Isaac stared up. He had been standing on the deck since dusk, counting the hours as the moon paced across the sky until it vanished into a thicket of clouds. The air was heavy against his skin, and a moist wind whipped through his hair. He unhooked the first few buttons at his collar and sighed.

The letter was still in his pocket, the rustling paper whispering to him at every pause in the ocean's din. He reached for the envelope and felt the worn parchment between his fingers.

The sound of something being torn in half screamed out over the uneasy waves. Isaac, thinking that a sail had ripped, looked back to the sky. His upturned face was greeted instead by the stinging of harsh rain. The sound rang out again, and this time he recognized it as thunder. Storm is brewing.

“Oh dear,” he whispered.

“Oh dear indeed,” a voice croaked. Firm hands seized him by the shoulders and jerked him around to face the deck. “Stand still if yeh've half a mind. We won't touch you.”

The cabin door fell open, the black square of its frame giving way to a parade of dour figures. A handful of dark-eyed sailors stormed onto the deck, dragging a shackled figure onto the wet planks, half-dressed, his face bruised. The man stumbled across the boards and looked up. Isaac's heart pounded against his ribs. Their eyes met for a moment, and the captain – the captain - turned away, his brow furrowed with an expression of shame that was foreign to his face.

“Don't move a muscle, Isaac. Not a twitch, and you'll be fine,” the voice whispered, thick with whiskey and soured milk.

“No chance in hell!” he shouted, digging the heel of his boot into his captor's shin. He shook himself loose from the sailor's grip as he fumbled for his dirk, then his rapier. A clamor erupted as one sailor threw a punch and left the foretopman flattened on the deck. Someone fired into the knot of mutineers near the helm; one of the captain's escorts drew his gun and attempted to fire back, only to realize the rain had rendered his powder useless. Isaac searched the deck for an ally – where was Whiskers?

“Silence!” one of the mutineers roared, and Isaac recognized the voice, for the first time, as distinctly American. He could count at least twenty rebels in the circle – several of which had been press-ganged into the service. He was surprised that he had not made the connection earlier.

“What's there to be silent about?” the helmsman shouted, lunging toward the dissenters with his smallsword. A mutineer quickly parried the blow and shoved the man back before running him through with his own blade. The rain whipped across his body, washing the blood across the deck.

“Consider that a demonstration,” the American snapped, “if you wish to avoid further casualties.” He licked his lips. “We have agreed to allow the captain to escape with his life, along with a handful of officers and loyal seamen.” He paused, and a flash of lightning illuminated his dark features. “Seeing as we are in a simple majority, it would be in your best interests to lower your weapons, take a crate of supplies, and begin loading.” He gestured to the small rowboat at the side of the ship.

The crew fell silent. A gust of wind whipped violently through the rigging: no one had bothered to reef the foresail. Slowly, the remaining loyalists began to trickle across the glistening deck. Isaac took a step forward.

“There are, however, exceptions,” said the gruff voice of the mutineer behind him, who pulled him back by the arm. “The captain has agreed that certain skilled members of the crew might be detained as to ensure our successful passage,” the man hissed in his ear. “Don't make a fuss, though – the others might get a bit jealous.”

Isaac tore away from the man's grip, drawing his rapier and lunging at the man's exposed throat. The mutineer parried quickly and stepped forward, countering with a sloppy thrust at his chest. Dancing around the blade, Isaac slipped on the wet planks, fell backwards, and found his back flush against the rail. Swearing sharply, he lunged forward, and was disheartened to hear the clink of steel against steel as the sailor countered the thrust.

“Isaac! Drop the blade, or the gunner gets a bullet!” another mutineer shouted. From the corner of his eye, he could see him holding a pistol to the old man's head. His fingers numbed, and Isaac dropped the blade. He heard Whiskers let out a desperate howl – from somewhere over the rail.

“Isaac, my boy!” he cried. Isaac turned to see Whiskers and the other loyal men cramped into the tiny boat. He looked back to the deck: the head mutineer stood sneering as he held the limp body of the helmsman hostage.

“You filth,” Isaac hissed.

“He isn't as quick as the captain promised,” the man said in his New England drawl, clicking the trigger of the empty flintlock as he tossed it aside. “Marshall, pull the ship around.” One of the mutineers took the helm, and the remaining sailors began to turn the ship to face the opposite horizon. Evidently, this had been planned to a greater extent than Isaac had assumed.

“I wouldn't underestimate him,” the other man said, still holding his blade level with Isaac's chest. “Careful he doesn't pull one of his fainting fits on you. What do you say now, boy?”

Isaac reached for his dirk, and the man pressed the tip of the blade to the open neck of his shirt. The metal was ice against his skin.

“You expect me to sail with a crew of mutineers?” he asked, looking out at the ship, bathed in water and blood. He could see the small boat sailing into the distance now, Whiskers' balding head bobbing up and down with the crests of the sea. “By law, I'd be as much of a coward as you are.”

His dark eyes grinned fiendishly. “You'd rather pay in blood?”

Somewhere in the distance, Isaac heard a strange singing, mingled with the timbre of bells. The scar on his shoulder seared with pain. He carefully brought one hand to his collarbone, his fingers running over the irregularities of the tissue.

“I think I already have,” he said, and throwing his weight backwards, he tumbled over the rail into the abyss of the sea.

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Uh... for what it's worth, I really don't like this chapter and it took me a long time to convince myself to even post it. It lacks clarity in a lot of places, and sometimes I'm not even sure if the sequencing of certain parts is clear. And the research bit was sketchy, because honestly, no one writes decent accounts of mutinies any more. Anything you can offer to help this would be greatly appreciated.