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mutiny. . . .
    She tried to still the trembling of her hands. It would do no good.
    But why hadn’t her uncle come for her? Or a member of the crew? Even the face of the first mate would be welcome.
    She looked around the cabin for something with which to defend herself. There was a small knife she had for cutting fruit and cheese that had been brought to her cabin.
    She rose and went over to the small table where the blade still rested in a slab of cheese. The knife looked small and useless, but it was all she had.
    She clutched it and went to the door, listening.
    Then she heard her uncle’s voice. “Open.”
    She threw the door open. He stood disheveled, the first time she had ever seen him that way.
    “Come,” he demanded, grabbing her arm.
    “What is happening?”
    “The galley slaves. They broke free. Come to my cabin. It has a sturdier door. My crew will defeat them. They are nothing but rabble.”
    “Carmita comes with me.”
    “Bring her if you must, but hurry. We have only a few seconds, if that.”
    She grabbed a trembling Carmita and followed her uncle down the corridor to his cabin. They were both thrust inside, then he slipped in with them before bolting the door.
    “Should you not be out there with the crew?” she asked.
    “My first duty is to you, my niece,” he replied. “I swore to your father that I would bring you safely to England.”
    Voices grew stronger. Curse words in several languages. Some she knew but others she could easily guess from their vehemence. Accompanying their voices were doors slamming open and shut. Had the oarsmen somehow gained control of the ship? But how could that be? They were in chains. There were armed guards.
    She shied when she heard a pounding at the door. Curses in a language she didn’t understand came through the door. More pounding. Then nothing.
    Were they really going away?
    Perhaps her uncle’s men had regained control. But then wouldn’t they have told her uncle?
    The questions pounded at her when she heard a scream that ripped through her. It was one of terrible pain.
    She clutched the knife in her hand. She would use it on herself before letting herself be violated.
    Or maybe she would use it on someone else.
    Her heart pounded, and her throat was dry with terror. Should she use the knife now? Or wait until she wouldn’t have a chance?
    Madre!

Chapter 5
    WITH a mighty stroke of the hammer, the blackmith once again broke the bolt that fastened the irons, this time on Patrick’s wrists. When the blacksmith finished, Patrick stood. Free of fetters. He spread out his arms in victory. Not in joy. He didn’t think he would ever be joyous. But the sheer pleasure of moving the way men were meant to move was intoxicating.
    “You did it,” the blacksmith said. “I never thought . . .”
    “Nor did I think we would succeed,” Patrick said.
    His hands were free now to confront the captain unencumbered. The man who had made his life, and those of hundreds before him, a hellish inferno.
    He took satisfaction from the fact that the captain, the man who had bought and sold human beings for profit, was apparently cowering inside his cabin, knowing that his life was nearing an end.
    It did bother him that others may still be alive and trying to surrender. He’d thought the honor had been drained from him these last years, but something in him clenched at killing a disarmed man. Mayhap a tiny wisp of humanity remained in him. He didn’t know how much remained in the others who had shared the benches.
    That was why he had asked for these few minutes, to let the bloodlust fade, for reason and conscience to return.
    Patrick headed toward the captain’s cabin, passing exuberant oarsmen. He heard thanks in different languages, some he knew and some he didn’t, but the sentiment needed no translation. Even the sickest of them had been now pulled up on the main deck, and incredulity had been replaced by glee. Some had obviously attacked the food stores, others