"The Santa Anna is very slow."
They stood together. David suddenly drew her into his arms. "I shall see you," he said, almost fiercely, "in Navidad!"
He turned and left her.
At his going she went back to the hammock slowly. The gray-white canvas made a spot in the darkness. She drew her feet up into the hammock and closed her eyes. The dawn would come soon. It would be the last dawn she would see here, in California. The days were gone, now; the colony was almost gone. On the beach the little row of women's tents was all that remained. The canvas of the tents for the seamen had been used for sails, and the men slept in the open, under the stars.
This morning would be the last morning that they would cook over the fires on the sandy beach. The men had gathered the last of the wood, the children the last of the pine cones. The flag had been hauled down over the wooden house; it flew now on the masthead of the Santa Anna. Her bulwarks were strong and new; she wallowed deep in the water; she had no upper decks at all, but canvas stretched across for protection from the sun and weather. She was ready to sail.
Sleep came to Catherine. She dreamed. Restlessly. She dreamed, and she saw Cavendish's face clearly. Only as she heard his voice and saw him smile, the dream changed, and instead, she saw his face on her canvas, and she was lifting her hand, with the brush in it, and instead of him himself it was the portrait in front of her. She had worked so hard on it these last days. She woke, quickly, remembering. The first rays of dawn were in the tent. She rose. She was fully
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awake. Was the portrait as good as she remembered it? Yesterday she had finished it. Outside, it was barely light; she dragged the rough easel to the doorway of the tent and uncovered the portrait.
Her heart beat fast. She looked at it critically, her head to one side; the light was cold and gray on it. On the canvas the blue eyes smiled at her, the mobile mouth was curved in laughter, and the thick hair was short and rough. She brushed away the sudden tears. It was good. It was the best thing she had ever done, and the joy in creating and the pain of longing were close and sharp together inside her. She turned from the portrait.
The bay was smooth. The little bark was gone. David and Lola were gone, and—he—he was very far away. Across a wide ocean. He would have sailed by Guana by now; this morning he should watch the dawn from the Philippinas.
The beach was still quiet. There was no sound of voices. She covered the portrait, and left the tent. She walked along the beach, slowly. The sand was cool and its grains were wet against her bare feet. She walked faster, taking pleasure in movement, feeling the cool morning wind off the sea. She walked purposefully, in the direction of a single lonely tent. When she came near, she heard movement within.
"Padre," she said softly.
A deep voice answered her. The priest knotted his girdle around his waist; he lifted the tent flap.
"Good morning, señora," he said.
His hair was gray and thin. His eyebrows were gray. From under them, he studied her.
"Padre—I—" She looked up.
"We'll walk this way," he said. "To see the dawn."
She fell into step beside him. The camp was rousing, and they walked along the shore, past the tents, toward the river.
"This will do my legs good," the priest said. "It will be the last time we shall walk here, señora."
"I know, Padre," Catherine said.
"We sail on again," he said.
She said low, "You mean that for me."
"Yes," he said. "We go on."
"I want to go on," she said firmly. "I want to go! Why should it then—our going—make me feel that my last link with him is gone, too?"
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She had stopped walking. The first colors of the rising sun were in the paling sky.
"Would you pray with me, Padre?" she asked. "If I knelt, would you say the words and I will say them after you?"
"Why?" he asked. "Why, Catherine? Can you not say the words yourself?"
"No," she said. "I want to, and then I think of all I have, and that I am strong and well, and that I can paint, and my child is good; that I have a man to love, and that the Santa Anna was saved. Then I feel grateful, Father. I have been given so much, Father! I feel it is wrong for me to ask for more, when I am so grateful for what I have!"
He said slowly, "Catherine, my child, the times when I feel nearest to my God is when thankfulness is in me."
Catherine said, "What shall I say to Him, then, Father?"
"What do you want from Him, Catherine?"
"I don't know!" she said.
"Think," he said.
"Enough courage and faith," she said.
"Then kneel down and ask for it," he said. He looked out toward the sea and the beauty of the new day. He put his hand on her bright head. "I think it has already been granted you."
Chapter XXVI
It was the fourteenth of January, the day had begun in California. But three thousand miles to the west, the night was still dark and angry. For four hours, all during the middle watch, the Desire had lain ahull, her helm lashed alee, while patiently she rode out the last of the Pacific storm.
De Ersola slept heavily. He shared a tiny cabin with Roderigo the Portugal. He slept on his back, his arms folded across his chest, his hands lying protectively against his body.
The Portugal slept less heavily. He was ready to wake. He had not drunk much wine last night, in the Captain's cabin, nor had he played chess with the Captain until two o'clock. Roderigo was not in need of more sleep, and at the first of the dawn's light, he roused.
The wind had abated. Roderigo could tell from the motion of the ship. He sat up in his hammock and looked to his sleeping companion. Jealousy filled him. Then he rose.
He walked the two steps to de Ersola. He leaned down and put his hand gently on de Ersola's chest, his fingers probing. It was still there—the paper. It had been there ever since the first night of foul weather. Roderigo stepped back and began to make more noise. He put on his shoes.
De Ersola didn't rouse until Roderigo had left the cabin. Then he turned over on his stomach and went back to sleep. He had plenty of time. He came up on deck much later, when the sight of the Philippinas was plain, for the Desire had fallen in with a mighty cape, with high land in the middle and low land trending far into the sea westward; she had fetched the Philippinas, in the sailing of the course from Guana, eleven days and a night.
He was almost alone on deck. He smelled food; it was the first cooked food they'd had aboard since the storm. Below, no doubt all hands were enjoying it. But de Ersola felt no hunger. He had drunk far too much wine last night, and lost the game because of it.
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But ale would taste good; he was thirsty. When Cavendish appeared, he would ask him to join him in a tankard.
The wind was gentle. The Desire had entered the Straits between Luzon and Camlaia; it was already hot, and the sun shone. He knew these waters so well. Just fifty leagues away was Manila. On the rail his brown hands lay listlessly, yet within he was conscious of uneasiness, and it wasn't due to wine. He stared ahead at the clustered islands, lying green in a blue sea. Thirty minutes later Cavendish appeared on the poopdeck.
He waved his hand to de Ersola, and lazily the Spaniard mounted to the high deck.
Cavendish was looking through the glass. He nodded to de Ersola.
"Keep her on the larboard tack, Master Fuller."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Cavendish lowered the glass. He handed it to de Ersola. "Capul," he said.
De Ersola raised the glass to look at the island. "Good harbor," he said. "Will you have some ale? Lord, I am thirsty!"
Cavendish grinned. "I'll join you later."