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did not. He emerged from the fog at that instant, wielding a sword in his hand. He drove it into the officer’s heart without the slightest hesitation.
    The battle was in full action now. Screams tore at the morning’s silence, high-pitched shouts of alarm, death cries.
    Patrick turned around. Denny was guarding his back. Crew members poured out of the hatches, engaging with the oarsmen in desperate battles. He went to the aid of one oarsman, using the cutlass. Another large sailor assaulted Patrick, thrusting a dagger at him. Patrick tried to block it and turned, but the edge of the blade caught his arm, leaving a deep red gash on his skin.
    The crewman turned to attack again. Before he could reach Patrick, though, Denny hurled him overboard. He’d again saved Patrick’s life, though he seemed to make no attempt to save his own. He stood there as two sailors rushed him.
    Patrick swung the cutlass. One went down, and the other was grabbed from behind by an oarsman who used a belaying pin to crush his skull.
    Patrick nodded his thanks for the assistance, then looked down to see blood running from the gash in his arm. He felt no pain, though, only the compelling need to be free. Desperation had turned into hope and now hope into possibility.
    His oarsmen were armed well now, having taken weapons from those they’d killed. He felt their anger, their bloodlust, the need to avenge months and years of abject misery.
    Thrust and cut. It became as natural as the refrain that drove his body hours earlier. Heave! Lift!
    He had rowed to stay alive.
    Thrust and cut.
    Now he killed to live. To get home.
    Gradually there was no one else to fight. A deadly silence fell over the ship except for the occasional groan or cry of pain. The deck was awash in bodies. The smell of blood mingled with the heavy moist air. It was not a stench easily forgotten.
    The Spaniard, Diego, appeared at his side.
    “How many of the crew live?” Patrick asked.
    Diego shook his head. “We are still looking. Some might be in hiding.”
    Patrick knew he should feel some sorrow, but he did not. Every slain man was here by choice. Every one was part of his slavery.
    “And the oarsmen?”
    “Eight dead. Nine wounded.”
    He nodded. Far better than he’d dared hope.
    He was alive!
    And free!
    Diego was covered in blood, his filthy loincloth a bright red. “And you.”
    Patrick shrugged. “Some slices. No more.” He was silent for a moment.
    “I do not believe it yet.”
    Neither did Patrick believe it.
    “We have to search the ship, cabin by cabin,” he said.
    As if summoned, an oarsman came through the hatch. “There is a locked door. It is likely the captain’s cabin.”
    “A coward as well as a villain,” the Spaniard said. “I cannot wait for him to feel my sword.”
    “Nay,” Patrick said. “I have been here the longest. He is mine. Have two men wait outside the locked cabin,” he said. “Have others check the rest of the ship for anyone who may be hiding.”
    “Why wait?”
    “I want these chains off before I meet the captain of this hell ship,” Patrick explained.
    The Spaniard hesitated. ’Twas obvious to Patrick that Diego wanted the captain as much as he did. It was a test now. Would the oarsmen follow him or dissolve into a mob that would make success a temporary thing?
    “Si,” the man finally said. “I will be at your back.”
    Patrick nodded as relief filled him. They still had a nearly impossible task in front of them.
    The Spaniard eyed him warily. “We have a slight problem. Who will sail the ship?”
    “I know something about navigation and sails. The others can learn.”
     
ULIANA had never known such stark terror before. The new silence was more frightening than the screams of minutes earlier.
    She sat on the bed, clasping an equally terrified Carmita. Her hands trembled.
    When the first sounds came, she’d opened her door and a sailor told her to shut it and keep it locked. Apparently there was some kind of