s soon as the admiral turned, Hartwell thrust upward and pushed his two captors back. They staggered away just far enough for Hartwell to draw his sword in a single, smooth movement, which ended with the tip against the terrified throat of Johnson.

   "Just remember that today your life was spared and think on it," said Hartwell quietly. "Reflect on your ways and improve them." He turned swiftly as Flavell and Bennett drew their swords and faced them down. Neither seemed eager to try to land the first blow and both timidly stabbed at Hartwell, who parried easily. Drawing bolder, Bennett leapt forward, but again, Hartwell easily deflected his stab.

   Hartwell's thoughts centred on his sister. He regretted bringing her out to sea, for surely he had signed her death warrant in doing so, but the death of their aunt, their last surviving relative, combined with Susanna's reluctance to be parted from him, had conspired against them. Hartwell looked up and a chill engulfed him—Fleetwood was running straight toward Susanna, obscene desire stamped on his face. Savagely disabling Flavell before running Bennett through, Hartwell pounded along the ship, determined to reach Susanna first.

   Fortunately, Susanna was well aware of Fleetwood's approach. She pulled a short length of heavy netting from the side of the vessel and swung it at Fleetwood's head. The netting enveloped him and he tripped and fell heavily, injuring himself. Susanna rushed over to him, grabbed his sword and swung it at the next man who tried to grab her, slashing his face open. He fell with a howl as Susanna wielded the sword with surprising skill.

   Around them, a small insurrection was breaking out. The majority of the crew supported Johnson and his plans for a private slave trade, emphasising the forward-planning Johnson had put in motion. The few rebels, including Fitch, Sporrit, O'Rourke and Tench, were those who had served with Hartwell before and shared his values, but the small band of mutineers was hopelessly outnumbered.

   As the fighting continued, Madrigal made his way to the side of the ship closest to his own vessel, pausing here and there to help the rebels in their battle. He tore his red waistcoat from his body and waved it up and down. Immediately, the ancient galleon swung about, her huge sails catching the minimal breeze and began to bear down on the Pride of Plymouth.

   "Men!" screamed Johnson. "Execute that crew of damn black devils!"

   The assembled sailors scattered, some running to the cannons while others grabbed their rifles. A fusillade of artillery flew out, striking the side of Madrigal's ship, piercing the sails and felling most of the small crew. The cannons boomed and caused further damage, blowing gaping holes in the upper parts of the galleon.

   "No!" screamed Madrigal in anguish as he saw his friends and followers killed, shot down with no chance of survival. His ship carried upward of seventy cannons, but the crew was hardly large enough to sail the vessel and the cannons stood untended.

   Hartwell swung his blade and killed another of his former crew as the man lunged at him, but as he fell, so another took his place. Susanna was flailing at another man who was threatening her, O'Rourke was pinned down by three burly sailors, Sporrit was trapped against one of the masts, while Fitch and Tench were pinned back against the starboard hull, their former crewmates grinning in derision, forcing them backward in the hope of watching the men fall into the sea.

   Escape seemed hopeless, survival impossible, but at that point, the sky darkened, a scream unlike any ever heard on Earth silenced the sound of the battle and a blazing fireball appeared in the sky and hurtled straight down toward the Pride of Plymouth.