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also heard stories of the plundering of Lake Maracaibo—stories of how Chevillard had lined up more than seventy settlers and personally beheaded one after the other.
    â€œLet’s not make this easy on them, lads!” Ross called back to the crew just before the first grappling hook sailed over the railing of the William Wallace . Ulrich, one of the gunners, brought his axe down on it quick. The rope snapped instantly, but dozens of other hooks rained down. One skewered Ulrich’s shoulder and slammed him tight to the side and dragged him overboard.
    As soon as the Wallace ’s crew appeared at the rails to cut off the hooks, Chevillard’s swivel guns opened up. With whoops and shouts, pirates in black and red swung down from the corvette’s masts. The first of Chevillard’s men to land on the Wallace ’s deck found himself staring into the wide barrel of Stede’s thunder gun.
    â€œYer not welcome aboard,” said the West Indian sailor, and he pulled the trigger. The sound of this cannon of a pistol drowned out all other noise.
    In an instant, the fight erupted all over the deck. Enemies streamed in across uncut ropes. Pistols and muskets fired all around. Smoke filled the air. Swords clashed, and men from both sides groaned and fell. Cromwell, Henrik, and Smitty leaped from their perches and brought their axes down on several heads in black bandannas. Stede put away the thunder gun—which, while deadly, took far too long to reload. In its place, Stede drew two long machetes from scabbards slung behind his back. He went to work, cutting a swath through the enemy’s first wave. Ross’s men were better fighters hand-to-hand, but Chevillard’s numbers began to overwhelm them.
    Ross waited and watched until he was convinced that most of Chevillard’s fighting force had boarded the Wallace . Then he saw Midge and Red Eye slip over the side unnoticed. That was it. The rest was out of his control. “Now for it, lads!” he yelled, drawing his cutlass. “Give ’em one for Scotland! Give ’em one for old William Wallace!”
    He leaped into the fray, rolled, and took down two of Chevillard’s men with a long, hard slash across their knees. Ross ducked and, in one brutal movement, swung his cutlass just as a pirate in black aimed a pistol at his head. The pirate’s arm—pistol and all—fell at the feet of the astonished sailor. A kick to the midsection sent him flying, and Ross ran to the next fight.

    Belowdecks, Anne wiped a moist cloth across the wounded man’s forehead. He lay on his side upon a table so that Nubby could treat his back. “These are most grievous wounds,” said the ship’s cook and doctor.
    They heard the cannon shots, the muskets, the shouts, and heavy footfalls. Nubby ignored them and continued his work. Anne grimaced, wondering if at any moment, Chevillard’s sailors would crash through the cabin door. If they did, Anne would be ready with her cutlass. But she hoped it would not come to that.
    As Anne continued to wipe the dried blood and grime from the man’s welted face, she realized that he was much younger than she had at first supposed. He had no beard or moustache, but she hadn’t noticed—her attention had been so drawn by the wounds and blood. How old? she wondered. Sixteen, seventeen?
    He groaned and arched his back. “Sorry, lad!” said Nubby. He lifted a cloth daubed in a cranberry-colored paste. “That’s just the ointment doing its work.”
    The lad’s eyes fluttered, then opened for just a moment. He looked up at Anne. “I . . . I know you, don’t I?” he said weakly before his eyes closed. Anne stepped backward.
    â€œWhat did ’e say?” Nubby asked. But before Anne could answer, a tremendous crack sounded from somewhere beyond the cabin door.
    â€œTopside!” Anne exclaimed. “They’re trying to get down