“Yeah, I know, but all the farms are farther north, in the cross-island fertile belt. I’m guessing these attackers, who must number over a thousand, came ashore farther south, right at the foot of the mountain.”
“That’s nothing but rough surf and rocks, there, Mike,” Bert observed.
“Yeah, but the Kalinago were born to them and they were willing to take the chance to get the jump on us. Which they’ve pretty much done.” Mike’s recent memories seemed to flit across his present vision like the images of an old-style slide projector skipping along a wall. He saw three of his most reliable and agreeable workers hacked down to the ground by half a dozen Kalinago who seemed to appear like ghosts out of the wood, the blood flying up with every backswing of their axes. He saw David, the silent Dutch sailor who had come to love the radio and everything about it, running to alert the camp at array seven, shot in the back by a Frenchman. And when the tow-headed youngster got up, blood smearing the front of his shirt, to try to continue raising the alarm, four Kalinago arrows burrowed into his back with singing whispers. Mike, not thinking clearly, had emptied his revolver at the first attackers who came close, improbably causing a brief lull in the entire attack. But in hindsight, that had been nothing more than the enemy mistaking the revolver’s rate of fire for an unexpected number of defenders on site.
“Who else made it out?” Bert asked quietly.
Mike shook his head. “Don’t know. All I saw were people running every direction. Some were us, some were them. Most of our technical crew was not on the mountain last night. Just you, David, and Gerben were up there. But our workers—”
Kwesi shook his head. “My people will flee if they can, but will not die without a fight. Particularly not now that they can hope for freedom in a few years.”
Mike nodded as they skittered down the last few yards of the ghut. And if we hadn’t made sure of that eventual freedom, your people might be joining forces with the Kalinago right now. And hell, who could blame them if they had done so, anyway? Not like we colonizers have a long, proud history of keeping our promises. “A lot of the workers were going toe-to-toe with the Kalinago, machetes against hatchets. Gave at least as good as they were getting. I shouted at those guys to run, but a lot just smiled and kept swinging.”
“They are warriors, most of them,” Kwesi explained quietly. “They were sold to your slave-traders because they were taken prisoner by victorious tribes. Given the promise of freedom, there is honor to be reclaimed in defending the ground they worked with you, Michael.”
Mike felt suddenly shamed that he had not stayed on the slopes of The Quill and died with them. Even though he had known, from the moment he saw the invaders, that he had to perform an even more important task: alert Oranjestad. “Let’s go,” he said as the ghut leveled off, leading to Oranjestad’s outskirts. “I figure we’ve got about ten minutes to raise a defense.”
Jean du Plessis peered down from the western slope of The Quill, watching the handful of survivors scatter away from its base toward Oranjestad. Behind him, almost all the long, coated wires had been hacked down from there they were secured to high, straight, well-pruned trees. “We are done here then? The radio is disabled?”
D’Esnambuc’s nephew, Jacques Dyel du Parque, frowned at the swinging wires. “For now.”
“Well, that is as we wanted it, yes?”
Jacques nodded. “Yes, Monsieur du Plessis, but I am concerned that it may not be enough.”
“What? Why?”
Jacques pointed at the dozen mite-sized figures sprinting toward the outskirts of Oranjestad. “If they succeed in raising a defense, we may not be able to hold this position. Or remain on St. Eustatia at all.”
Du Plessis almost sneered. “And what defense could they raise?”
Jacques raised his finger toward the west as de l’Olive approached, half of his French musketeers just behind him. “Monsieur du Plessis, how many ships do you count in the bay?”
Du Plessis scowled, covered his eyes, although fortunately, the sun was not too far advanced. “About twenty. About a third are jachts. At least three are simply fluyts. None have even weighed anchor, yet.”
“Quite true, monsieur. But we did not expect to see so many here, according to the landholders who responded to our bribes. They thought that only a handful would be left.”
“What’s your point, Jacques?” De l’Olive sounded far less impatient that du Plessis felt.
“Only this, my friend: how many ship’s troops would be upon them?”