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.
The old master looked ahead. The Calypso was at last gathering way, picking up a breeze after running into an unexpected almost windless patch in the lee of some hills. A windless patch like that, had it continued, could have wrecked everything.
After successfully letting the anchor cable run, bracing the foretopsail hard up after leaving it for half an hour 'to air' and letting fall the remaining topsails, sheeting them home and bracing them sharp up, the Calypso had moved off to windward like an old warhorse hearing gunfire in the distance. Then the wind had died.
Looking at Mr Ramage sitting in his armchair, the white cloth of the sling making it seem he was wearing some strange new uniform, one had to admire his calm: he glanced at the sails and at the windvanes and simply told the quartermaster to bear up a point. Sure enough the Calypso had enough way on to keep moving through the windless area, and when the wind picked up again it had backed a point, to north by west.
The course to the Lynx meant the Calypso would pass close to the stern of the Amethyst, with the Friesland also on the starboard side farther over towards the southern headland, and then even closer to the Heliotrope, while the Earl of Dodsworth was already on the larboard beam with the Commerce ahead of her.
The wind was settling down to north by west although the bows of all the ships headed more to the east, particularly the Lynx and Commerce, closer inshore. With a lighter wind they were more affected by the current sweeping round the headland and up into the bay, so they were partly wind rode and partly current rode.
Steering for the Lynx and slapping the Calypso alongside, though, seemed unnecessarily risky to Southwick for another reason: getting alongside with the privateer to windward or leeward and hooking on to her with grappling irons risked the Lynx cutting her cable so that both ships drifted as they fought, probably fouling the Heliotrope and ending up on shore.
Admittedly the captain must be worried about the chance of the Lynx escaping him: she might be able to cut her cable and set enough canvas to slip round between the Calypso and the shore - that was the main reason why the Calypso suddenly let fall her sails and cut her cable, to give the Lynx as little time as possible. But the privateer's fore and aft rig gave her an enormous advantage. The Calypso was like a bull trying to trap a calf in a corner of a field: not so much from the point of view of relative strength, but from size and clumsiness.
Still, the hinges of the Calypso's portlids squeaked as they swung up and Southwick felt more confident as he saw the men haul on the tackles that sent the guns rumbling out. The powder monkeys were already lined up along the centreline, each behind a pair of guns, and squatting on the wooden cylinder in which he carried the next flannel cartridge, the one needed for the second round.
The decks glistened wet in the sunshine; the sand sprinkled unevenly on the planking and soaking up the water made light patches and dark, and already the heat of the sun was drying it. Southwick felt the hilt of his sword. The captain always referred to it as his 'meat cleaver', and he hoped he would get a chance to use it in the next few minutes: they were fast approaching the Lynx.
Ramage found the sunshine dazzling. Normally it did not bother him, but he was still feeling dizzy from losing all that blood, and he had a headache. That was not surprising, but it did not help him concentrate.
The first few hundred yards had gone satisfactorily, anyway. The foretopsail let fall 'to air' had not aroused any interest in the Lynx: they would have seen the two survey boats landing at the beach as usual, and even now the boat doing the soundings was being rowed across the bay, seamen heaving their leads and the depths and course being written down.
He had been watching the Lynx as he gave the order to let the cable run and let fall the main and mizentopsails, sheet home all three sails and brace the yards sharp up. The sails were filling and the Calypso was already sliding through the water before he saw any response from the few figures moving about the Lynx's deck. Although in the glass they were only tiny, he could see first one and then another halt and then point: he could imagine the shouts, followed by Hart and Tomás hurrying up on deck and sizing up the situation. That was the moment the Calypso ran into the windless patch. He had seen it before they set any sails - a smooth area of water surrounded by tiny ripples - and knew the Calypso would carry her way through it.
Now she had picked up the wind again. It was infuriating having to sit here in an armchair, but he knew he had not the strength to stand. Wagstaffe was standing at the rail on the forward side of the quarterdeck, Southwick stood behind him, and Orsini was a couple of feet to one side of the chair, ready to run messages.
Glancing from one side to the other he saw that the Calypso was midway between the Amethyst to starboard and the Earl of Dodsworth to larboard. Was she watching? What was the significance of those two trunks full of uniforms and men's clothing? A man's clothing, he corrected himself: a man about his own build with slightly larger feet. Did she love him? Was he even alive?
Trinidade, a speck in the South Atlantic that few men knew about and even fewer visited, but here he had found a ship carrying out her own private war against everyone, and a woman he did not yet love in the deepest sense of the word (because he hardly knew her in the usual way) but who filled his thoughts to the exclusion of almost everything else.
The Lynx was dead ahead and he could see the men rushing around on deck. He could imagine the pandemonium - the magazine was locked and where the devil was the key? Perhaps Tomás and Hart were arguing with each other: should they cut and run or stay and fight - or did they have the choice anyway? The privateersmen would be shouting in various languages - English, French, Spanish and Dutch for sure, and there would be others.
That night in the Earl of Dodsworth before he swam to the Heliotrope: sitting on the breech of the gun in the darkness before she came up to him, he had seen himself - his life, rather - with an almost frightening clarity: he had felt guilty that Gianna was fading in his memory, that he did not think of her nearly as frequently or in the same sort of way as before. Then he had realized that without either of them understanding it at the time, each had discovered that there was no choice. Each was drawn by a force that love could not overcome - or perhaps love showed them there was no happiness waiting for them even if the force was overcome. He saw how they had never had a choice, even had Gianna not decided to go back to Volterra at that time. It had an inevitability about it; the same inevitability that was taking the Calypso up to the Lynx.
He turned his head. 'Mr Southwick . . .' As soon as the master was standing beside him he gave him his instructions and the old man grinned. A relieved grin? It seemed so to Ramage, as though Southwick had expected him to do something else. Anyway, the master took the speaking-trumpet from its rack on the forward side of the binnacle box and walked over to Wagstaffe, telling him to report to the captain.
The second lieutenant looked cheerful: his hat was at a rakish angle, his silk stockings were obviously new (and worn because Bowen had told Ramage, who made it a standing order, that silk, not woollen, stockings should be worn in action: wool dragged into a wound made the surgeon's work ten times more difficult).
Ramage told him the orders just given to Southwick. 'Now, we'll be firing our starboard broadside first, unless something unforeseen happens, so get the extra men over on that side. After that, a certain amount depends on what the Lynx does, but seconds are going to matter. This is what I want to do.'
The lieutenant listened, nodding a couple of times. 'Aye aye, sir,' he said, and walked back to his position at the foreward side of the quarterdeck. He borrowed
