload."

"Now if you like. Master Walrond, I still can order all these men to march off into the dark and let your militia ambush and kill half of them--likely losing a hundred of their own in the trade. Would you really have me do it? Is this d.a.m.ned little island worth that much blood, over and above what's already been spilt here tonight?"

Jeremy gazed down at the line of dead militiamen, bodies torn by musket b.a.l.l.s. Beyond them the Roundhead infantry was collecting its own dead, among them the man he himself had killed. Now it all seemed so pointless.

A blaze of musket fire flared from a position just north of the breastwork, and a phalanx of whooping and yelling militiamen opened a charge down the north side of the beach. Jeremy watched Morris' eyes click. The kindly man was suddenly gone. With an oath, he yelled for the prisoners to be hurried to the longboats, and the devil take the wounded.

The infantry at the breastwork was returning the fire of the attacking militia, but they were now badly outnumbered. Jeremy made out what could have been the tall form of Anthony, wielding a musket as he urged the militia forward. Then he was pa.s.sed by a wall of men on horseback.

The cavalry. The lead horse, a bay gelding, was ridden by a tall man holding a pistol in each hand.

The infantry holding the breastwork began retreating down the south steps, on the side opposite the attackers. Jeremy could make out Morris now, ordering his men to make for the longboats.

"Get along with you, rebel." A pike punched him in the back and he was shoved in with the other prisoners. Now they were being hurried, stumbling and confused, in the direction of the water.

Part of the Barbados militia had already swarmed over the abandoned breastwork, while others were riding along the sh.o.r.e, muskets blazing, hurrying to seal off the escape route to the longboats. They intercepted the retreating infantry midway down the beach, and the gunfire gave way to the sound of steel against steel, as empty muskets were discarded in favor of pikes and swords.

Jeremy felt the warm surf splash his legs, and he looked up to see the outline of the waiting boats. He and the rest of the prisoners were on the far south side of the breastwork, away from the fighting, forgotten now. He was a prisoner of war.

Directly ahead, two longboats were being towed in through the surf-- wide, hulking forms in the dim light, with sails furled and rows of oarsmen midships. As he watched them approach, he suddenly remembered his lost flintlock, a gift from Anthony, and the thought of its loss completed his mortification.

"Get in or be d.a.m.ned to you." Several infantrymen were splashing through the surf behind him now, half-pikes raised, urging on malingerers with the blades. Jeremy felt the hard gunwale of the longboat slam against his shoulder, then hands reaching down for him and grabbing his arms. He was yanked up, wet and shivering in the freshening wind, then shoved sprawling onto the boards.

"One move, any of you, and there'll be a pike in your guts." An infantryman began tying the prisoners' hands.

As Jeremy felt the rough cords against his wrists, he looked up and glanced over the side. The retreating infantry had drawn itself into a protective circle, knee-deep in the surf, yelling for its longboats to be brought in closer. At the perimeter of the circle two scrawny soldiers struggled to keep their footing in the pounding surf. They both seemed weak, almost staggering, and when a large wave slammed against their backs, they toppled headlong into the spray. The Barbados militiamen were there, pulling them up and dragging them back through the surf to the beach.

So, there'll be prisoners on both sides, he realized with relief. Now there'll be hostages onsh.o.r.e too.

The battle seemed to be thinning now. No one wanted to fight waist deep in the dark churning sea. The Barbados militiamen were slowing in their chase, turning back to congratulate themselves that the invasion had been repelled. Finally, as the longboats rowed closer and the infantrymen began pulling themselves aboard, the militia halted, content to end the rout by hurling curses above the roar of the surf.

"At least we spiked most of the cannon, and d.a.m.n the rebels." Two officers were talking in the bow of the boat. Jeremy realized that both sides were planning to claim victory. Were there any wars ever "lost,"

he wondered.

"Though we've b.l.o.o.d.y little else to show for a night's work," an oarsman in a dark woolen cap mumbled under his breath, "save this fine new collection of bellies to fill." The man suddenly reached and ripped off a piece of Jeremy's lace collar. "This c.o.xcomb'll learn soon enough what 'tis like to live on salt pork and slimy water, same as the rest of us." He flung the lace back in Jeremy's direction. "No fancy meat pies and brandied puddings for you, lad. A seaman's fare will soon take the fat out of those cheeks. I'll warrant it'll do you good, young rebel."

Ahead, the proud bow of the Rainbowe loomed above them in the dark, lanterns dangling from its masts. Seamen in the longboat tossed a grapple over the bulwark of the mother ship and then a rope ladder was dropped. Jeremy felt his hands being untied. Next he was urged up the ladder, shoved onto the deck, and immediately surrounded by jeering seamen, shirtless and wearing black stocking caps.

"This is the one, sir." Powlett was standing over him pointing. Next to him stood Admiral Edmond Calvert.

"I certainly can see he's a man of breeding, just as you said." Calvert studied Jeremy's ornate doublet in the flickering lantern light.

"Aye." Powlett's voice suddenly rose. "'Twould seem he's the brother of Sir Anthony Walrond. I say we strip him and put him to work carrying slops out of the gun deck, as an example to all royalists."

"Not for a minute, sir. Not so long as I'm in command of this fleet."

Calvert seemed to bellow at Powlett, almost too loudly.

A seaman was roughly yanking Jeremy to his feet, and Calvert turned on him. "You, there. Release that young gentleman, unless you'd like a timely taste of the cat on your back." He then approached and bowed ceremoniously. "Admiral Edmond Calvert, sir, your most obedient servant."

Jeremy stared in confusion and disbelief as the admiral continued, "Walrond, is it not?"

"Jeremy Walrond, and . . ."

"I'm honored." He turned and signaled to his quartermaster. "Have brandy sent to my cabin. Perhaps Master Jeremy Walrond would care to share a cup with us."

The seamen parted, doffing their caps to the admiral as he escorted Jeremy up the companionway toward the Great Cabin. "I can scarcely tell you, Master Walrond, how grateful I am to have the privilege of speaking face to face with a man of breeding from this island." He reached to steady Jeremy as he lost his footing in a roll of the ship.

Then he smiled and gestured him ahead, down the lantern-lit walkway toward the stern. "First thing, we'll try and locate some dry breeches for you and a brandy to drive off the chill." He was still smiling as he shoved open a heavy wooden door. The Great Cabin was empty save for Colonel Richard Morris, now seated at the center table and rubbing the dirt off Jeremy's flintlock musket. Morris laid it carefully across the table in front of him when he saw them enter. Calvert smiled toward him, then continued, "I understand, Master Walrond, you've already made the acquaintance of our infantry commander."

Morris rose and nodded as Calvert gestured Jeremy toward an ornately carved oak chair. "After we've all made ourselves comfortable, Master Walrond, I hope you and I and Captain Morris here can become better acquainted. We've got much to talk over tonight." He flashed a quick look at Morris as he smiled. "Mind you, strictly as gentlemen."

Chapter Twelve

Katherine was relieved when she finally spotted him standing among the gunners, his face and leather jerkin covered in a dark veneer of grime.

If anyone would know the truth behind the rumor spreading over the island, that Jeremy Walrond had been killed, surely Hugh would. She watched for a time, collecting her composure after the ride up from Bridgetown, then tied her mare to the trunk of a bullet-scarred palm and began working her way down the sandy slope toward the breastwork.

The mid-afternoon sun seared the Jamestown emplacement with the full heat of the day, and most of the gunners and militiamen were now shirtless and complaining about the need for rest. As she neared the stone steps leading up to the guns, the air rang with the sounds of hammering, iron against iron, and she realized Winston and the men were still working to extract the spikes from the touch holes of the large English culverin.

He looked out to study the three English warships offsh.o.r.e, barely visible through the smoke that mantled the bay, then turned to Thomas Canninge, his master gunner. "I think we've still got range, Tom. Try another round as soon as you're set and see if you can't hole them one last time."

Canninge and his gunners were struggling to set one of the

Dutch demi-culverin, hammering a wooden wedge out from under the breech in order to elevate the muzzle. "Aye, looks like they've started coming about, but I think we might still give the wh.o.r.esons one more taste."

All the large cannon in the breastwork had been disabled by the invading Roundheads; their infantry had overrun the guns long enough to drive a large iron nail deep into each gun's touch hole, the small opening in the breech through which the powder was ignited. The facility would have been defenseless had not six of the Dutch demi- culverin been hauled out of the fort and hidden in a palm grove up the hill just prior to the attack.

As soon as the invasion was repelled and the breastwork cleared, Winston had summoned teams of horses to bring the small Dutch cannon back. His gunners had opened fire on the fleet at the first light of dawn, catching the three English frigates which were still anch.o.r.ed within range and preparing for a long, leisurely sh.e.l.ling of the Jamestown settlement. An artillery duel commenced as the warships immediately returned the fire, but when Winston's gunners honed their targeting, they had prudently hoisted anchor and retired to the edge of range. Now, while the militiamen worked with hammers and drills to finish removing the spikes from the large culverin, the battle had become mostly noise and smoke.

"Katy, G.o.d's life!" He finally noticed her as she emerged at the top of the steps. His startled look quickly melted into a smile. "This is a surprise."

"Hugh, I came to find out . . ."

"Everything's fine. We've got two of the spiked guns almost cleared, and if we can keep fire cover with these Dutch demi's, we should have all of them back in operation by nightfall." He walked over to where she stood. "So move on back out of range. It'll not be much longer. I think they've decided to give up on the sh.e.l.ling. Tom's already holed the _Rainbowe _twice with these little nine-pounders. Probably didn't do much harm, but at least the Roundheads know we're here."