The [i]Dusk Skate[/i] cut through the slight chop, her bow hissing melodically as she moved along the southeastern coast of Jamaica, and ever closer to the Wicked City of Port Royal. The sun was no more than five glasses away from setting, and the ship would be safely moored at the North Docks before then if the crew was smart about their work. Laden with pilfered cocoa, tobacco, logwood, sugar, coffee, and Spanish silver, the [i]Dusk Skate[/i] would arrive to the victorious sounds of musket-fire, and the traders of the port would bend their backs to unload the precious cargo. 

The king would get his tenth, and then the governor after him. Those in the town that had backed the voyage would receive their investment’s return, and other debts and kindnesses would be paid as well. Even after the share for the Crown, the governorship, and the investors, there would still be a sizable portion for the crew of the [i]Dusk Skate[/i]; a sum no less than one-hundred thousand pounds, sterling. 

Captain Thomas Lightfoot smiled and thought to himself that the Spanish ports of Maracaibo had been exceptionally generous. He stood against the starboard railing of the aft castle, studying the growing outline of Fort Charles still some distance away. It was a sight he never tired of seeing; that of his home coming ever clearer into view after a long and arduous voyage at sea. Well, perhaps home was too strong a word for Port Royal, for truly the [i]Skate[/i] was his home, his castle, and his refuge. It was the only piece of livable property he owned, and he loved her more than any mansion or villa he had yet seen upon land. In fact he had yet to meet a woman he would not trade for the well-being of his ship, and he often doubted he ever would. 

The fair wind pulled at Thomas’ loose hair, as if the sea herself was eager for him and his ship to make landfall before the sun was to set, and his smiled freshened. He adored the feeling of the free wind in his hair, and contrary to the fashions of the day he never wore hats. In fact, it was a rare time that he dressed as a captain at all, favoring basic linen shirts, sashes of tied fabric about his waist, breeches, and cavalier boots. His only distinguishable adornment was often only his brace of pistols that were holstered in a leather strap across his chest, and a long dagger held in the small of his back. Thomas was a man known by his reputation, and not his flamboyant dress--as was favored by some buccaneer captains--and he very much liked it that way. 

In his mind his humble dress gave him more credence with his crew, though he knew not for certain whether this notion held any truth. Thomas shifted his gaze to his ship as he thought of such things, and he looked about to the men and women that worked with practiced efficiency to make the [i]Dusk Skate[/i] ready for mooring. They were all hard and salty individuals in their own way, and Thomas felt a sense of pride watching them as they handled his beloved ship. Three in particular gave him a strong sense of satisfaction, the first among them being the helmsman, Jax.

Though the man was new to Thomas, his reputation as a true sea-artist had preceded him. It had taken little time for Jax to prove he could pilot a ship under sail as well as any Thomas had seen, if not better. Personally he knew little else about Jax other than his skillset, but he did know that he loved the [i]Dusk Skate[/i], perhaps even bordering Thomas’ own adoration for the ship, though he would never admit such a thing to any living soul. 

The second among the crew was his first mate, Nicolette. He looked across the top deck for the devilishly beautiful woman, but amongst the bustle Thomas could not make her out. He had to laugh at the circumstances for her securing a berth with his crew, for it ranked up with the most brazen demand anyone had ever given him. He had instantly respected her for that, and he had allowed her to join the crew that very moment she had accosted him aboard the [i]Skate[/i] some months past. He had told himself then that she would either win the day, or be surely raped and killed by the crew when he was away. The woman had proven her salt in spades, and Thomas worried for the reckless man that would dare cross her, should he find himself floating in the sea with his testicles tied about his neck as shark bait. 

[i]Speaking of deadly damsels[/i], Thomas thought as he traced his eyes up the main mast, to the crow’s nest. Though she was only an outline in the diminishing light of the day, he thought he could make out the glow of Antonia’s emerald eyes even high in her perch. [i]Now that is a story.[/i] Not many knew the truth about his securing the employ of the exotic woman with the eagle-eyes and burning wit, and he intended to keep it that way. Thomas enjoyed a keen level of joy from the abounding speculations about the nickname Silver Fish that she had bestowed upon him. The guesses ran the gamut from plausible to outlandish, but the truth of the matter was that the crew knew Antonia to be an excellent set of eyes upon the mast, and a cunning pair of hands when on the ground. That was all that truly mattered. 

A single cannon shot from Fort Charles rang out, heralding the arrival of the [i]Dusk Skate[/i] to Port Royal, and bringing Thomas back to the moment. He moved from the railing to stand beside Jax at the tiller. He gave the man a hearty slap on the back.

“You’ll be neck deep in rum and skirts within a glass my friend,” Thomas said so only the sea-artist could hear. The grin of unbridled joy upon Thomas’ face could be seen across the main deck, and he called out to his first mate, “Ms. Beauchamp, a cannon salute to answer the good chaps of Fort Charles!”

Thomas, still smiling, cupped his hands about his mouth, and looked up to the crow’s nest, “Ahoy above, stand by for shot!”