Catherine said quickly, "I ask for Lola! She is—she loves him!"
"Oh," said Cavendish.
His tone had been softer. "Lola is sick now," she said. "If you would send Cosmos with a bottle of light wine, perhaps she could keep at least a little wine down."
He said, "I'll send the wine with Cosmos."
"Thank you," she whispered. But the memory of David—his warm brown eyes, his quick wit and the restless exuberance—was too strong. "He will die? He cannot! Is there nothing to do? Nothing? I would do anything to save his life!"
He took a step toward her; he took her hand in his, lifting it, palm up. "Would you?" he asked.
"Please," she whispered, forgetting it would be no use.
"You are so sweet and willing, señora, when it is something you want. But I cannot make bargains." He dropped her hand.
"I did not mean that!"
"Don't bother to lie to me!" he said. "I thought you had something important to tell me."
"What else is important?" she cried.
He said, dryly, "An emerald, perhaps. To a woman, a man can be most important."
"True," said Catherine. "The most important thing in the world! And to a man, then, could a woman be that important?"
It was almost a minute before he answered. "I don't know," he said.
"There are so many women, always," she said tensely. "Like Arabella!"
He was silent.
"I did not mean to plead with you, to save David. You don't have need of me, when there are so many women out there, and when we shall never see each other again. After a few days, there won't be any colony at San Lucas!"
"Two days," he said, evenly.
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"You leave the nineteenth, then," she said, just as evenly. "And I suppose David will die that day?"
"Suppose nothing," he said. "I'll do the deciding!"
"You won't even tell me when it will be?"
"No!"
"You are being childish," she said.
"I'll send the wine for Lola," he said, and the tension between them filled the little tent. Cavendish looked at her; he started to leave, but he couldn't. "Arabella is nothing beside you, madam," he said, and the taunt brought the blazing anger out into the open.
"Dare you speak her name to me!"
"Pick up your little knife!" he said. "It would suit you better than sweet words!"
She said desperately, "It's not that I do not feel sorry for you, tool I know how you—"
She stopped. "Oh, please—" She looked at his bruised hands. She tried to forget him and to remember David: She was the only one who could help David, and there was something else she must know. Tears of anger stood in her eyes.
"Did you hurt him badly?" she asked.
"Deservedly so," he said. "You weep for him already? Too bad I'll not see him to tell him about your sorrowing! But you can see Havers tonight, and weep then." He turned and left—and Catherine put her hands over her face in a helpless gesture—for if she did not stop herself physically, she might cry out to him. Pride kept her; pride, and also the love she bore him. Anger and hatred were mixed up in her heart, along with this love, and hurt too, for he had hurt her badly, and she was willing to see him suffer; fiercely, she hoped he was suffering.
There were only two days left—not even two whole days. Tonight, no matter what, she must try to help David escape. It was a frail hope. She must remember to carry her little knife. She hardly realized she was crying. She stood in the center of the bare tent.
"Oh, my darling," she whispered, "I love you. Please send Cosmos with the wine for Lola."
She knew he would, because he had said so, and because she had asked it. "Oh, my darling," she said again, because it helped to say the words aloud, "I love you."
Chapter XVI
De Ersola came down onto the beaches at five o'clock, all day long he had wrestled with the problem confronting him, and all day he had questioned his decision to keep secret until tomorrow the news that Cavendish was going to sink the Santa Anna and leave them abandoned here on the lonely cape of California. He had made his decision, but even as he walked toward the now crowded beach, he went over again in his mind the possibilities.
He noted the armed guards which Cavendish had carefully provided. Even tonight, then, there would be a watch on the beaches. It was just as well then that he had given up the idea of trying an attack on the English, unarmed as the Spanish were; the very weight of numbers might succeed, but he had doubted it so strenuously, he had perforce abandoned the idea.
He noted the casks of wine. Swiftly he judged that there were far too few to allow any of the English to get drunk; Cavendish would be too clever for that.
He was an able opponent, de Ersola ceded, ruefully. He considered himself Cavendish's opponent because Flores was being faithful to his parole, and therefore he was out of the battle until Cavendish had sailed away. Then, thought de Ersola ironically, he would come out of his seclusion and take the reins of command into his own hands again. Now Flores saw de Ersola each morning, to inquire about his crew and his passengers; he seemed satisfied each morning with de Ersola's report, and de Ersola usually did not see him again until the next day, when once more Flores would be eating his breakfast and drinking his wine in sparing sips.
Tomorrow, then, would begin the task of unloading the Santa Anna of all her usable goods. Tomorrow had, like every day, twenty-four hours, and de Ersola was content to wait until then. Much had happened today, already. He saw Brule on the beach, and he walked down to join him.
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"It smells good here," de Ersola said.
Brule frowned a little, as if he had been thinking of something quite different, and de Ersola's remark had recalled him to the present.
De Ersola said, "We hear the Captain's brother is confined under a charge of mutiny."
"Aye," said Brule. "I have had my discipline problems too, as you've also heard."
"Disaffection is common enough, in a situation like yours, sir," de Ersola said, with such simplicity that Brule responded gratefully.
"Aye, that it is, sir, with the Pacific to cross, and with such moneys aboard."
"It will soon be over, sir. Soon you will leave the New World behind, and they will feel, instead of its pull, the pull for home."
Brule looked up at the western sky. "Home is very far away," he said softly.
There was a great deal of laughter in the air; the women's clothes were bright and gay; and odd bits of accented English came floating to Brule's ears as he listened to their chatter with the English sailors. Brule knew what tonight would be like. There would be plenty to eat, and there would be companionship and music and dancing, and he felt a kinship with these people, who were after all like him, or they wouldn't be here at all.
Brule said suddenly, "I hope all goes well with you!"
"You've no need to equivocate with me, sir. Certainly now, between us, there can be truth. I know what Cavendish intends. The little bark rides there, and I am a good pilot."
Brule looked concerned at the understatement; he looked very much concerned, and his eyes were eloquent. De Ersola noted it with dismay, almost, and realized suddenly he had been quite wrong about Brule. Brule was not soft; instead, he was tender-hearted. De Ersola had met Englishmen before who were so tender-hearted and sentimental. But the Spaniard was going to speak out anyway, because he had planned this.
Out in the bay rode the Content. The Content could mean freedom for de Ersola and his company. And the loss of the Content would be a great blow to Cavendish. Without her, he would have a great ocean to cross, alone. Without her, he would enter Spanish waters in the Philippinas with a small force, but one ship and sixty men.