Soon he would set sail, soon this colony would be a place in his memory, a white-washed beach, clean and sharp with bright sun; soon it would be gone, or rather, he would be gone. But it would stay here, this, the New World, this beach on the tip of California. He would be gone, but it would be forever here, under the sun.
It was mid-morning. It was Coronation Day. The seventeenth of November. Cavendish saw Havers and Catherine, walking side by side, talking fast; he saw Catherine's face turned up to Havers, and she was speaking eagerly, her hands raised in a gesture, and she smiled. At the water's edge they stood talking, and then Havers got into his boat. Almost impatiently, Cavendish waited for him.
"Ahoy, Havers," he said genially, leaning over the rail.
"Ahoy, Captain," returned Havers. He swung aboard and mounted up to Cavendish's deck. "How are you this morning?"
"Well," said Cavendish. He waited.
But Havers said nothing; he was going to say nothing about Catherine. Cavendish asked, "How is the señora today?"
"Muy bien," said Havers. He smiled. "We talk in Spanish and English, all mixed up."
"Is your picture finished?" Cavendish asked.
Havers said, "Oh, it's just a charcoal sketch, and Catherine wants to keep it."
"In memory of you?"
Havers looked out to sea. "If you wish it that way, yes, Tom."
"What does she do? Keep a gallery of the men she carries a tender fondness for? You'll be keeping company with a handsome Spanish bastard whose picture I saw."
Havers straightened. His bushy brows rose a little; his eyes crinkled and he looked amused. "Jealous, Tom?" he asked. He had been carrying his pipe; with one hand he shook some tobacco into the bowl and pressed it down with his long forefinger. Then he
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put the unlit pipe in his mouth. His gray eyes came back to Cavendish's face.
Cavendish grinned ruefully. "Give it right back to me, Havers." He shifted restlessly. "Here comes Moon," he said, "and I have to see him."
Havers followed Cavendish slowly. Havers saw David, he spoke, and David came over to him. The three of them stood there as Moon came up the ladder.
"There is plenty to leave them, sir," were Moon's first words.
Cavendish's face was inscrutable.
"One day will be ample time to give them," Moon continued.
Cavendish nodded and Moon continued, "You said no weapons were to be transferred tomorrow, but only on the morning of the nineteenth, the day we sail."
David heard Moon's words. He looked toward Cavendish. David was carrying the toy boat.
"What do you mean, Moon?" David asked.
There was a moment's silence. Moon hesitated, frowning at David; he started to speak, and then fell silent again, because Cavendish said, "I'll answer that question, Moon."
He regarded David levelly. "Moon means," he said, "that the Spanish will have all day tomorrow, the eighteenth, and the early hours of the nineteenth, to unload the Santa Anna of all usable goods. And tomorrow will be time enough." He stopped.
"Time enough?" asked David, his tone low.
"Aye," said Cavendish, "time enough."
David was conscious of Havers and Moon. He heard vaguely the sound of the other men's voices. The smell of cooking went past his nostrils. It was all so familiar, and so was the beach nearby and the people who lived there. For days now he had known this was coming. Days? Perhaps months.
"Tom," he said, "that little bark there, that you built." He pointed to it with the toy boat he held in his hand. "She is a concession to mercy, is she not?"
"If she is," Cavendish's voice came slowly, "I do not want it known until tomorrow, David."
"Because you know it would spoil our celebration tonight? Spoil Coronation Day, and the feast and the friendliness?"
"Exactly," said Cavendish.
David laid the toy boat down on the deck. "If the little bark is going to be the only means of communicating these people's plight
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to the mainland—tell me, Tom, what are you going to do with the Santa Anna?
David's tone had been low. The men unloading the last stores of powder and shot from the Santa Anna noticed nothing amiss. Their Captain and his brother were talking, and Havers and Moon stood near. But David could not keep his voice low.
"What are you going to do with the Santa Anna?" he repeated, spacing the words evenly.
It was Cavendish's reply they couldn't hear. But David heard it, plainly; the answer he knew was coming.
"I'm going to burn her," Cavendish said.
"I see," David said. "You're going to sink her. Why not use powder and shot, Tom? In a thundering farewell of guns for these people you're leaving helpless here?"
Cavendish's blue eyes were ice cold. "Because I don't wish to spare powder and shot. It would be folly. And for you, sir, confinement to your quarters immediately." He turned away.
"Don't go, Tom," David said. "I'm not going to my quarters like a good boy. I'm taking orders no longer."
Havers started to speak, but he didn't. Moon's round face was white under his tan. Slowly Cavendish turned around.
Cavendish didn't speak. He waited. His arms hung loosely at his sides; he took a step toward David.
"You," said David, "are going to leave these people here helpless. You are going to abandon Catherine and her little girl."
David had been calm. But the sudden blazing anger that he saw in Cavendish's eyes roused his own anger. He felt it rising in him like hottest fire, clouding the brain, pounding the blood through his heart and chest and head.
He had put the toy boat down. In front of him was Cavendish, and with vicious pleasure David raised his fist and hit hard, following the blow through with all his strength, hitting hard to the midsection with his left fist and cutting to Cavendish's chin with his clenched right fist.
The second blow knocked Cavendish off his feet. It slid him backward into a boat slung amidships. David had bounded after him, and was waiting for him to rise, when he felt his arms seized on both sides.
He had forgotten Havers and Moon. They did not hold him tightly, after the first quick grasp. But they held him, and David thought Havers said something to him but he didn't hear it.
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"Let me go!" he said.
"No," said Havers quietly. The grip on his arm tightened, and David realized what he had done.
Slowly Cavendish got to his feet. His face was marked with blood. Aloft, the lookout stared down at the deck. The men who were unloading the boat stopped all pretense of work. The ship was silent. But David noticed nothing but his brother's face.
Cavendish was wearing no doublet, no sword. With deliberateness he started to roll up the sleeve of his fine linen shirt with the loose cuffs. He said to Havers, "Give me his sword."
Havers obeyed, quickly. He handed sword and belt to Cavendish who tossed both aside onto the deck. They made a clatter.
"Take off his jacket," Cavendish said. He was rolling up his other sleeve.
Havers pulled off one sleeve of David's jacket. Moon completed the job. He handed the jacket to Tyler, who stood near. "Jesu," Tyler muttered under his breath, his eyes on Cavendish's face. The Captain, who was always controlled, was so now; and it made him more fearsome, for this time he was coldly indulging his violence.
Cavendish glanced at both sleeves. They were neatly rolled. A lock of unruly hair had fallen over his forehead. He brushed it back. He looked about at the space he had.
"Now let him go, sirs," he said. "And stand away, a little."
In the one second before his arms were released, David was conscious of fear. The old fear and uncertainty. Always before, this violence was what he had provoked but what he had never faced. Always before, it had been checked. Now it was unchecked. And David's brain, in one clear flash, told him it was Catherine's name that had loosed this anger.