Ragetti is quite the packrat. He is loath to get rid of anything. His sea chest is full to the brim with tiny trinkets of no consequence,with odd treasures he's picked up from across the world,with books and papers he can't read but whose scrawling writing is nice to look at and, he feels, if he tries hard enough, he may one day find out what all the little curls and scratches are trying to say.
He has no room to stuff his share of the Aztec gold so instead he wraps it up in an old shirt and places it under his head when he goes to sleep. He can't let them out of his sight. You never know with his mates, especially Koehler; a hammock away.
He goes to sleep that night with thoughts of where the coins will end up; a doxy's bodice, a barkeep's pocket, perhaps a beggar's bowl if he's feeling generous. But he dreams that night of treasure: the razor edge of finely cut gems, the cool slipperiness of silver and gold coins between his fingers. He dreams of cities of gold, sparkling terraces of it and spires whose tops brush heaven. He also dreams of Pintel. More accurately, of Pintel's share. He dreams of cutting his best friend's throat and stealing it: reveling in the blood and the gold. In the morning he doesn't tell anyone about the dreams, not even Pintel.
Before he goes to sleep again he decides that there are some things he can do without and dumps a bundle of scraps of cloth into the sea. He watches as the colors, only pale shadows of themselves in the moonless night, scatter over the inky blackness of the sea.
Now that there's room, he shoves the gold coins to the very bottom of his chest. He can do without having to watch them constantly. He can do without the ever-niggling worry of their theft. He can do without the dreams they bring.