"First man aboard keeps her, same as always!"

Thatch was over the side of the Revenge before the words had finished echoing across the water. He dropped into a waiting boat, and two of his men dug their oars into the sea before James even reached the rail.

"Boat! Get me a bloody boat!"

James swung himself into the nearest jolly boat hanging from the first treasure ship davits. Bert climbed in after him with calm composure, as if he was a gentleman stepping into a carriage. Edmund and Wesley followed, making the little craft rock hard enough to send seawater sloshing over one side.

"Pull, ye lazy bastards! Pull like the devil’s countin’!"

The oars bit deep.

Their boat surged forward.

Across the water, Thatch’s crew matched them stroke for stroke, churning the sea into white spray. Suddenly the treasure waiting aboard mattered almost less than the race itself. Saltwater splashed over James with every pull, cold enough to sting, and somewhere behind them a man aboard the Rose shouted betting odds that nobody had time to answer.

"I believe we are gaining, Captain."

Bert sounded no different despite the seawater soaking through his coat.

"Certainly."

Wesley didn’t even glance up from his oar.

Both boats slammed into the third ship almost together.

James and Thatch seized the same dangling rope at exactly the same moment.

They climbed side by side, bumping shoulders, trading curses and laughter all the way up. They tumbled over the rail in a tangle of boots, elbows, and bad manners, leaving neither man in any position to claim victory.

"That’s a tie."

Thatch was still grinning as he caught his breath.

"Aye. I’ll not let ye forget I rowed better."

"You rowed worse. I simply had the misfortune of carrying the second-rate boat."

The Spanish captain stood frozen beside the mast, hands clasped together in prayer. He muttered so quickly James couldn’t catch every word, though the meaning was obvious enough.

"Madre de Dios... Madre de Dios... no nos mates..."

"Nobody’s killin’ anybody."

James kept his voice as friendly as he could.

It did absolutely nothing to stop the praying.

The rest of both crews poured over the rail a heartbeat later. Grappling hooks still swung against the hull while men rushed for the hatches, and before anyone reached the cargo holds the whole boarding had somehow become another contest.

"Caesar!" Thatch shouted.

"Get below and start movin’! Two chests at a time! We haven’t got all mornin’!"

The man who answered nearly filled the hatch by himself.

Black Caesar came up with a heavy chest tucked beneath each arm, carrying the iron-bound weight as easily as another man might carry firewood.

He emerged piece by piece. First the broad, bald dark head. Then shoulders so wide they scraped both sides of the hatch. Thick arms corded with muscle followed, the veins standing proud beneath skin polished by sweat and salt. He had to turn himself sideways before his chest would clear, and when he finally straightened, he stood half a head taller than the tallest pirate aboard.

"More below. Me no finish yet."

He dropped both chests onto the deck with twin crashes that made the planks jump beneath everyone’s feet.

"Hands! Tell me what’s in the second hold before this lot gets too excited."

A leaner sailor climbed out after Caesar at an unhurried pace. He lacked Caesar’s size, but there was an ease to him that came only from long years at sea. The sort of man captains trusted to keep a ship alive when everything else had gone to shit.

"Emeralds."

He held one green stone toward the light spilling from the hatch. "From Cartagena, by the look of ’em. Whole sack full, Captain. Worth more than silver by the pound, and the silver’s worth enough."

"Spanish silver, Captain!" one of the Rose’s crew shouted from another hatch, dragging up a heavy chest. "More pieces o’ eight than I’ve seen in my whole bluidy life, and I’ve seen plenty!"

"Forty silver bars stacked below."

Bert turned one over in his hands before setting it back down.

"I have not completed the count, though I suspect it will improve."

"Forty’s nothin’."

Caesar laughed.

"We got sixty here. Green stones too. Look like eyes o’ rich devil."

Thatch rested an elbow on the rail as he looked over the piles of treasure.

"I’d say that settles who really knows how to rob a ship."

"It settles nothin’."

James crossed to the hatch and leaned inside. The smell of tar and old timber drifted upward, mixed with something sweeter beneath it.

"Edmund! What’ve we got?"

"Indigo and cochineal in the forward hold, Captain."

His voice carried steadily from below while men rolled barrels aside and lantern light stirred clouds of dust into the air.

"Several barrels of each, along with what I believe to be a respectable quantity of cocoa. Wesley believes the cocoa to be inferior. I have not yet formed an opinion."

"It is inferior."

Wesley’s voice drifted up from somewhere deeper in the hold.

He offered nothing further.

"There ye have it."

James grinned, his split knuckles protesting.

"Dye and cocoa. That’s culture, Thatch. You can’t put a price on culture."

"You absolutely can."

Thatch snorted.

"And I’d wager mine’s worth more."

The work found its rhythm.

Chests, barrels, and sacks moved from hand to hand as fast as men could lift them. Boots pounded across the deck, ropes groaned beneath sudden weight. Some fella burst into loud laughter over a joke nobody else had heard and sweat soaked shirts despite the late hour.

Near the mainmast, the Spanish sailors had gathered together in a tight cluster. Every pair of hands remained clearly visible.

James caught only fragments as he walked past.

"Estos hombres están locos..."

One sailor stared at Caesar carrying treasure as though he were watching something impossible.

"Compitiendo... mientras nos roban."

James smiled.

"Cállate... no los mires."

Another crossed himself twice and refused to meet anyone’s eyes.

"Don’t fret, lads."

James lifted a hand as he passed.

"Ye’ll all keep yer skins. You have my word."

The promise earned him another round of hurried prayers.

One sailor somehow managed to turn even paler.

By the time the last hold stood empty, the sky had changed.

The starry night loomed over them.

The sea rolled in long, gentle swells again after the battle. The three merchant ships floated higher now that their cargoes were gone, their empty hulls creaking softly against the waves.

Farther away, one of the wrecked sloops still burned.

Its small orange glow rested low against the dark water.

No one had bothered to put it out.

Cudjoe crossed over from the first ship aboard the last boat. He climbed onto the deck without ceremony and studied the piles of captured cargo with interest.

Then, he laughed, "That’s an obscene amount of silver. Somebody in Spain’s goin’ tae have a very bad week explainin’ where it disappeared to."

"Aye."

James looked over the heaps of silver.

"And it’s not our problem how they explain it."

He perched on the rail beside Thatch.

Every muscle in his body reminded him how long the battle had been.

Around them the crews had eased into the last of the work. Men sat on overturned chests catching their breath and flasks passed from hand to hand. Salt, powder smoke, tar, and spilled cocoa mingled together on the air.

"What’re we doin’ with the hulls?"

He nodded toward the three empty treasure ships.

"They’re not galleons. It costs more to crew them back to Nassau than they’re worth."

"Mm."

Thatch glanced toward them. "Strip off any rope and sailcloth worth keeping. Leave the hulls to drift. Nobody’ll buy empty merchant ships, and nobody’ll waste time chasing ’em."

"Aye."

James rolled his shoulders.

"That’s done then."

The whole night seemed to ease into his bones.

"Nassau for the goods. Hornigold’ll have himself a grand story, even if he had no part in takin’ it."

Thatch’s smile sharpened.

"Nassau’s the easy answer."

James turned his head.

"Meanin’ there’s a harder one."

"Meanin’ there’s a better one."

Thatch let the silence stretch.

He leaned back against the rail, as if he had a winning card he had no intention of revealing. The starlight caught the edge of his beard.

"Might tell ye about it."

He shrugged.

"Might not. Depends on my mood."

"Ye’re a curse of a man, Thatch."

"Aye."

His grin widened under the stars.

"But I know somethin’ you don’t.

He folded his arms.

"And that’s worth bein’ a damnable bastard."