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blinking in surprise at the sight of what must have looked like a demon in front of him. MacDonald threw the sailor overboard.
    Several more went down without more than a low moan. Patrick did a quick tally in his head. Fifteen of the crew dead and no alarm raised. Now to get their own motley crew organized.
    Patrick, the MacDonald and the Spaniard would make their way forward, taking care of anyone they encountered as quietly as possible. Other prisoners, waiting for their chains to be struck, were assigned to watch the various hatches and kill anyone who came on deck. If and when there was an alarm, they were to join the battle.
    They now had the daggers and cutlasses of fifteen Spaniards. Other oarsmen found makeshift weapons in addition to those taken from the guards. Ropes were cut to be used as lashes or garrotes. Oars from the long boat could be used, even with the manacles. A quick-thinking oarsman managed to break the end off a broom and then partly split the handle to make a spear. The odds, though heavily against the oarsmen, were fast getting better.
    The first gray of dawn was visible through the fog, which would soon burn off. Patrick suspected the cook was awake and working. Sailors were probably rising. They had to hurry and take as many of the enemy as possible.
    Patrick and Denny moved forward on the port side, and the MacDonald and Diego on the starboard side. Patrick heard more orders being given as they moved up toward the helm. He almost crashed into a figure ahead of him. He took advantage of the man’s surprise to break his neck. He had no remorse, nor pity for any of them. They had chosen to sail on a hell ship, and now it was his life against theirs.
    A grunt came out of the fog, then evaporated into the air. He knew one of his companions had killed another member of the crew. In truth, every man aboard had to be killed. There was no room for compassion even if he had wanted to bestow any. They were doomed men when they first entered this ship. Now they were mutineers as well—regarded as lower than animals by every civilized country in the world. There could be no witnesses to what they were doing. None. All the evidence must be forever lost at sea.
    He had not mentioned it to the others, but most would be aware of the laws of the sea. And they shared Patrick’s hatred for their tormenters.
    A cry rang out. This one sharp and piercing before it was quickly silenced. Then there was the splash of a body overboard.
    A number of shouts quickly followed. Then a bell rang. And rang. Patrick took a deep breath. The time for hell was at hand.
    He moved forward to the wheel. They had to take the officers first. Once the leadership was gone . . .
    Night had turned into dawn. The fog had thinned, and he could see three figures by the wheel. One stayed at the wheel while the other two took positions to protect him. One had a sword, the other a club.
    He heard a whistle and knew MacDonald was approaching from the other side. Holding the cutlass he’d appropriated from the dead guard, Patrick attacked the man on the left, the one with a sword, as MacDonald appeared to attack the second.
    Patrick easily avoided the first wild swing; he’d trained all his young life with a sword. As the sword completed its momentum and went back, he countered it with the heavier cutlass, knocking it from the officer’s hand. The sword skittered across the deck and into the sea.
    He took advantage of the brief second of shock and surprise to kill the startled officer, whose last thought, no doubt, was wonder at being bested by a galley slave. One still hampered by chains.
    MacDonald was having a harder time. His opponent was a big man in far better health. Patrick took the dagger from his makeshift sash and thrust it into MacDonald’s opponent, then turned on the man at the wheel.
    “No,” the helmsman cried in terror, and Patrick for one brief second remembered this was a merchant ship, not a warship.
    He hesitated.
    Diego