De Ersola said, "I thought you would come."
"I wanted to spend the time with you," Cavendish said. "If you wanted me."
"I do," said de Ersola, and his brown eyes were warm.
Cavendish turned aside to pour ale into the two pewter tankards. He set one of them in front of de Ersola, raised his own to his lips. Both men drank, de Ersola quickly, as was his wont, Cavendish more slowly, as if he wanted fully to savor the taste of the dark ale. It was hot, too; Cavendish's shirt clung to his chest and back and shoulders. For a second, de Ersola played with the notion of flinging himself forward at Cavendish, who was still drinking slowly, but then he knew that would be folly because even if he could possibly overpower his opponent, he still could not leave the ship. Else he would have left it before.
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Cavendish set down his tankard. "D'ye want to play?" he asked.
De Ersola nodded, wiping his mouth.
"Black?"
De Ersola nodded again, and began to pick out the black pawns. He always arranged the pawns first.
"I like to use the blacks," he confessed easily. "I know my weaknesses," he added.
"One of them is that of not giving up," Cavendish said, placing the white ivory chessmen in their respective squares.
De Ersola smiled. He knew that was the only reference Cavendish would make to his breaking of his parole. He knew Cavendish understood why he had done it.
"Your move," he said.
Cavendish moved the King's pawn two squares. De Ersola followed suit; he stared down at the board, watching Cavendish's brown fingers pick up the King's Bishop.
De Ersola followed Cavendish's opening moves automatically. He said, "No matter where you go, Captain, you always leave something you love behind."
Cavendish picked up the tankard of ale. His blue eyes claimed agreement.
Again de Ersola stared at the board. The chessmen swam together; this was the last night he would live, and he had decided on this course himself. The fight had been unequal, and he had lost it. Again and again, Cavendish had warned him. He had even put the clumsy Tyler on guard, so de Ersola knew for certain that he was being watched. But tonight he had not thrown the letter overboard. He had still hoped there was some way he could get it to Manila. A native runner—so easy to bribe.
"Your move," Cavendish reminded him.
De Ersola concentrated on the board. He studied it for a moment, and he saw that his opponent had no intention of letting him win easily tonight. De Ersola smiled. Lord, he had put himself into a bad position, but—he squinted thoughtfully. He wondered if Cavendish knew that he perceived the trap that had been laid for him on the board.. If he pretended ignorance, in nine moves he could checkmate. It was wonderfully neat, too. He started to rub his chin, and then remembered that would be a warning to Cavendish, for Cavendish knew he had that habit when he was pleased with himself. De Ersola moved right into the trap; he lost his
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Bishop in the third move after that, but he was still going to win. His brown eyes glinted as he moved his men precisely and without expression.
The dawn came. The sun was up and over the tops of the palm trees. The sky turned blue and gold. The wind was gentle, and strange birds sang. De Ersola came out on deck into the early sunlight. He came slowly forward until he and Cavendish stood together, and it crossed de Ersola's mind that Cavendish looked tired and worn, and then de Ersola thought that probably he did, too. They had been up all night.
He had dressed himself in his finest suit, with his red-embroidered scarf flung over one shoulder. He carried his Bible.
The crew were mustered on deck. The rope hung over the larboard fore yardarm, swinging lazily in the wind. The drum corps assembled before the mast. It was ten minutes before six.
De Ersola knelt down on the deck, clasping his hands over his Bible, and his eyes were closed, his head bent. He prayed silently, asking forgiveness for his sins, and even while he did that, he wondered what prayer he should use to his God, in these the last few minutes of his life.
Then he began, and the sonorous Latin, so softly spoken, was clearly heard by the men around him.
"Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, santificetur nomen tuum—"
He raised his head and opened his eyes to see the light of the dawn.
Cavendish's blue eyes were on the dawn and the sky. Under his breath he repeated the prayer in English.
"And forgive us our trespasses," said de Ersola, "as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation. . . ."
He rose; to his slender height. He handed his Bible to Cavendish.
Cosmos offered wine to de Ersola, and the Spaniard took the silver cup with the arms engraved on it. He took a sip; it was the best wine the Desire had to offer, from Cavendish's own private stock, and de Ersola had tasted it before. He lifted the cup; once more, sharply, he felt intense sorrow, not only for himself but for Cavendish, and once more he wondered why they were here together and what forces had conspired to do this to both of them. The beauty of this beach-rimmed harbor, bordered by its reef, was a
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reproof to death, and yet the very manner of his living had brought death here, this morning, this January day. He lifted the cup. He wanted to drink to whatever it was that had brought them to this pass. Let him drink, then, to the vast continent they were both fighting for. Let him drink to the land, and not the sea.
"To America," he said, and let the wine pass down his throat. "A Spanish name, Captain."
He handed the cup back to Cosmos, who put it back on the silver salver.
The rope was ready. He reached up and tucked down his collar, so that the noose would not slip on it. He did not want the hands of the hangman to touch him. He tucked the collar down carefully, turning under the edge with slim fingers, deft as a sailor's can be. He stepped forward, and then Cavendish did too. He held out his hand to the condemned man.
De Ersola took the strong hand, a small smile on his face. Then his face sobered, and his eyes grew intent. "Take care of my maps," he said.
"Aye, sir," said Cavendish. "I shall."
The noose slipped over de Ersola's head. The drums rolled, making echoing thunder in the little bay; they rolled for the space of two minutes; in ten minutes de Ersola's body was cut down into the clear blue water and into the outgoing tide. Cavendish turned from the deck and walked aft to the crowded poop. He put the chess set away. Havers didn't play chess. He stood alone in the small cabin.
After a minute, he sat down wearily. On his table was a chart he had been drawing of this harbor. De Ersola had helped with it; he had been eager about it; he had had so much eagerness which he had released so easily. It had been a joy to be with him.
He opened and unrolled the first map of the Philippinas that de Ersola had left with him. It was beautifully drawn, and de Ersola had decorated it. A big fat Neptune blew storms from a billow in the ocean. The Neptune looked pleased with himself.
As Havers came in the door, Cavendish pointed to the chart.
"Look, Havers," he said.
Havers said, "There was nothing else you could do, Tom. Everybody knew he had broken parole."
Cavendish said, "I'm abandoning the Portugal here. To Spanish mercy." He did not look up from the chart. "Manila is very near," he said. He rolled up the chart. He had no time now. There was too much to do.
Chapter XXVII
Lola stirred uneasily, she felt cold, she turned over on the sand; it was cold to the touch too. She sat up. The fire was burning very low, and she knew why she had wakened. David was gone.