At six o'clock the first calls came from the lookouts. Cosmos put the last mouthful of biscuit in his mouth, fished for the piece of salt pork with his fingers, and laid down the basin. He put his knife, with which he ate—there were no spoons—into his belt, and hastened up on deck.
"Land ho! Land ho!" the echoing steady call came from the lookout. On the poopdeck, Cavendish had lifted the glass to his eyes. Cosmos saw the smudge ahead of them, off the starboard bow. There it was. Land.
"It's Guana!" cried the man next to him. Cosmos watched him start up into the shrouds. He had no desire to follow; he stayed on deck, while most of the crew scrambled aloft to see for themselves. Cosmos saw de Ersola, smiling, mount to the poopdeck.
"You are almost as good a navigator as you are a chess player," he said. "You've accomplished the fastest Pacific crossing in history. Thus far," he added.
"Aye," said Cavendish thoughtfully. The crossing had cost one ship and the lives of twenty men. The price might seem high, but Cavendish knew it was not. It was a small sop to the vastest ocean in the world, uncharted, its many islands guarded by its blue swells. He had known, as he watched the sunrise this morning, that more lives would be lost before he should see England again; they were sure to be forfeit. He had begun his voyage with one hundred and twenty-three men; he had lost two ships, and sixty of his crew. He had lost his own brother. So much had it cost already to chart the courses that other men would follow some day.
The sea was gray, a mirror of morning. Off to the east, low clouds hung over the water, but above them the sky was palest blue, shot with gold, and suddenly the rising sun splashed a pool of fiery red against the gray ocean.
"With this gentle gale, we should fetch the island about one o'clock," he said.
"Are you going to land?" de Ersola asked:
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"With only sixty crew, I do not dare," Cavendish answered. "I am going to spend about ten days in the Philippinas, sir, in Spanish waters."
"I see," said de Ersola.
Cavendish swung around to look at him. His blue eyes were level. "You remember your parole, sir?" He watched de Ersola carefully, steadily.
"Your words are a warning, of course," de Ersola said. "You deemed them necessary?"
Cavendish looked sardonic. "War," he said curtly.
"We fight for a rich prize, do we not, Captain?" de Ersola asked, almost dreamily. He glanced at Cavendish and smiled. "Would you care to see my map of China?"
Cavendish burst out laughing. "What a disarming fellow you are," he said. "Will you breakfast with me, sir?"
"Yes," de Ersola said. "You know, if you hadn't gambled your King's pawn last night, you would have won."
The sun shone. The half-naked sailors clustered on deck, waiting. The island was coming steadily nearer. Tyler squatted on deck, carefully guarding the five rude pieces of old iron; one he had tied to a fishing line, to be ready. Guana was two leagues to the west, yet, but the sea was already black with native canoes.
"There must be a hundred of them," Tyler said.
Master Fuller was standing before the mast. "Only about seventy, I'll warrant," he said. He raised his voice. "All hands aloft," he shouted, and Tyler reluctantly dropped his fishing line and started up the shrouds.
"Strike the tops!" Fuller shouted.
From the poopdeck came Cavendish's voice. "North northwest, Master Fuller."
The mainsail veered. The sprit sail was furled. All around the Desire clustered the native war canoes with their triangular sails. The natives stared at the blue and gold paint, and the gunports, and the faces that looked over the rails at them.
"I want to stand into the harbor, Master Fuller," Cavendish said, as he came walking across the boat deck.
"Aye, aye, sir," said Fuller.
Cavendish walked over to Tyler.
"Do you see that, Tyler? Those canoes aren't above half a yard in breadth, and some seven or eight yards long. And those—those
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must be canes, thrust out on the starboard side. Toss the line down."
"Aye, sir," said Tyler, happily. He swung the fishing line, with the piece of iron, into the big canoe right below him.
The natives yelled and laughed. They tied a big fish to the line, and Tyler avowed that he had never caught so large a fish before. He tossed the line down again.
"Send a coconut!" he yelled.
A big naked savage, with his long hair twisted into two knots atop his head, grinned back. Tyler pulled up a coconut.
"The bastard looks like the carved devil on the head of their boats," Tyler remarked.
Cavendish laughed. He was trying to make out what the savages used for sails. "I believe they are made of sedge grass," he said, "and they sail as well against the wind as before."
Tyler had tied another piece of iron to his line. "What will you take for your wife?" he shouted down.
Cavendish smiled at him. "Are you married, Tyler?" he asked.
Tyler said, slyly, "No, sir. I'm fickle. Like you, sir."
Cavendish said nothing, and Tyler wiggled his bare toes a bit apprehensively. But Cavendish seemed to pay him little attention. He was looking down at the big canoes that clustered closer than flies around the Desire. Suddenly one canoe came too close. The Desire stemmed into it; the natives dived overboard and swam; their heads appeared above water, and they swam like fish to the nearer canoes.
Cavendish straightened and looked around. The deck was piled with coconuts, potatoes, wriggling fish and fruits.
"Tyler, follow me," he said curtly.
Tyler dropped his line. "Aye, aye, sir," he said hastily, looking sideways at his Captain.
"And where did you hear such a rumor?" Cavendish asked.
"Everywhere, sir—on Fleet Street."
Cavendish strode ahead, saying nothing. Tyler climbed up to the poopdeck and stood waiting.
"You were confined before sailing, weren't you, Tyler?"
"Aye, sir."
"And have you been gambling lately?"
"No, sir. I swear to God I haven't."
Cavendish grinned. "Master Moon," he said, "have six muskets
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made ready and brought to me." He raised his voice. "Master Fuller, trim all sails, sir!"
The Desire quickened her way, but there were even more canoes around her.
"There are a hundred of them," Moon said. "Here are the muskets, sir."
Cavendish took one, and started to load it. "Give one to Tyler, Master Moon," he said. His own was ready to fire.
"Quick now, Tyler," he said. "We will discourage these natives with a little gunfire."
"Aye, aye, sir," said Tyler eagerly, as Havers came bounding back to the deck. He walked over beside Cavendish and raised the weapon.
Cavendish did the same. "The man in the head of the farthest boat dead astern," he said.
The gun fired.
"A hit!" Tyler cried, enthusiastically.
Cavendish was reloading the weapon.
Tyler did not hesitate. "The same boat, sir," he said, "the man in the stern."
Again the musket spoke.
"Another hit," Cavendish said.
From the five canoes near the one at which Tyler and Cavendish had shot all the natives plunged into the water fearfully.
"Hold your fire," Cavendish said. "I think they'll disperse now. Wait, Tyler. Try for the man in the head of the farthest boat abeam."
"Aye, sir," said Tyler, raising the weapon again. He fired.
"No," said Cavendish. He raised his own weapon.
"No, Captain," said Tyler, grinning. "You hit the canoe. Look at them dive for it!"