The crew was singing when James came out from his quarters.

That answered the question he hadn’t yet the chance to ask. Everyone was in good spirits.

The Caribbean morning hit him immediately.

Sunlight flashed off the water and salt rode the wind. The sky looked completely unconcerned with whatever chaos had happened the night before.

His eyes winced against the brightness.

The shanty rolled through the crew in uneven waves. Not everyone agreed on the tune, but everyone seemed content to singing it anyway.

"Leave her, Johnny, leave her!"

"Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her!"

"For the voyage is long and the winds don’t blow"

"And it’s time for us to leave her!"

James stopped and took stock of the deck while the song continued.

Farrow was inspecting the cannon carriages one by one with focused concern.

Near the mainmast, Briggs was supervising repairs through his unique system. Judging by the volume of his grunts, they were more or less acceptable.

Grey sat at the forward rail with a chart spread before him, making notes while apparently disagreeing with other notes he himself had written earlier.

James walked onto the deck.

The shanty lost its lead singer the moment Briggs noticed him.

Briggs nudged the nearest sailor. The reaction spread from man to man along the deck. By the time it reached the far end of the ship, only three sailors were still singing. They finished the lyrics out of sheer stubbornness.

Then the entire deck fell silent.

The silence seemed perfectly comfortable staying where it was.

"He’s alive, lads!" someone shouted from the port watch, sounding delighted. "Petersen, two shillings. Pay up now!"

"Captain!" another sailor called. "The lass told us about the Frenchman! Said he was still rock hard when ye walked in! What in God’s name were ye thinking?"

"Found the woman over the captain’s desk, did ye?" a third voice shouted. "Very thorough plan, Cap’n. Very smart."

"I want it noted," Kit called from somewhere amidships with complete seriousness, "that several of those kills were mine. Future generations should know."

James grinned.

His jaw immediately reminded him why that was a poor decision. He ignored the warning.

"Two shillings," he called back loudly enough for most of the ship to hear, "is a terrible wager on a man who’s already proved once he cannot stay dead. Five’s the minimum."

He pointed toward the sailor who had asked about the French captain.

"As for the Frenchman, I walked into his cabin and found a man attemptin’ to fuck his way through a naval battle. He has my respect!"

Then he spotted Kit in the crowd.

"Aye, Kit. I’ll tell the tale myself. By the time we’re done, ye’ll have killed twice as many men as were actually there."

The crew answered in scattered pieces.

Petersen immediately began arguing the details of the bet. Two sailors near the hatch were debating which moment from the previous night had been the strangest. Neither agreed with the other.

The boy was explaining something animatedly to a crewmate who had clearly heard the story before but was listening again anyway.

James walked through the noise toward the wheel.

The Caribbean surrounded the Rose in every direction.

Blue water stretched to the horizon beneath a sky that explained exactly why men went to sea and kept returning to it.

Damage still marked the foremast below the yard. The rigging had been adjusted around the weakness, as someone had solved the problem well enough to keep the ship moving until a proper repair could be made.

Cudjoe stood at the wheel. One glance at James, and his expression shifted from confirmation to resignation.

"Ye look like death took a swing at ye and missed." Cudjoe said, eyes still on the horizon.

"I gave it a few opportunities." James joined him at the wheel.

Cudjoe gave him a quick inspection.

"Hobbs got to the arm eventually. The lass handled it first before he reached ye."

James glanced at the bandages beneath his cuff.

Then he looked toward Meg.

She stood at the rail in an oversized sailor’s shirt and a pair of trousers that had clearly belonged to someone else, the French captain’s coat hanging loose over both. Whatever she was thinking, she seemed perfectly content to keep it to herself.

"Meg."

She looked over.

"I hear I was a dreadful patient."

"Unconscious. It was your best quality."

He managed to keep a straight face for about a second.

"And here I thought ye’d grown fond of me."

"Don’t be ridiculous."

Cudjoe kept his eyes on the horizon and displayed remarkable discipline by saying nothing.

Meg looked back toward the horizon.

James considered pressing his luck. Decided against it.

He turned to Cudjoe instead.

"How long until Nassau?"

Cudjoe took a moment to ensure the horizon remained exactly where he’d left it. "Two days, maybe three. We’re northeast of the Caicos now, Grey found a route that works despite the foremast damage."

The wheel creaked softly between them.

"Hornigold will want a full report."

"He’ll get one."

James rested his hands on the wheel.

The Rose pressed onward beneath a cloudless sky, and for a moment the wheel felt less like a burden than an old friend.

Then Meg interrupted them, "What kind of work does Nassau have for someone in my trade?"

James blinked.

Beside him, Cudjoe’s grip tightened on the wheel.

For several seconds, neither man trusted himself to answer.

Then Cudjoe lost the battle first.

The laughter that followed answered most of the question.

"Nassau has a shortage of nearly everything except rum and brothels,"

James said once he could speak again. "Ye’ll find more work than you can reasonably turn down."

Meg nodded.

"Excellent."

Then she returned her attention to the sea, apparently satisfied that Nassau remained a city of sound economic fundamentals.

The deck gradually returned to its normal rhythm.

James remained at the wheel and studied the horizon ahead.

Hornigold had sent them to intercept a French merchant convoy east of Hispaniola. The frigate they encountered had been hunting exactly that kind of operation and had found them first.

Both accompanying sloops were gone.

Forty-one men of his crew were dead.

The Rose was returning without prizes, and a large portion of her crew now belonged to the Caribbean.

Hornigold was going to spend the better part of an hour explaining exactly how this should have gone, and another hour explaining why it hadn’t.

James already knew how the discussion would begin. The foremast. The convoy. The sloops. The dead. After that, Hornigold would undoubtedly find fresh subjects to be unhappy about.

One problem naturally led to the next, and he was already working through solutions when a different thought interrupted the chain.

The next time.

A pirate brigantine crossing the Caribbean in 1716.

He had been in charge of all of this since waking up in another man’s body.

Every crisis had demanded action. Every decision had created another problem to solve. He had accepted command because command had been there.

At no point had anyone stopped and asked whether he actually wanted it.

The question arrived quietly, in his own voice.

What are you doing?

He looked out at the horizon.

The Rose continued on its course. The ship had a crew. It had momentum. It had a destination.

And he had roughly two days to figure out his answer.

For now, that would have to be enough.