When there was no exercise in train, he studied the nearby guns at close range. Those upon the dragondeck were the short-barreled carronades, great forty-two-pound smashers, less accurate than the long guns but with far less recoil, so they did not require much room; and Sun Kai was fascinated by the fixed mounting in particular, which allowed the heavy iron barrel to slide back and forth along its path of recoil. He did not seem to think it rude to stare, either, as the men went about their work, aviators and sailors alike, though he could not have understood a word of what they were saying; and he studied the Allegiance herself with as much interest: the arrangement of her masts and sails, and with particular attention to the design of her hull. Laurence saw him often peering down over the edge of the dragondeck at the white line of the keel, and making sketches upon the deck in an attempt to outline her construction.
Yet for all his evident curiosity, he had a quality of deep reserve which went beyond the exterior, the severity of his foreign looks; his study was somehow more intense than eager, less a scholar’s passion than a matter of industry and diligence, and there was nothing inviting in his manner. Hammond, undaunted, had already made a few overtures, which were received with courtesy but no warmth, and to Laurence it seemed almost painfully obvious that Sun Kai was not welcoming: not the least change of emotion showed on his face at Hammond’s approach or departure, no smiles, no frowns, only a controlled, polite attention.
Even if conversation had been possible, Laurence did not think he could bring himself to intrude, after Hammond’s example; though Sun Kai’s study of the ship would certainly have benefited from some guidance, and thus offered an ideal subject of conversation. But tact forbade it as much as the barrier of language, so for the moment, Laurence contented himself with observation.
At Madeira, they watered and repaired their supplies of livestock from the damage which the formation’s visit had done them, but did not linger in port. “All this shifting of the sails has been to some purpose—I am beginning to have a better notion of what suits her,” Riley said to Laurence. “Would you mind Christmas at sea? I would be just as happy to put her to the test, and see if I can bring her up as far as seven knots.”
They sailed out of Funchal roads majestically, with a broad spread of sail, and Riley’s jubilant air announced his hopes for greater speed had been answered even before he said, “Eight knots, or nearly; what do you say to that?”
“I congratulate you indeed,” Laurence said. “I would not have thought it possible, myself; she is going beyond anything.” He felt a curious kind of regret at their speed, wholly unfamiliar. As a captain he had never much indulged in real cracking on, feeling it inappropriate to be reckless with the King’s property, but like any seaman he liked his ship to go as well as she could. He would ordinarily have shared truly in Riley’s pleasure, and never looked back at the smudge of the island receding behind them.
Riley had invited Laurence and several of the ship’s officers to dine, in a celebratory mood over the ship’s newfound speed. As if for punishment, a brief squall blew up from nowhere during the meal, while only the hapless young Lieutenant Beckett was standing watch: he could have sailed around the world six times without a pause if only ships were to be controlled directly by mathematical formulae, and yet invariably managed to give quite the wrong order in any real weather. There was a mad rush from the dinner table as soon as the Allegiance first pitched beneath them, putting her head down and protesting, and they heard Temeraire make a startled small roar; even so, the wind nearly carried away the mizzentop-gallant sail before Riley and Purbeck could get back on deck and put things to rights.
The storm blew away as quickly as it had come, the hurrying dark clouds leaving the sky washed shell-pink and blue behind them; the swell died to a comfortable height, a few feet, which the Allegiance scarcely noticed; and while there was yet enough light to read by on the dragondeck, a party of the Chinese came up on deck: several servants first maneuvering Liu Bao out through his door, trundling him across the quarterdeck and forecastle, and then at last up to the dragondeck. The older envoy was greatly altered from his last appearance, having shed perhaps a stone in weight and gone a distinctly greenish shade under his beard and pouched cheeks, so visibly uncomfortable that Laurence could not help but be sorry for him. The servants had brought a chair for him; he was eased into it and his face turned into the cool wet wind, but he did not look at all as though he were improving, and when another of the attendants tried to offer him a plate of food, he only waved it away.
“Do you suppose he is going to starve to death?” Temeraire inquired, more in a spirit of curiosity than concern, and Laurence answered absently, “I hope not; though he is old to be taking to sea for the first time,” even as he sat up and beckoned. “Dyer, go down to Mr. Pollitt and ask if he would be so good as to step up for a moment.”
Shortly Dyer came back with the ship’s surgeon puffing along behind him in his awkward way; Pollitt had been Laurence’s own surgeon in two commands, and did not stand on ceremony, but heaved himself into a chair and said, “Well, now, sir; is it the leg?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Pollitt; I am improving nicely; but I am concerned for the Chinese gentleman’s health.” Laurence pointed out Liu Bao, and Pollitt, shaking his head, opined that if he went on losing weight at such a pace, he should scarcely reach the equator. “I do not suppose they know any remedies for sea-sickness of this virulent sort, not being accustomed to long voyages,” Laurence said. “Would you not make up some physic for him?”
“Well, he is not my patient, and I would not like to be accused of interference; I do not suppose their medical men take any kinder view of it than do we,” Pollitt said apologetically. “But in any case, I think I should rather prescribe a course of ship’s biscuit. There is very little offense any stomach can take at biscuit, I find, and who knows what sort of foreign cookery he has been teasing himself with. A little biscuit and perhaps a light wine will set him up properly again, I am sure.”
Of course the foreign cookery was native to Liu Bao, but Laurence saw nothing to argue with in this course of action, and later that evening sent over a large packet of biscuit, picked-over by a reluctant Roland and Dyer to remove the weevils, and the real sacrifice, three bottles of a particular sprightly Riesling: very light, indeed almost airy, and purchased at a cost of 6s., 3d. apiece from a Portsmouth wine-merchant.
Laurence felt a little odd in making the gesture; he hoped he would have done as much in any case, but there was more calculation in it than he had ever been used to make, and there was just a shade of dishonesty, a shade of flattery to it, which he could not entirely like, or approve of in himself. And indeed he felt some general qualms about any overture at all, given the insult of the confiscation of the East India Company ships, which he had no more forgotten than any of the sailors who still watched the Chinese with sullen dislike.
But he excused himself to Temeraire privately that night, having seen his offering delivered into Liu Bao’s cabin. “After all, it is not their fault personally, any more than it would be mine if the King were to do the same to them. If Government makes not a sound over the matter, they can hardly be blamed for treating it so lightly: they at least have not made the slightest attempt at concealing the incident, nor been dishonest in the least.”