The sun had long since set. The wind still blew gently, lazily, off the south. The mists came; indeed they had come long before, on this lazy wind. Mist mingled with the smoke and the smell of burning pitch. The wind had changed. The night was almost still. The wind had changed, and the miracle was wrought.
Chapter XXII
"The wind is changing," Cavendish said, suddenly, to de Ersola. He got to his feet. "Perhaps not," he said, looking at the clock. He paced across the tiny space. "I've told you, sir, that all I spoke, and did, aboard the Santa Anna this morning was lies. I want nothing from you—no aid, no maps, no service as a pilot. I'm going to ask you to forgive me, but it was my brother."
De Ersola said, "You know I would not have allowed him freedom, and you feared I should exact the penalty, did you not?"
"Aye, sir, I did. Flores is different from you. With Flores, my brother has the barest chance of life. With you, he had no chance. I gave Flores ample reason to hate me—and to sympathize with David."
"True," de Ersola said. "Your slap at Flores fooled him, but not me."
"I did not expect it to." Cavendish turned to face the pilot. "And I'm guilty of kidnapping; I'm guilty of making you a prisoner, undeservedly, and I hope you will allow me to make proper restitution to you. I offer you passage to England, and sanctuary there, 01 I shall set you ashore on Luzon, not far from Manila. I shall ask of you only your parole."
De Ersola hesitated.
"Aboard the Desire, I'll need your parole, sir. You can understand that."
"I can," de Ersola said. "Unless I want to spend the voyage below." He glanced at Cavendish thoughtfully, and took another gulp of his ale. His eyes seemed suddenly amused. "Tell me Captain," he asked, lazily, "do you play chess?"
Cavendish grinned. "I do," he said.
"Well, then, I demand another honest answer. Do you play well?"
Cavendish chuckled. "Better than you."
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"Impossible," said de Ersola. "I'll give you my parole." He got to his feet and held out a brown lean hand, and Cavendish took it. Both men were smiling.
"Thank you, sir," Cavendish said. Then his face sobered. "The wind is changing," he said. He heard the slatting of the sails. Without a word he went through the cabin door. He went out on deck.
"Master Fuller!" he shouted.
"Aye, aye, sir," came the answer.
"Three lanterns in the stern!" Cavendish ordered. "Strike the tops!" Mist blew in his face. He swung around and peered into the mist and the dusk. He could not see the shape of the Content He watched the lanterns hoisted, as a signal to her. Three lanterns meant shortened sail; three lanterns meant change course to due south.
Havers appeared on the poop deck. He saw the gleaming lanterns.
"That wind changed in a minute," he said. "Look at that mist."
Captain Brule was on deck when the wind changed. He gave the order to shorten sail, and he hurried into his cabin to look at his charts. He had to light his lamp, and he bent over the charts, reassuring himself again that he knew them well. He put out the lamp and went back on deck.
He could not see the Desire. There was only mist to see. He frowned.
The wind was too light. He glanced upward at the sails. He paced the deck restlessly. He peered ahead. No lanterns shone through the mist. The mist was thick now, it lay on the backs of his hands and his hair. His leather jacket was slippery to the touch.
He peered ahead. He went down to the boat deck, crossed it, and mounted into the head. There was nothing to be seen. Had it been only five minutes ago he had seen the two lanterns winking? Two lanterns hung in the Desire's stern to guide him?
"I see naught, sir," the lookout called down. "I can see no lights!"
Brule stayed in the head. The mist floated past him. "Lay aloft!" he roared suddenly. An officer came across to join him.
"I don't want to lose the Desire," Brule said. "The wind's light. I'm going to hoist the tops."
"Aye, sir." The two men stood together, looking ahead in the darkness.
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The ropes creaked; the tops filled slowly; the Content leaned gracefully, her bow throwing up a fine spray as she dipped.
"I'm going to stay on deck, sir," Brule said, mopping the wet from his face with a wet hand.
"Can I fetch you something, sir?" the officer asked.
"Aye, you can. Fetch me a cloth," Brule said. "Fetch me two cloths."
The officer moved away. He was back quickly, and Brule wiped his face and head gratefully. "That's better," he said. "Curse this mist."
"That wind changed so suddenly," the officer said. "One minute 1 could see the Desire's lanterns, and the next I could not."
An hour passed. Brule had used two more towels. He turned to the officer with him.
"We'll change course," he said. "Change course to due east. Sir, I'm going to have something to eat."
He strode away. While he ate, he studied the charts again. He went below and watched the compass. He stayed by the helmsman about fifteen minutes. Then he climbed back to his own quarterdeck again.
He was there when the dread cry came from the lookout. Twice it was shouted, and even then Brule could hardly believe it.
"Breakers ahead! Breakers ahead!"
Chapter XXIII
"It was a miracle," captain Flores said, he sat down heavily on the bench beside the rude table on the beach. He was almost overcome with exhaustion. "God sent us the wind."
Catherine said, "Drink this, sir." She held out a cup of wine, and Flores took it gratefully.
"Tonight I shall drink this right down, señora," he said.
"Bless you, sir," Catherine replied gently.
He smiled at her. "I expect you want to ask mercy for the Englishman."
"I do," Catherine said.
He said slowly, "There are orders from Philip."
Catherine said, "But you have not received them yet, sir. You know of them only through hearsay."
Flores looked surprised. "True," he conceded, "and yet—"
"You have not received them, sir! He saved us. Mayhap he was the miracle!"
Flores lifted his eyes from his cup of wine. It was empty.
"A little more?" Catherine asked.
"No, no, gracias, señora. I never deviate much, my dear. I am thanking God," he added. "Magellan said a man should never go to sea without faith in his God." He looked up. "Here comes the Englishman, señora."
Catherine rose to her feet. "I pray you," she said urgently.
The mist was still thick. Fires burned on the beach. Their glow was eerie. David was walking past the fires, two Spanish officers were with him; they were talking rapidly, gesticulating, and Catherine saw David grin—a sooty, reckless grin. At the same moment, Flores rose; he went toward David with a steady stride; he met the three men near one of the fires.
"You cannot see her for the mist, sir, but she is safe. The fires are quenched."
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It was one of his officers who had spoken. He continued, "I've left thirty men aboard to watch tonight."
"That watch will be changed at twelve, sir," Flores said. "And again at four, as usual."
"Si, señor."
There was a moment's silence. On the beach, the Spaniards were sprawled, sitting or lying, after their gruelling task. They watched and listened; sitting up now, edging closer. Flores was about to speak, when Lola came into the scene.
The Spanish officer stepped to one side, and Lola stood beside David. He put his arm around her, her face lifted to his.
"Your hands," she said, lifting his hand gently, and turning the palm up.
"Burned a little," David said.
Lola looked at Flores, seeing again the black eyes, the pale cheeks above the short white beard. But she waited for David to speak.