*
Climbing the rudder was far easier than moving along the keel, as the enormous black iron hinges, attached with bolts, that connected it to the keel provided many handholds.
At the top, two mighty chains floated free, their links clinking in the roaring wind. Arabella pulled herself along the larboard chain, where great blasts of wind-driven rain tried to pluck her from the ship, but as each gust came she clung tightly to the chain until it passed. At last she reached the ledge below the great cabin’s window.
Carven vines, highlighted with gold leaf, bedecked the window’s lower edge. Cautiously, keeping herself out of sight, she pulled herself along the vines, leaving behind herself a series of bloody hand-prints quickly erased by the storm. When she reached the window’s lower starboard corner, she slowly put her head over the edge so as to peer into the cabin.
Her first view was of nothing but a buff coat.
Moving her head to one side and wiping the rain from the window with her sleeve, she had to suppress a gasp. Every one of the officers was crammed into the great cabin, with hands bound behind them, eyes covered with blindfolds, and mouths stopped with gags. Even Aadim had a cloth bag pulled over his head.
One midshipman, a very young boy by the name of Watson, floated in the center of the cabin, slurping from a bottle of Captain Singh’s very best wine. The butts of two pistols projected from the waist of his trousers.
Arabella bit her lip. Watson’s participation in the mutiny surprised her; he’d seemed a pleasant enough sort. But here he was. How could she get past him to free the captain and the other officers?
Just then the hatch to the maindeck burst open and one of the two men outside stuck his head in. “Watson!” he cried, wiping rain from his face. “Get yerself and them pistols on deck! That blackamoor Mills is kicking up a fuss!” Behind him, Arabella heard shouts and growls of anger.
Watson hastily corked the wine and departed, leaving the bottle spinning in the air behind him. The hatch slammed closed, and she heard it being securely dogged.
Thank God for Mills!
The great cabin’s window was not designed to be opened from outside, but neither was it intended to be secure, and in a few moments she had worked one casement free from its catch, swung it wide, and slipped inside. The cessation of the pounding rain on her back was a small relief. “It’s Ashby, sir,” she muttered in the captain’s ear, and slipped off his blindfold. One eye was swollen and purple, which filled her heart with compassion toward him and anger toward the mutineers. “I’ll have you free in a moment.”
But as soon as she reached behind the captain to untie his hands, she regretted that rash promise. Rather than merely being tied, the captain’s hands were locked to the bench with iron shackles. The other officers were similarly secured.
Panic squeezed Arabella’s chest. Watson or one of the other mutineers would surely return soon. She untied the captain’s gag. “Do you know who has the key, sir?”
“Binion,” he replied, his one good eye narrowing. The single word seemed more packed with loathing than its two syllables could accommodate.
Arabella swallowed. Getting the key from the head of the mutiny would be difficult indeed. “I’ll try to get it, sir.”
“Hurry,” said the captain. “And put the gag and blindfold back. In case they return, they will not suspect you are still at large.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” she said, though it pained her to put the stained and filthy rag back into her captain’s mouth and tie it behind his head. At least it was not so tight this time. The blindfold, too, she intended to tie but loosely.
But as she was pulling the cloth across his eyes, a sound came from behind her. She turned to see the hatch swinging wide, and a figure entering the cabin.
Binion.
The expression of surprise on his face was quickly supplanted by a sneer. “Well, well, so here you are. We’ve been looking for you.” He drew a pistol from beneath his shirt—it was, she could see, quite dry—and pointed it squarely at Captain Singh’s head, drawing back the hammer with an emphatic click. “Now yield, or the captain dies.”
*
Arabella grimaced as she was hauled onto the deck by Gowse and the other airman who’d been guarding the captain’s hatch, and not only because the cold rain began to pelt her face once again. Her arms were shackled behind herself—oh, how her heart had ached when the keys had rattled from Binion’s pocket!—and the belaying pin, never used, had been taken from her belt.