He’d turn back to his burnt ship. Pondering as he picked up his Sword, gently storing it where it was supposed to be. As Britain would snore on his own ship dreaming about crumpets.

Nap: “God curse you Grande-Bretagne…” he’d curse to himself as the stars would glimmer in the night sky. He held his flintlock pistol for protection. The moons soft light caressing and gleaming down at his soft face.