Sarah could see that the Calypso was built for speed and for fighting: she had never before compared a frigate with a merchant ship, but the Heliotrope, for example, was a positive box while the Calypso was lean, seeming to contain power, like a coiled spring. Like Nicholas, she thought, like Nicholas when he was not wounded.
'You saw that Lord Ramage last night,' Mrs Donaldson said.' Was he badly wounded? They fetched the surgeon from that frigate, so my husband said.'
'No, a mere cut on the arm, just as your husband said.'
'Then why all the fuss? Why isn't he doing something? After all, his father's an admiral and a peer of the realm, so you'd think the young fellow would have - well, some sort of tradition.'
'It isn't tradition he needs,' Sarah said quietly. 'It's blood.'
'Blood? My dear, do you mean he lacks breeding? Isn't he really the Earl's son? So the Countess was faithless, eh? Well, one can never be sure, my husband always says.'
'Blood,' Sarah said, even more quietly, 'that flows through the body. He lost most of it in the sea between here and the Heliotrope. He might have died and then,' she added, hating the woman's vulgar and crude mind, 'the pirates would have come back and probably taken you to the Lynx.'
'Oh la!' Mrs Donaldson squealed, and fainted like a tent collapsing, and Sarah walked away to the taffrail, angry that she had let herself be provoked by the woman.
She looked across at the Calypso again. Which was Nicholas's cabin? She could picture Bowen with his medicine chest, and Southwick, too: they would have seen him already this morning; might even be with him now. He could have had her cabin, then she could have sat with him, and helped Bowen.
Obviously nothing was being done about the Lynx today, which was hardly surprising, except to a woman like Mrs Donaldson. The important thing was that all the hostages had been freed, the privateersmen guarding them locked up, and their place taken by British seamen. This pretence that they were all still hostages had to be kept up until Nicholas was ready to deal with the Lynx, but today all the Calypsos deserved a rest, and as soon as he was strong enough Nicholas would be giving orders to his officers. In the meantime the Calypso's boats were going about their usual business, two taking the surveyors to the shore, and one finding out the depths in the bay by dropping a lead weight on a rope into the water. Nicholas had been droll when describing that, but she could not now remember which was correct, 'swinging the lead' or 'heaving the lead'. One meant malingering, and she thought it was 'swinging', but she noticed that the sailor in the boat swung it before he let it go. Yet that was 'heaving' too. It was very puzzling.
He commanded more than two hundred men in the Calypso: the sailor who told her that said there were four lieutenants and the master - that was the white-haired old man she had seen last night. It was a good thing the sailor had explained, because the man who commanded the Earl of Dodsworth was called 'the master' although referred to as 'the captain'. It was very different in the Royal Navy, apparently, where the man commanding the ship was a lieutenant or a captain, depending on the size, but, like the Earl of Dodsworth's master, was referred to as 'the captain'. And a master in the Royal Navy by no means commanded the ship (unless he was something called 'master and commander' but she did not understand that and it applied only to small ships). Indeed, 'the master' was not even a commission officer like the lieutenants; he was only a warrant officer, like a sergeant major in the army.
The waiting and the not knowing... On the one hand she was relieved that he was not attacking the Lynx today; on the other it meant another day and night - of worrying without being able to say a word to anyone, without confiding: just having this secret which she could share with no one. Hardly a secret, even; more the type of thing - so she imagined - that a young Catholic girl might confess to her priest. Yet it was all so hopeless (and so innocent, really) that it was doubtful if a young girl would find it worth mentioning, and certainly a priest would not be interested.
So hopeless and so innocent - yet it was tearing her apart: she could not sleep because of it; she wondered how she was going to get through a day - let alone every day from now on - without screaming or having hysterics. She went down the companionway to her cabin: tears were very close, and if that Donaldson woman continued prattling after her friends had helped her over this latest attack of the vapours, Sarah knew she would scream at her.
Love you could not admit to, love that was not returned, love for a person already in love with someone else - was there any worse instrument of torture? The rack? The ducking stool? The garotte? Childish toys, mere irritants. She shut her cabin door and sat on the bed. Nicholas Ramage. He had returned her kiss when she said goodbye. But was that because he knew that once the Lynx was captured all the ships would sail from Trinidade, a farewell as the ball came to an end, or... she forced herself to think of it, although she squeezed her eyes tight shut, as though at the same time trying to keep it out. Or did he know, or have a presentiment, that he would be killed while capturing the Lynx?
The more she thought about it the more certain she became: he knew he was going to die. He loved another woman, so this farewell kiss was in the nature of a thank you to 'Miss for now' for cleaning his wound. If he knew he would survive the attack on the Lynx, why the farewell kiss? If he lived he would meet her again before the ships sailed; he must know, too, that now Papa had retired as Governor General of Bengal and was returning to England, they were bound to meet again in London society. It was curious how angry he had become over wearing the military uniform.
'Miss . . . miss!' Someone was banging on her door. 'Miss, quick, on deck, the Calypso's getting under way!'
'I'm coming - thank you.. .' She wanted to stay in her cabin and pretend nothing was happening, but instead she would have to go on deck and watch the Calypso carrying Nicholas to his death, and listen to people like Mrs Donaldson cheering, and repeating some banal remark of her husband's.
The sunlight sparkling off the sea was dazzling; the sky was an unbelievable blue and cloudless, the island seemed utterly peaceful, holding the bay in its arms. Even the Lynx seemed small and innocent. Then she turned to look at the Calypso.
She knew she would never forget the sight: the wind was making the sails curve, pressing out the creases in the canvas, and the Calypso moved through the water slowly but with infinite grace, a swan borne across a lake by a breeze.
Suddenly she saw the smooth black sides, with the white stripe (was that what they called a strake?) seem to move and grow red rectangles, and she realized that the portlids were being raised. A moment later she saw the guns themselves protruding like black fingers. But why was she stopping now, the sails flat and flapping?
Southwick did not often disagree with what the captain did, but he considered now was such a time. To be honest, it was what he thought the captain was going to do, since Mr Ramage had not said anything. It looked as if he was going to take the Calypso up to the Lynx, lay the frigate alongside the privateer and board. And the trouble with privateers was that they always had enormous crews. They did not need many men to handle the ship - the Lynx with her schooner rig could make do with fifteen men - but they needed plenty of seamen to send away in the prizes they took. Now was a good example: one privateer had five prizes, and would eventually need five prize crews, although admittedly in the case of the East Indiaman they would probably force some of the original ship's company to work at gunpoint. And the privateersmen would be desperate: they would realize that unless they escaped the Calypso they would end up on the gallows, and to them the sword would be preferable to the noose.