"As long as they don't know you intend to enter the Pacific."
"They might," Cavendish said. "Their intelligence is good." He helped himself absent-mindedly to food. The pie was very hot, and he decided to transfer all of it onto his plate to facilitate its cooling. He began to eat.
Both men ate hungrily and at ease, washing their food down with drafts from the foamy ale. They interspersed their drinking and eating with talk, questions and answers, brief and knowledgeable. They talked of the Pacific, greatest ocean in the world, swelling endlessly blue, cradling its islands, guarded by continents—the Pacific.
They talked steadily.
"You are the only man who could tell me these things," Cavendish said.
He accepted the long clay pipe Drake handed him. He drew a pouch and offered it to his host. The tobacco was softened and pressed into small cakes; it had been very slightly moistened and sweetened with molasses. Drake shredded a cake in his fingers; the tobacco spilled onto the table as he pressed it into his pipe.
"It's good, Cavendish," he said. He puffed gratefully at the pipe.
"I could have sold a hundred cargoes of it," Cavendish said.
Drake studied the younger man's tanned face. Cavendish had discovered this way of curing and readying the tobacco for sale. "Have you always been wealthy?" he asked bluntly.
"Quite," said Cavendish, briefly.
Drake knew that Cavendish had come into his estates and fortunes at nineteen, when his father had died. The story went that he had spent all his fortune in two riotous years in London, but Havers had told Drake it was not true. Cavendish had spent only half of it before he went to sea.
Havers had said, "I've seen him go overboard after a favorite cap. But don't judge him by that, Drake. He wouldn't risk his life for it, and neither did he spend his last farthing. . . ."
"You're fortunate to have Havers," Drake said thoughtfully, breaking the silence. "I hear you're shipping a great many of my men," he added. He looked sharply at Cavendish.
"Aye," replied Cavendish.
"You had no difficulty persuading them to sail once more around the world?"
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"Very little," said Cavendish.
"That's rather surprising."
"Why?"
"Come, sir, that's a mad question. To say it quietly, the world's rather large."
Cavendish's blue eyes lighted a little. "Not so large, Drake," he said.
"You think not? I rounded it only because I could not return by the route I fetched the Pacific!"
"That was your reason?"
Cavendish smiled and stood up. One of his brown hands had lain protectively on the precious pieces of canvas-backed paper. His charts. Tenderly he began to roll them up.
"I've heard you are an arrogant bastard." Drake's square-bearded face seemed squarer and he had planted his feet wide. "I've heard you are a good seaman too. Perhaps you're not aware that England needs good seamen now, with the Spanish mayhap ready to send their fleets to the very shores of England. You must have a magnificent reason for sailing now; much more elegant than mine!"
Cavendish frowned, his eyes level under the drawn brows. The rolled charts were in his hand, and suddenly he gestured with them, looking directly into Drake's belligerent face. "When I look at these, it's as though I see the Pacific, the New World, islands and continents! I like to draw charts. When I do, I draw in the outlines of empire. And you forget, sir—it might be best to carry the fight to the enemy!"
He stopped, and then because he saw in Drake's face a glimmer of understanding and just a hint of admiration mixed with the scepticism, he said, "You know we're building an empire! You know it, because you're doing it. Drake, it doesn't matter why you sail around the world. It doesn't matter why I do. In the end, we are both striking at the Spanish Empire so that we can build an even greater one. For England. One so great that the sun will always be shining on some part of England's world."
Drake was silent, and the silence filled the room.
Cavendish bent over to secure the leather straps that bound the charts.
"It's time for me to leave you, sir, I told my groom two hours."
Drake smiled. "And so exactly two hours it will be, eh? I have known you by repute, Captain. I know you better now. I wish you good fortune. And fair winds, sir—the fairest of winds."
Chapter II
The lion was the only waterfront tavern in Plymouth that David Cavendish had not visited. He walked toward the swinging sign slowly; his boots made clicking sounds against the cobblestones. The dark street was quiet. The water lapped softly against the docks. In the harbor, lights showed aboard the ships at anchor there.
It was Wednesday night. It was nine o'clock, and David knew that if he didn't find his brother tonight, he might not see him again before he sailed. He didn't know when the Desire and the two other ships that formed the small fleet would leave; he knew only that Cavendish expected to sail Thursday.
David approached the tavern slowly. If Cavendish were not here, he would not know where to look next. Tom must be here.
He opened the door, and a familiar scene was revealed. The tavern was crowded. Although David knew none of his brother's crew by sight, he imagined there must be a good many of them here now, for the tables were filled by lounging seamen.
Then, suddenly, he saw his brother. He edged inside the door and sat down at a small table. He hadn't even a farthing, not enough for a tankard of ale. He wished he did, but he had spent all his silver pieces in searching for Cavendish. He sat back on his stool and looked down the length of the crowded room; he could just see Cavendish's profile as he leaned across the table, talking to Sir George Carey and another man whom David knew slightly and did not like.
This man's name was Hope; he had put up some of the gold to build the Content, Cavendish's second ship, and he was going to sail on the Content because he had helped to build her. David saw that all three men were laughing, and there was a handsome wench with them, at whom he stared appraisingly. He never knew where his brother found such wenches, but he always did.
Knowing he was completely unobserved, David began to feel
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better. He had found Tom, and he had time to collect his wits before he spoke to him. Yet, his palms sweated a little as he sat and waited for the courage to make himself known to Cavendish. He was conscious of contempt for himself. He was only seven years the younger. Rebellion rose in him; he muttered an oath. But still he didn't stand up and walk toward the far table. Strangely enough, what most disturbed him now was that if he were not successful he would have to ask Cavendish for enough silver to get home to Trimley. If he didn't ask for it, he would have to walk, unless he stole a horse. Then, abruptly, the idea was very enticing: to have nothing, to know no one, and to be free.
Two men at the next table were looking at him. David looked back and leaned his elbows on the table. Then, with determination, he suddenly rose to his feet. But when he realized that their attention had been diverted by the man Hope, he sank back on his stool and stared, too.
As far as he could discern, Hope was not drunk. But he was standing up, and he had pulled the wench to her feet, and their voices were loud and entangled. The wench hurled an insult at Hope; he bowed; Cavendish was watching and laughing. Then Hope said something low that David could not hear. After that, he turned away; but the wench, whom he had evidently insulted deeply, sprang after him and gave him a healthy cuff across the side of his face.
Hope turned back, seized the girl by the shoulders, and started to shake her. He had lifted his hand to strike her, when Cavendish said in a clear voice, "Take your hands off her." Cavendish had risen lazily to his feet, and was standing alongside of her. He reached out one hand, and his fingers fastened over Hope's wrist.