The screaming/bellowing ratio has climbed noticeably. Daniel (helping himself to his feet, thank you, and hobbling crabwise to a safe haven near the mainmast, to inventory his complaints) reckons that the screaming must originate from shoeless pirates with caltrop-spikes between their metatarsals – until he hears 'Fire! Fire!' and notes a curl of smoke invading the gundeck through a cracked gunport, speared on a shaft of sunlight. Then some instinct makes Daniel forget his bruises and sprains – he's up the last flight of stairs, spry as any eight-year-old powder monkey, and out in the sail-dappled sunlight, where he'll happily risk musket-balls.