Captain Flores made no answer. Cosmos offered him a platter of fruit; he did not even see it. Cavendish took an orange and began to peel it. David wanted nothing; only de Ersola took an orange; he too began to peel it slowly.
"And then, Captain?" he asked, looking up.
Cavendish met his dark eyes. "I reckon that we'll be in port two weeks, roughly. It will take that long to restow your goods, and to make ready for our voyage across the Pacific. Gentlemen, the average age of my company is five and twenty. They are healthy. Aboard the Santa Anna there are eighty passengers. Including women."
De Ersola kept on peeling his orange. "What do you want from us, Captain?" he asked evenly.
Cavendish said, "I want your parole."
Flores said, "You want to tie our hands! You want to make things easy for you and your English pirates!"
"That's exactly what I want," Cavendish said. He was cutting the peeled orange into eight pieces.
Flores said, "I cannot in honor give you my parole, Captain." He was trying to realize that this had happened to him. His people were being put out on the beaches, to live in tents. Yet he must realize it, and thus be able to plan ahead for the future days. He started to rise.
"Sit, please," Cavendish said.
Flores flushed; then the flush receded, leaving two red spots on his white cheeks.
Cavendish ate one of the pieces of orange, and then another. "I have the Pacific to cross," he said. "I have only eighty crew and I want to hang none of them for rape or murder. Yet, ahead of them lies the Pacific. They have fought hard and well the last months. They have endured great hardship and great danger. They have watched their comrades, to the number of forty-eight, die. Some
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miserably. My company are in need of play. They need to swim and hunt and fish here. They need the land. And I am not going to deny it to them! Yet I must put your company on land also."
De Ersola said calmly, "Without parole, what is your alternative? I wonder, Captain, if you'd lend me that knife?"
"Certainly," said Cavendish, holding out the gleaming knife.
De Ersola cut his orange into eight pieces also. Neatly. Then he handed the knife back. "Thank you," he said.
"Without parole," Cavendish said, "all my company go armed always. You and your officers will be held as hostages. Any act of violence against any of my men will be severely punished. But I shall punish any of my men who are guilty of rape." He laid the knife down on the table negligently.
Flores said, "Captain, have you thought what you are saying?"
"I have," Cavendish said.
"Have you thought what you are saying?" Flores repeated, hopelessly. "Punishment for armed violence will make life no less hell for our passengers and women! Are you suggesting your men go armed, and with your sanction, among our people?"
"Those are the terms," Cavendish said. "I'd suggest we live in peace. I am minded of Drake's story to me, that when he took a ship in these waters, the two crews were so glad to see other men and be on land again, they were able to work and live together in peace."
David could tell that Cavendish had won this battle of words. De Ersola seemed to know it, too. His face was inscrutable; de Ersola knew that, without parole, the Spanish had a chance to recapture the Santa Anna, even though the chance was slight indeed and might cost most of their lives. But de Ersola knew that Flores would capitulate. Flores was appalled at the amount of bloodshed that might ensue from a single incident, a single hot word.
Flores put his hands on the table. "I'll agree to the truce," he said. "You shall have my parole, and all of my company's."
Havers drew a breath of relief. David was conscious that he was pleased at the outcome, for the land did look sweet, and the women would live there in tents. . . . He listened to Cavendish's voice go on, saying that there would be night and dav watches on the beach, with five men from each ship; saying that Flores' officers would be paroled, and that Flores himself should stay aboard the Santa Anna; that no man would be armed, except the officers; saying that tonight, to celebrate the truce, he would be happy if Flores and his officers
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would join him aboard the Desire for dinner, and that on the beaches, the men could roast the hares and conies and fry the fish they were already catching.
Cavendish and Flores shook hands. Flores was to go out now and apprise his men of the conditions under which they would live and work during the coming days. It was very simple, and de Ersola knew, with regret, that the plan would work, and work well. The English would reap the benefit of their Captain's truce. He followed Flores out of the cabin; soon he would be back aboard the Santa Anna, as a friend to the English.
Cavendish picked up pen and ink as soon as Flores and de Ersola had left. He said to Havers, "When you escort the Spanish back aboard the Santa Anna, pick out fifteen of the Spanish women to dine with us tonight. Or ask Flores to do it; that might be best."
"I think it would," Havers said dryly.
"And, Cosmos, you may deliver this note to the Señora de Montoro." He was still writing as he talked. He sealed the note and handed it to Cosmos. He smiled at David. "Eight hours of sleep for you, lad," he said.
He went to his own cabin, then. His duties were done for the present; he fell fully dressed into his hammock and went to sleep.
Chapter VII
Catherine de Montoro sat between Cavendish and David at dinner. The Desire's cabin was crowded because besides the seven English officers and Captains Brule and Havers, there were two Spanish merchants, fifteen women, and de Ersola and three other Spanish officers. What strain there had been at first had been removed by the wonderful food and the flowing wine. The Spanish had been at sea six months. It was so good to be on land and near it—their lives had been threatened by both the vast Pacific and the English—that an odd excited festivity prevailed. Cavendish, who drank little, observed this with pleasure. The two weeks ahead could be a perfect prelude to the rigors of the long months at sea which were still to come.
"The food is marvelous," Catherine said gratefully.
"We raided Mazatlan, across the Gulf," Cavendish said.
David had forgot his food at the nearness of Catherine.
"We should apologize to the señorita. for that," he said.
At his words, Catherine smiled. "I don't forgive you," she said, "and I am not señorita. I am a widow. I have a girl, six."
"You have?" David asked. "How long have you been a widow, señora?"
Catherine looked surprised. "A year, almost," she said.
David said, "Thank God, I didn't make a widow of you. I was afraid—"
"Sir, what a heavily laden conscience you have." She abandoned her food for a moment and studied his face. He was embarrassed, and suddenly she said, "Don't look so, sir. You have an interesting face. I paint, you see. I prefer portrait painting."
David's admiration was plain. "You do much of it, señora?"
Catherine knew Cavendish was listening. She was conscious of him beside her; his brown hand brushed hers as he picked up his wine goblet. "I paint a deal," she said. "You see, sir, to be frank
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with you, my husband and I came to Manila to make his fortune, as so many men did. But fortune eludes some, and when he died, I had very little." Absent-mindedly, she took a bite of roast chicken.
"But there is wealth in Manila. And we try to make life gracious. The governor wanted his portrait painted; the wives of wealthy merchants—" she flung out her hands. "You understand." Her wine glass had been filled and she picked it up. It was silver and it bore a crest. She puckered her brows at it, and both Cavendish and David watched her.