Mr. Cottrill murmured that he understood, and bent under his coat to get a light for his pipe. His thought was, “I’ve shipped with pirates. With pirates.” The memory of that afternoon gave him bitter thoughts till midnight, as the ship rushed on, under the stars, carrying her freight of passion, her freight of souls.
Down below in the cabin the lamp had been lighted. The curtains had been drawn across the windows, and now swayed a little with the roll, making a faint click of rings. They were dark green curtains; but on each of them was worked a blood-red tulip, which glowed out finely in the lamplight. The windows were open behind the curtains. At times, when the ship pitched, the cloth sucked in or out, sending the lamp-flame dancing. At the table were the two Stukeleys and Captain Margaret. Perrin sat upon the locker by the window, biting his poor raw thumbs. When Captain Cammock entered, he noticed that Olivia had been drinking a bowl of soup, and that Stukeley was staring hard in front of him, clutching his glass of spirits.
“You’re turning sick,” said Cammock to himself. “Wait till we haul our wind, my duck. Oh, mommer.” A single hard glance at Olivia convinced him that she felt wretched. “More than you bargained for, ain’t it?” he thought cheerfully. “You wait till we haul our wind.”
He had the common man’s hatred of strangeness and of strangers. He loved not to have more folk aboard to interrupt his chats with his owners, and to sit in the sacred cabin, ordering his steward.
“Captain Cammock,” said Margaret, “let me introduce you to Mrs. Stukeley. Mr. Stukeley.”
The captain bowed.
“Captain Cammock is our commander, Olivia.”
Olivia smiled at the captain, much as a Christian martyr may have smiled.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” said the captain, bowing.
He felt a queer gush of pity for her, remembering how he had felt, years before, on his first night at sea.