Thomas sat rearward upon his chair, his chest resting upon the back to allow the still tender flesh around the tattoo to be free to heal. He faced his open cabin door with his eyes cast downward to several pages of nautical charts lying beneath him on the floor. The route to the Seranas would be easy enough: a short passage southward towards Panama, then northwest to skirt the Cayman Islands, with the Seranas beyond. Easy enough, if his path didn’t take the [i]Skate[/i] through the heart of the Spanish Main. 

A long sigh escaped Thomas’ lips as he continued to stare. There was nothing for it, his whole existence as a pirate had been in the shadow of the hostile flag of Spain. In his lifetime he knew that he would never see the New World any other way. The Court of Charles II was too enriched and too woven into the future of the Americas for it to be otherwise. He and his brethren were nothing by a thorn in the side of a giant.

Thomas smirked at the thought. [i]Better a thorn in a side than a flower crushed under foot.[/i]

Freedom had its risks in the New World, hell it had risks in any corner of the globe, but Thomas would not have traded his life for one of supple imprisonment any day. The dandies and courtly men and women that visited Jamaica, and looked down their noses in horror at the reality of life so far from the gilded gaze of the king, made him value his existence all the more. What did they know of the world? What had their riches truly bought them? 

They knew nothing but service. Selfish and cowering service to the monarch that fed them. They were not but dogs, bustled in finery and jewels, but lacking the callouses and scars which were the heralds of a life spent among the salt of the earth. 

His mind would have wandered longer, thinking upon his own place in the world, if it were not for the First Mate that blazed her way in front of his cabin door. The sharp thud or her heels upon the deck heralded her coming, but even so Thomas was not prepared for the blur of her form, like the flash of bird from amongst the trees.

Thomas was up in an instant, the chair falling with a wooden clack as he went over the top of it. He reached the doorway in time to see Nicolette’s back, covered in the sheer, wet-linen of her shirt. That coupled with her disheveled locks of golden hair that swayed in a half-tangle behind her, spoke of a night much longer than the one Thomas had had. 

A smile wanted to pull at his mouth, a knowing smile of nights spent in the wild and dark corners of the world, and the hellish morning that followed as penance. He quashed it however. In the gait of the First Mate he read more than simply a bad hangover and a desire for clean clothes. There was more there, more to her mood than Thomas could fathom. He knew enough however to realize it wasn’t a circumstance to smile upon.

He let the First Mate go to be with her own thoughts and needs. Thomas spun upon his foot back into his cabin, when an idea came to him. This time a smile did come to his face, but one that lived only long to survive the relative darkness of his cabin. It died instantly upon reaching the sunlight of the main deck, and for the second time that day, Thomas made his way below to the galley. 

Almost a half hour later, Thomas returned to the main deck. In his hands he carried two roughhewn mugs, along with a small iron pot. Steam issued in wispy clouds from the pot, and the distinct aroma of freshly brewed Caribbean coffee wafted over the [i]Dusk Skate[/i] like an angelic perfume. 

With careful steps, so as not to spill the ebony gold contained inside the pot, Thomas wound his way to the aft castle. He passed his own cabin, and continued on to the First Mate’s. The door was closed when he reached there, and he brought the hand that held the two mugs up to knock gently against the thick wood.

“Lieutenant,” he said in a quiet voice, “if you’re agreeable, I have brought coffee to share. I shan’t keep you long.”