Despite the heat and the stomach, which seems to be folding on itself, he'd like some more rum. Just a sip or two, so that those thoughts can smoothen at the angles, yes, they are tangled now, those thoughts that bend and twist, leading him way beyond where he would like to go, or, one could say, leading him where he thought he would never need to go again, and he would never need to go there again, right, thanks to his necessary death, that would have been so in line with the order of things. He was prepared for that order of things.
He is not prepared for this, instead.
What do you want to do with him?
Make him pay. Make him an example.
Elizabeth's pain is cold and fierce, carved out of the many fresh losses, and now she has the possibility of balancing it all, and who wouldn't, really.
It won’t be nice, mate. You ought to have died on your own, on the Endeavour.