"I want to hear you say you love me," he whispered.
Chapter XIX
Cosmos moved softly about the small cabin, he moved softly and swiftly, taking away the bowl of soapy water, wiping the razor clean and putting it away. He picked up the white shirt Cavendish had worn the day before; sand sprinkled down as he lifted it, and he glanced over at his master. He filled an ale tankard and set it before him.
"I have told Master Moon, sir," he said.
Cavendish didn't answer. He glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes before eight. Twenty minutes before David would be brought before him and his officers; forty minutes since he had left Catherine on the beach.
There was a little time to remember—to sit here, and to remember. Later he could sort out the memories, but now they were not yet memories but realities, and he could not believe that he would not see her again, and that the day and night they had had were gone.
She was near; he could almost hear her voice, touch the shining hair. In his ears was the sound of the surf. He recovered the smell of hot sand, as she had brushed it off her bare shoulder and sat up to look down at him.
He heard her say again, "I wish I had a clock. When I was little, I used to think the time passed slower if I could keep my eye on it and not let it go by without knowing."
He had sat up, too, smiling. "I'll make you a clock," he had said. "Hand me that little stick." He could feel the rough stick in his fingers as he drew a circle and notched the twelve hours of the day. He drew a line from north to south, and stuck the stick upright into the center of the circle. The stick threw a narrow line of shadow across the third notch in the circle. "You see, my love," he said, "it is three o'clock."
Now the improvised sundial would be washed away by the tide. It
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had been gone when together they had pushed the longboat from the sand, hoisted her sail, put the hamper back under the seat, and come back to the beach at San Lucas.
Catherine had wanted to sail the boat. In the early hours, it had been a setting forth together into the magnificence that only dawn and the sea can show to man.
"You shan't be afraid?" he had asked.
"No," she said, "I'm not afraid."
He had given her, before, the length of cloth of gold. She said, "I'll wear that dress to court, with you."
He took the tiller because the freshening wind seized the sails. "You are not looking," he said softly.
"I was sailing into the sun," she said.
"On purpose?"
"If I cry, it is because it is so beautiful this morning. But I am not afraid."
His arm was around her. "You sail," she said, settling closer to him, knowing this was the last time for many months that she could. He had told her about his home, his estates in Suffolk. "Some day we shall leave Trimley before dawn," she said, "and sail out together again."
"Some day, my darling," he said, his eyes on the water. "Some day."
He knew she tried to keep back the tears. "Weep," he said. "It might help."
"I love you so much," she said, and he felt the movement of her lips as she spoke with her head pressed into his shoulder. Then she lifted her head. "Every dawn I shall be with you," she said. "The sunrise you watch, I shall have seen too. When you are gone, 1 shall paint you. When you are gone—"
The colors of the sunrise had faded. They were back at San Lucas, at the edge of the row of tents. He jumped out and pulled the boat into the shallow water, and held out his arms to her. He set her on her feet.
There was nothing to say. All the words had been spoken. They stood together, silent, close, tasting wordlessly their nearness to each other, suspending time, thrusting away everything except this moment when they were still together.
They were here, on this sandy beach. The ocean, the bay, were rough with restless waves and tumbled water. The sun was up. The wind was colder than it had been wont to be, these last days;
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the sky was patched now with bits of blue and ragged white clouds. The time was going by, and yet it would stand still and let them hold this moment long, just because they were still together.
She raised her head to look up at his face, searching the blue eyes and the hair at his temples thickly sprinkled with gray, and she lifted her hand to touch it once more. Her hand dropped down, and she felt a moment's sharp anguish; her fingers felt for his.
"Good-bye," she said. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," he said.
There was no time to think—only to feel the severance that was coming between them.
"Good-bye," he said again. He turned away; he raised the sail, the sun shone on it, and the gusty wind made the ropes creak a bit. Before her rolled the water; it was the pathway over which he would leave her, and it was at the same time the way to home, the way to England, the way to a place called Trimley. He turned and raised his hand in a last farewell. And, alone on the beach, she waved back.
Moon knocked on the door.
"Good morning," Cavendish said. He began to speak rapidly. He spent only two minutes explaining to Moon the task he was to do this morning, later. Then he rose. "You understand? Then we'll go now."
"Aye, aye, sir," Moon said, following Cavendish. He entered the great cabin at Cavendish's heels, watched his Captain sit down and speak to Havers; then Moon sat down himself and waited. Master Pretty and Fuller sat quiet; there was no sound in the cabin until the door opened again. Cavendish looked up as they brought David in.
David stood easily. He wore no doublet, only the blood-stained shirt; he was unshaven, and the ragged cut along the side of his jaw would obviously some day be a ragged scar. He looked like the renegade that his manacled wrists pronounced him.
In the silence, the door closed. The two seamen who had escorted David had left the cabin. There were six officers at the table besides Cavendish. There was no one else but the man who was standing trial on the severest charge that could be brought. Cavendish spoke, and at the sound of his voice. Havers felt the terrible tense-
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ness rise in his body. He kept his eyes on David. This trial would be short and quick, and there could be only one outcome.
Cavendish said, "Master Cavendish, first I must say that, if it is your wish, I shall have brought here ten other members of our company, as a jury. If you wish. They are ready to be called."
Havers waited for the sound of David's voice. It was even and strong. "There is no necessity for that, sir," he said.
There was no necessity. Cavendish knew it. Yet as many as forty men had sat in on a trial like this, rough as it was. He looked straight at David. How many times had he himself sat like this while David had stood trial—but when there had been no witnesses, when it had just been a matter of discipline, and the exertion of his will over a younger brother?
He frowned a little. He had been silent, and they were waiting; and David was not only his brother, younger, but another man, and it was his fault too that this had happened. They were both guilty.
"Master Cavendish," he said, "you are brought before us today on a charge of mutiny."
David's dark eyes met his. "Aye, sir," he said.
Cavendish said,baldly, "You plead guilty to that charge?"
"Aye, sir," David said.
The tension between them was gone.
"I am guilty," David said. But there was no apology in his voice. It was a statement.
Cavendish leaned forward and put his hands on the table. "Sir," he said, "you and I are related by blood. If you feel that this trial is insufficient, you may ask to be taken back to England for retrial. That is your right, according to law."
David shook his head, and Cavendish saw he was seizing on his own responsibility now, taking it as his right, because it had always been withheld from him before. "No," David said, "I prefer your judgment and the judgment of the men here."