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C how reckoned they were nine days away from the Azores, assuming the winds remained fair. Nine days in which Boukman would claim his revenge on Chow. Nine days for Chow to make his case with the rest of the crew.

Nine days in which Boukman could unmask the true, terrible Chow to Rebecca.

Working in his favor were Boukman’s mood swings. When the captain emerged from his cabin hours after ordering Chow away, he was jolly from a bottle of rum and skipped straight to dancing a jig with the fiddler. Chow slipped below deck to stay out of the captain’s way.

And so it continued for the next few days. Boukman didn’t ask for Chow, and Chow did his best to remain invisible. It was a diseased relationship for a quartermaster and captain, one that would weaken the Ghost if they allowed it to remain for long, but for the moment, it was keeping Chow alive.

He didn’t sleep anymore. When he lay in his hammock, fingers linked with Rebecca’s, he stared at the sturdy boards above him and tried to reconcile his present with his past. As a young man—younger than some of the boys climbing the topmasts—he had left Northfield Hall for London, his heart full of disgust for the mindless loyalty his parents displayed to Lord Preston.

How he had ranted against the baron to anyone who would listen.

Even now, thinking of Lord Preston filled Chow with an anger he felt he could never outrun.

But why? Lord Preston’s crime was hypocrisy, or at least accepting praise he wasn’t due; it was making everyone at Northfield Hall believe he was a saint when he still expected them to live as laborers in his service.

Now, Chow himself was an eviler man than Lord Preston. Why couldn’t he have just forgiven Lord Preston for being human and stayed there with his family, where life was safe and simple?

Instead, he had pledged his loyalty to Boukman. A man who took bigger risks than Lord Preston—and turned out to be even less worthy of Chow’s reverence.

And yet, even now, knowing Boukman to be more of a man than a hero, Chow felt guilty as he whispered to Jack Davies about how to make a change aboard the Ghost . Chow was proving to himself that he was a traitor—a villain.

He knew Captain Boukman wouldn’t surrender without making sure every crew member, and especially Rebecca, knew exactly how villainous Chow could be.

And once she found out what Chow had done on Calliope all those years ago, Rebecca would never forgive him.

Perhaps she would lead a mutiny against him, and Chow would meet his fate with the sharks after all.

There was nothing for it but to plan the mutiny anyway.

He gathered men to his side and even came up with a plan, simple though it was.

The next time the captain gave an order that didn’t sit right, they would resist. And if the captain wouldn’t hear reason—which they all knew he wouldn’t—they would take the ship.

They were five days away from the Azores when, from above, Fuego called out about a ship on the horizon. Raising his telescope, Chow found it flying the Union Jack, due southeast—in between the Ghost and the distant African coast.

“British royal frigate, Captain. Heading southeast.” Squinting into the telescope, he managed to make out a name: “HMS Glory. ”

“Not one of the squadron, then.” The West African Squadron, Captain Boukman meant, one of the ships dedicated to stopping the slave trade.

To express his disgust, the captain spit tobacco from his mouth over the side of the ship.

“Probably off to bombard some poor town on the other side of the world.”

Whatever it was doing, they could maintain their distance and sail past if they kept their wits about them.

The Ghost was a known pirate ship, which meant any naval officer would be happy to seize it, but they weren’t making any trouble.

If they switched their flag to the American stars and stripes, HMS Glory would steer clear—or risk inciting another war.

Boukman stared at the horizon, where the ship was but a brown speck. Then, he ordered, “Change course. We’re going to catch those cockroaches.”

Chow’s heart dropped. And instead of seizing the moment, he gave the man a chance to save himself: “Catch them? To do what?”

“Sink them.” Captain Boukman added, “First, we’ll take their supplies, then we’ll sink them.”

In all his years as a pirate—even before joining the Ghost —Chow had never taken on a naval ship.

It was asking for trouble. The British navy equipped its ships with more cannons and gunpowder than any pirate could hope for, and their crews were the fastest gunmen in the world.

Besides, even if they did defeat that ship, the Admiralty would alert the whole fleet to look out for the Ghost .

It would only be a matter of time before the crew was captured and hanged for piracy.

And for what gain? They didn’t need supplies from HMS Glory , not when the Azores were only a few days away.

Chow waited for Boukman to see reason. “That’s asking for trouble, Captain.”

“I did not ask for your opinion.” The captain did not need to loom to make his physical threat clear. He was the bigger man. His was the deeper voice. The anger in his breast burned with more fuel. “Call for de la Cruz.”

Chow waited a moment longer. He courteously looked away from Boukman. He prayed to the ocean that the captain would take back the order.

If the captain would only remember who he was and what the Ghost stood for, the day did not need to get ugly.

But the captain did not take back the order, and so Chow proceeded as planned. “De la Cruz!” Chow shouted, bringing in a witness to Boukman’s bad judgment.

Julio presented himself quickly. “Yes, sir?”

“The captain orders us to catch that frigate.” Chow pointed to the frigate on the horizon.

“They’ll sink us in a half hour,” de la Cruz said, horror in his expressive eyes.

Captain Boukman sneered. “When did my crew turn into such yellow-bellied cowards? Is it because I allowed a woman on board that you suddenly act like a bunch of eight-year-old girls?”

“We’re here to advise you, Captain,” Chow said as respectfully as he could.

His sentence was truncated by the tip of the captain’s sword pressed to his throat. “We will catch that ship, and anyone who says otherwise will be locked in the brig.”

Chow froze, his only defense against the steel that could so easily rip open his veins. He met the captain eye for eye. Captain Boukman glared at him, his face pulled into a storm of eyebrows and fury. His mouth hung open, angry breaths coming in huffs.

This was a man who needed to prove his power, regardless of the consequences.

And this was the signal the crew had been waiting for.

“Aye aye, Captain,” he mouthed, careful not to let his vocal cords ring against the sword.

Boukman lowered the weapon. His glare still skewering Chow, he shouted, “Davies!”

The coxswain mate bounded up to the quarterdeck with his usual cheerful demeanor. Yet Chow knew he was now playacting a role so the rest of them could prepare to mutiny. “Captain?”

“Make ready to take that frigate.” Boukman spit again, this time aiming the chewed tobacco at Chow’s feet. “Sharkhead will inspect the hold. Make sure there aren’t any holes that need plugging.”

A demotion that weeks ago would have crushed him. Chow took it without objection, ducking his head to disappear from the quarterdeck just as Boukman wanted him to. He kept his steps slow and dejected until he was down the ladder, out of sight.

Then he let his true reactions reign.

His first act was to find Rebecca. It was starboard watch, which meant she was cleaning the animal pen and scouring the dishes from morning mess. Chow had only to walk half the length of the ship to find her clucking over the chickens as she tried to steal the eggs from their nests.

“These two hens finally did their job,” she said as he approached. “Think I have to tell the rest of the crew, or can you and I eat these eggs as our little secret?”

Chow wished he had time to smile at her joke. He wished Boukman had made the right choice and caught the winds away from the frigate so that this could be like any other day, when he might draw Rebecca to their little alcove and steal a kiss before going back to his duties.

Boukman had not made that choice, and so Chow now needed to act. “It’s time.”

Rebecca straightened from where she bent over the animals. “I’ll alert the sleepers.” As previously discussed. No pirate wanted to sleep through this.

But before she let him go, Rebecca reached out and squeezed Chow’s fingers. It was a far cry from the kiss he longed for, yet it jolted through him like a revelation.

If it weren’t for her at his side, he would be following the captain’s orders, headed for his own doom.

Too bad it was only a matter of hours before she deserted him , too.

A calm engulfed Rebecca, one she recognized from the moments of her life when she had felt her fate was entirely beyond her control.

Which was strange because just now, she held destiny in her own hands.

She strapped the machete to her thigh, as she had before boarding the Whimsy.

She added a knife beside the two eggs in her pocket.

Then she took up her role in the plan. Walking the hammocks, she shook each one and hissed, “It’s time,” until every pirate was awake.

One by one, they climbed the ladder to the top deck.

The day was sultry, the wind strong, and the sails bristled loudly as the crew pulled them into a tack towards the southeast. Fuego and the other boys were above, manning the lines and shouting down about the frigate’s activity.

It was raising its sails, too, though it was too soon to tell what it planned to do.

The pirates congregated on the main deck, forming a circle as if they were to vote. Rebecca found herself between Fearsome Fred and Long Tale Lee; Sharkhead had disappeared somewhere below and had yet to emerge.

From the quarterdeck, Boukman bellowed, “Davies! Get these men into proper formation!”

Davies turned to face the captain. “They are.”

“Have you lost your senses? We’re going into battle, not taking a roll call!”

Which was when Chow rose up from the hatch. The men parted, allowing him to cut to the center of the circle and face the captain above.

“Captain Boukman,” he said in that gruff shout that had so often commanded the ship, “we are not attacking that frigate.”

“That’s enough from you.” Boukman leaned over the banister separating his quarterdeck balcony from the main deck. “Davies, lock Chow in the brig.”

“No, Captain,” replied Jack Davies, who jumped down from the quarterdeck to join the circle. “I’m with Sharkhead. We are not attacking that frigate.”

“Aye aye,” said Long Tale Lee. “I’m with Sharkhead, too.”

“Aye aye,” Fearsome Fred agreed.

And one by one, the crew called out their allegiance. With each cry, Boukman’s face screwed tighter, his lips tilted into a deranged smile. When Rebecca at last declared, “I’m with Sharkhead,” he reached for the pistol at his belt.

Julio de la Cruz, who had been manning the helm behind Boukman the whole time, pressed his cutlass into the back of the captain’s neck. “Drop your weapon.”

Boukman was on display for the whole crew to see.

They watched as his options played out across his face, and Rebecca knew the moment his smile widened that he did not intend to surrender.

He was big enough to take old de la Cruz down in a single punch; perhaps he thought he could take them all with the force of his fury alone.

Rebecca reached into her pocket for a weapon. Then, arcing her arm backward the way she had learned to throw a snowball across a Rhode Island field, she vaulted the egg into the captain’s face.

It broke in a mess of orange yolk in his eyes and beard. His nose began to bleed, and the red mixed into the egg like a vengeful sunrise. For a moment, all anyone could do was stare.

Then Chow stepped forward, pulling her behind him, in the same instant that Julio de la Cruz plunged his sword into Boukman’s side, and also in the same instant that Boukman pulled the trigger on his pistol.

The bullet went somewhere into the sea. Rebecca clung to Chow, and he clung to her, long enough to determine neither of them were injured.

Then they set to work finishing the mutiny. Chow rushed the quarterdeck with Davies and the other men; in no time, they had Boukman trussed and marching down to the brig. “Set sail for the Azores,” Chow ordered.

Rebecca hustled with the crew to change the sails. But as Fuego de la Cruz mounted the mast once more, he let out a different kind of shout:

“The frigate is headed for us!”

And a new kind of doom settled as they realized they had not acted fast enough to save their lives.