Atiba lunged toward the doorway, his pike aimed at the tall shadow.

The man had already feinted back against the shrouds. He carried no sword, but a pistol had appeared in his right hand, as though by magic.

With the other he shoved the _branco _woman back against the shrouds, out of reach. The pike missed him, tangled in a knot of lines dangling from the mast, and was lost.

Then the glint of his machete caught Atiba's notice and he dropped toward the darkness of the deck. He rolled twice, bringing himself within reach of its wooden handle. He was on his feet, swinging for the man, when he heard the crack of the pistol and felt a tremor in his wrist.

The tip of the machete blade sang into the night, but the stump was still left, and still deadly. Now the fight would be at close quarters.

He told himself he welcomed that--and sprang for the dark silhouette.

He was thrusting the blade upward, toward the tall man's neck, when he heard an unexpected click from the pistol barrel, followed by a hard voice. It was a threat that needed no translation.

"No, by G.o.d. Or I'll blow your b.l.o.o.d.y head off."

The hot muzzle of the pistol was against his cheek.

But his blade was against the man's throat.

"_Meu Deus_. Briggs' Yoruba." The man quickly switched to Portuguese.

"_Felicitacao_, senhor. You're every bit as fast as I'd thought. Shall we call it a draw?"

It was the _branco_, the one who had freed his slaves. The last man on the island he wished to kill. Shango would be incensed.

"I think one of us must die." He held the broken blade hard against the flesh, and he could almost feel the pulse of blood just beneath the skin.

"It's both of us, or neither, by Jesus. Think about that."

"Your pistol had only one bullet. It is gone."

"Take a look and you'll see there're two barrels." The tall man had not wavered.

"Shall I just blow the thievin' b.a.s.t.a.r.d to h.e.l.l, Cap'n?" It was the voice of the man who had been asleep. From the corner of his eye Atiba could see him standing by the foremast. There was the click of a flintlock being c.o.c.ked.

"No, John. He's like to slit my throat in the bargain with what's left of his G.o.d-cursed machete." The words were in English. Then the man switched back to Portuguese. "A trade, senhor. A life for a life."

"In Ife we say we cannot dwell in a house together without speaking to one another. But if you betray me, you will answer for it to all my clan. Remember that." The broken machete slowly pulled away, then dropped to the deck.

"Hold the musket on him, John. I don't know whether to trust these Africans." Again Portuguese. "Life for life. Agreed." He lowered the pistol, then slipped it into his belt. With an easy motion he pulled down a lantern hanging from the shrouds and struck a flint to it. A warm glow illuminated the open door of the fo'c'sle, and the tanned face of the _branco _woman. "Now. Atiba the Yoruba, you be gone and I'll forget you were ever here. Briggs would likely have you whipped into raw meat for his dogs if he ever found out about this." The _branco _was looking into his eyes. "But you probably already know that. I salute your courage, senhor. Truth is, I once thought about having you help me."

"Help you?" He studied the _branco's _face. "For what purpose?"

"If you weren't too stubborn to take orders, I'd planned to train you into a first-cla.s.s fighting man. Maybe make you second-in-command for a little war of my own. Against the Spaniards." The man was outlined in the pale light. "I'd hoped we might fight together, instead of against each other."

"That is a strange idea for a _branco_." He was studying the scar on the tall man's cheek. "But then you have the mark on your cheek like the clan sign of a Yoruba. Perhaps the place you got it taught you something of brotherhood as well."

"It was a long time past, though maybe it did at that. I do know I'm still a brother to any man I like. You were once in that category, senhor, till you came on my ship trying to knife me. Now you'd best tell me what you're doing here."

"I wanted to see your ship."

"Well, you've seen it. You also tore off some hinges."

"I will replace them for you." He smiled. "Wrapping a razor preserves its sharpness."

The man seemed momentarily startled; then a look of realization spread through his eyes. Finally he turned and spoke in English to the fat _branco _holding the musket. "John, fetch a hammer and some fresh nails from below decks. You know where ship's carpenter keeps them."

"What're you saying, Cap'n?" The fat _branco_ had not moved. "You'd have me go aft? An' the musket I'm holdin' on the b.a.s.t.a.r.d? Who's to handle that whilst I'm gone?"

"I'll take it." The _branco _woman stepped forward.

"Give it to her."

"You'd best keep a close eye, Cap'n." The fat man hesitated. "I think this one'd be a near match for you. . . ."

"Just fetch the hammer, John."

"Aye." He reluctantly pa.s.sed the musket and began backing slowly toward the hatch leading to the lower deck.

Atiba watched him disappear into the dark, then turned back to Winston.

"You do not own slaves, senhor. Yet you do nothing about those on this island who do."

"What goes on here is not my affair. Other men can do what they like."

"In Ife we say, 'He who claps hands for the fool to dance is no better than the fool.'" He glanced back at the a.r.s.enal stored in the dark room behind him. "If you do nothing to right a wrong, then are you not an accomplice?"

The man suddenly seemed to understand everything. Without a word he walked over and shoved the door against the open fo'c'sle. "Let me give you some wisdom from this side of the wide ocean, my friend. I think all the drumming I've been hearing, and now this, means you're planning some kind of revolt. I'm not going to help you, and I'm d.a.m.ned if you're going to use any of my muskets." He reached up and adjusted the lantern. "I've done everything I can to end slavery. n.o.body on this island listens to me. So whatever you do is up to you."

"But without weapons, we have no chance of winning our freedom."

"You've got no chance in any case. But if you steal some of these muskets of mine, you'll just manage to kill a lot of people before you have to surrender and be hanged." He watched the fat man emerge from the hatch. "I'd hate to see you hanged, Atiba the Yoruba."

"What's the savage got to say for himself, Cap'n?" The man was carrying a hammer. "Was he plannin' to make off with a few o' those new flintlocks we got up at Nevis?"

"I think he was just exploring, John." The words were in English now.

"Help him put the door back and show him how to fix the hinges."

"As you will, Cap'n. But keep an eye on him, will you? He's like to kill the both of us if he takes a mind."

"Katy, keep him covered."

"G.o.d, but he's frightening. What were you two talking about?"

"We'd best go into that later." He glanced at Mewes. "John, give him the hammer."

The fat _branco _reluctantly surrendered the tool, then warily reached to hold the hinges in place. There was a succession of quick, powerful strokes, and the door was aligned and swinging better than before.

"Now go on back to Briggs' plantation. And pray to whatever G.o.ds you have that he doesn't find out you were gone tonight." He picked up the broken machete and pa.s.sed it over. "Take this. You're going to need it."