It wasn't long before Porthos reached the captain's quarters. The hasty barricade the men had put together did not hold for very long, under repeated assaults when he threw his whole weight against the door, shoulder first. The doors ended up bursting open, and three men tried to jump him. The first one only narrowly avoided the swipe of his sword, and lost his balance in his haste to dodge it; the second was greeted by the guard of his sword knocking him on the head, and to the floor; and the third stopped short as Porthos leveled the muzzle of his pistol on him.

All three of them wore finer clothes than the sailors fighting out front, either the slavers themselves, or the officers of this blasted ship.

"Which one of you's the captain?" he asked, lowering his sword to threaten all three of them with his pistol.

He heard a creak of wood one second too late, and he could tell that it was another pistol now pressed at the back of his head. "I am," came the voice from behind him.