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many women. He knew Moon was staring too, striving to get a glimpse of a face, or the curve of a figure.
Moon muttered, "This cursed galleon is too big." He was grinning.
Behind them, the forty English prize crew had tumbled onto the deck. Cavendish motioned three men with muskets forward.
"Take up your posts at the foot of the stairway to the quarterdeck," said Cavendish.
Moon whispered, "They are lucky, the bastards."
David looked about again. He kicked aside a broken sword. The confusion was so indescribable that David stood helpless, waiting.
He did not wait long. Cavendish's first order came quickly.
"Master Pretty!" His voice cut through the stillness. "Go below and see how badly she is hit. Those holes should be plugged."
"Aye, aye, sir," said Pretty. He started away with five carpenters from the Desire.
Cavendish had been walking slowly, estimating the amount of damage. He was frowning; then he turned to face the Spanish seamen. He would make a careful inspection as soon as the Spanish were disarmed. "One by one," he said distinctly in Spanish, "you will come forward to be relieved of all weapons. Your Captain and chief pilot are being held hostage."
There was no need to say more. A Spanish officer stepped forward. Moon met him and took the proffered sword.
"Gracias," Moon said, looking with some pleasure at the silver-hilted weapon.
The officers introduced themselves. The task of sorting the good weapons from the bad began. The pile of small arms, pikes and javelins grew. What was useful, the English seamen transferred immediately into the longboat; the rest, and the stones, were tossed into the sea with despatch. In the midst of this, Pretty came run ning up for a detail of Spaniards to man the pumps.
"Her wells are full, sir," he said to Cavendish.
Cavendish ordered twenty unarmed men to Pretty. They disappeared below; soon there was the sound of the creaking of the pumps, the sound of hammering. Methodically, the work of disarming the Spanish went on. Nothing could be done until the task was finished. Cavendish was speaking to the priest.
"We must bury the dead and badly wounded, Father," he said. "Will you choose some men to help you?"
The priest nodded slowly. "I shall, my son."
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Cavendish said, "Do not try to save those who are beyond much hope."
Once more the priest inclined his head. "I shall do my best," he said. He turned away; he called out a few names, and those men came to him gratefully.
"And after you have finished with the dead, you may attend the wounded, Father, if you wish."
"I do wish," the priest said.
He had already covered the faces of a few of the dead. The first body splashed into the blue sea. The ship had lost its silence; the victors and the defeated began their task.
Unarmed Spanish soldiers were set to work to clear the decks of wreckage. The priest moved about. Men with litters carried wounded men below. David was supervising the rigging of running lights. He worked fast; the dusk was deepening.
Cavendish himself was ordering men aloft. The stumpy mainmast still carried her square sail. He set his own men to repairing the cut rigging.
"There's nothing holding that sail but the eyelet holes, sir," one man said.
"Reeve fresh running gear," Cavendish said.
The Englishmen were casting in new shroud knots. The mizzen was heaved out; the two crews worked steadily, for all their weariness. The Santa Anna, after an hour, was miraculously under sail.
The main deck was cleared. Streams of water washed across it now; the running lights gleamed; the pumps creaked, and spray began to fly from the Santa Anna's bow. She was gathering way.
The foresail was unfurled. It held. It filled with wind. The Spanish were so glad to be alive that they talked incessantly. They had been six months at sea; it was a relief to be with another crew, other men, even though they were enemies. Occasional laughter was heard.
The fresh running gear on the mainsail had been reeved. The great sail strained in the wind. One Spanish officer was using a log line.
"Three knots," he reported excitedly, proudly, to the English Captain. They had done much, all of them.
Moon came up to Cavendish. After he had finished disarming the prisoners, and sent the good and usable weapons back to the Desire, he had carefully inspected the Santa Anna, below decks, as
40
had been his duty many times before. Moon was accustomed to this.
He carried heavy keys. "All powder and shot is locked and guarded, sir," he said. He had stationed his men at the various hatches; all of them were heavily armed.
Pretty reappeared. "There's no further danger for tonight, sir," he said proudly. "The most dangerous shot holes are plugged. The water is not rising, sir."
"Excellent, Pretty," Cavendish said.
Pretty sighed. He was very weary. His eyes were deeply circled.
"Tomorrow you can sleep, Pretty," Cavendish said.
"Aye, sir," said Pretty. "But I don't want for sleep, sir. No more than you."
The night stretched ahead of them. There would be no sleep. And there still remained the passengers. On that upper deck was clustered the most precious part of the cargo, for all its gold. Women. Pretty waited expectantly.
"Fetch Master David," Cavendish said. "You can both come with me."
"Aye, sir," said Pretty. Cavendish moved aft slowly. Pretty hurried; he and David joined Cavendish at the foot of the stairway. The armed men were standing stiffly. The low murmur of voices above them stopped. There was silence as Cavendish slowly mounted the steps; after him came the two officers and the guards.
The dusk was complete. Through it, the passengers of the Santa Anna looked at the conquerors. The silence was tense.
David stood to the side of the Captain. He stared at these people, forgetting what he himself looked like, disheveled, dirty and menacing. It had been a long time since David had seen any human being except seamen, enemy or English, and Indians. These were people like the ones he might see walking down a London street. There were a few hidalgos, some merchants and traders, women of quality and their servants. It had been a long time since David had seen white women.
They were looking back at him. But mostly they looked at Cavendish, with appeal. Their fate lay with him, but they were ready to be dependent on him because they had seen the order he had restored. That obvious dependence made a quick anger rise in David. But he shut his mind to thinking; all he knew now was to obey.
Cavendish said first, "You may all rest assured that there is no further danger. The shot holes have been plugged."
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A rippling sigh made Pretty feel sorry for them. David looked ahead grimly.
"Tonight," Cavendish went on, "you shall be placed below hatches, with guards."
David did not expect him to say more. David knew he wouldn't, and that was the end of it. Pretty was taking these last few seconds to look his fill at a dark-haired girl in white blouse and skirt whose huge eyes were fastened on David.
"Sirs," said Cavendish, and Pretty looked hastily back at him, "you can report to me in the Captain's cabin when you have finished.
"Aye, sir," said Pretty.
"Aye, Captain," David said.
Cavendish swept him with one brief glance. He turned away, glanced at the cleared decks and decided to go below for a look at the compass. He squinted up at the sky; he would relieve the man at the helm too. He saw once more that the Desire and the Content ranged close alongside, hove to under shortened sail.