"You'll not let me sail with you?" David repeated. "But let me sail with Havers, then!" He would have said more, but Cavendish had stopped eating and was looking at him steadily. Because he suddenly realized he was hungry, David began to eat hastily, keeping his eyes on his plate. Finally he heard Cavendish say, "Very well, then. You may come."
David looked up and smiled. As always, when he won a victory, he was pleased, and Cavendish was not. Cavendish looked grim and annoyed. He stood up, called to the landlord, tossed a gold piece onto the table and started for the door. Hurriedly David grabbed a piece of bread and followed him.
On the short walk to the dock Cavendish was silent except for one question.
"Have you any gear?" he asked.
"No," said David. He shot a glance at his brother, and then he stepped into the ship's boat and sat in the stern sheets with Cavendish. David looked ahead. His eyes were fastened on the Desire.
Her blue and gold paint gleamed. Her gun ports were closed. There were men in her topmast shrouds; one of them waved an arm to the small boat pulling toward the Desire.
"Are they topgallant sails, Tom?" David whispered, not daring to point.
"They are," said Cavendish. "You'll learn to pronounce that later."
"She's very fair, Tom," David said, and Cavendish nodded. They had pulled up alongside the Desire, and David tried to mount the ladder with as much ease as his brother. He stumbled. He stepped onto the Desire's deck for the first time.
Two men were coming toward him.
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"Master Moon," Cavendish said. "My brother, David Cavendish."
Moon's bearded face was almost as round as his name. He bowed briefly.
"And Master Pretty," Cavendish continued.
Master Pretty was carrying a book. David asked, "What's the book, sir?"
Pretty held out the book, riffling the pages. They were blank. He said shyly, "I'm going to keep an account of the voyage, sir."
At this, Cavendish turned his head to look at Pretty. Pretty fidgeted. He felt impelled to say more.
"It is very important, sir. Only two men have rounded the world before you, and Magellan did not live to return."
David had liked Pretty instantly. "Aren't you from Suffolk?" he asked.
Pretty nodded.
"I thought you were," said David. "Where? We come from Trimley St. Martin, near Harwich."
"I know," Pretty said hastily. "Captain wants you, sir."
David turned. "I'm coming, Tom," he said. He crossed the deck, giving one last glance around. "What are all those pieces of wood on the deck?" he asked his brother's back.
"A pinnace," was the answer. "In pieces, lashed down to that deck. We'll put her together at sea." Cavendish opened a door, and David saw Havers.
"Captain Havers," he said, and bowed, not taking his eyes off Havers' face—the gray eyes, the honest face.
"You've met Captain Havers, David," Cavendish said.
"He certainly has," Havers said, wondering why David was there. "Captain Brule has been aboard, Tom."
Cavendish had sat down in a chair. The cabin was small. He was pulling off his riding boots as he talked. "We have our commission, Havers." He stood up and opened a small door that David saw was the Captain's personal storeroom. Neatly, Cavendish stowed the riding gear. He tossed out a pair of shoes for himself and another for David. He brought out a pair of loose canvas trousers.
"David is sailing with you on the Hugh Gallant, Havers," he said, sitting down again. "He's never been aboard a ship before in his life, that's all."
"I think I can learn, sir," David said diffidently.
Havers had evinced no surprise. He smiled.
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"I know you can," he said. "I need you. I'm glad, sir."
He held out his hand and David took it warmly.
"You need me?" he asked, anxiously.
"Aye, sir, I do," Havers said.
"From what Tom says, I'm lucky to be sailing with you!"
Havers said, "I've heard much of you."
David's dark eyes looked into Havers' gray ones. "I warrant I'm not much like Tom."
Havers said, "Why should you be?" His eyebrow raised in a manner David was to know well.
"Tom raised me."
Cavendish had changed into a pair of loose trousers which lie tucked into the top of a pair of short boots. He held out a pair of trousers to David and the pair of shoes.
"Put these on," he said.
"You may change later," Havers said. "Tom raised you, did he?"
"Aye," said David, picking up the shoes. "My mother died when I was born. Our father died when Tom was nineteen. I was twelve."
Havers had started out of the cabin. "We'll talk more aboard the Hugh Gallant," he said.
David was hesitating in the doorway. "Good-bye, Tom," he said.
"Good-bye, David," Cavendish said, looking up from his boots. He stood up. "Don't worry about your lack of gear. You can replenish it from the first Spanish ship we take."
"Will that be soon, d'ye think?" David asked.
"Three to five days. Probably."
They were on deck. David's eyes went past the three-masted Content to the bark on which he would sail. The Hugh Gallant was a three-master too; like the Desire, she slung a sail under the rising bowsprit; David counted six shut gun ports in her side. He dropped one boot, picked it up, and followed Havers over the side. From the boat he watched Cavendish's figure on the high poop-deck.
"Good-bye, sir!" he called.
Cavendish had mounted to his own high deck from which the mizzen rose. The lateen sail was furled; soon it would be heaved out. On this deck he would stand for many an hour, many a day. Below, the hammocks for the men were slung so close they could touch one another. Below were food and guns and extra sail and cordage, and nails, iron, wood, rope, tar, pitch, lead strips. Once
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again his mind went over what he had done and purchased in the last months.
Havers and David had left. Their boat was pulling to the Hugh Gallant. Cavendish saw Brule's figure as he paced across the quarterdeck of the Content.
The Desire would stand out of Plymouth first. Her anchor cables began to creak; barefooted men strained at the capstan bar; the crew were aloft; on deck the officers shouted orders; the marines watched. The ship's surgeon had joined Cavendish.
A man by the name of Fuller was the Desire's master. His voice was loud and crisp. Moon was in command of the gun crews. Some were at their posts; the Desire's guns were being loaded for a last salute to Plymouth. Moon's orders were quick and concise.
"Mind your locks! Fire!"
The salute rolled out into the morning air. The smoke billowed away and was gone, floating upward into the sunshine.
The Desire's main sheet squared; her tops filled; she came about with the wind. At her masthead fluttered the flag of England. The wind was stiff for summer. Running before it, the Desire stood out to sea, the Content and the Hugh Gallant in her wake.
PART TWO
Chapter III
In the morning of the fourth of November, Tyler was aloft. The lookout was small and high on the foremast. Tyler strained his eyes; he was looking for something, and suddenly he saw what it was he was looking for. He gave a hearty shout.
"A sail! A sail!"
Below him, on deck, there were answering shouts. Seamen swarmed into the rigging to see for themselves. Master Fuller laboriously set himself to climb the foremast shrouds, and, with the sight he saw, just as laboriously he descended.
It was seven o'clock. The Captain had had his bath under the pump, and by now he would be shaving in his own cabin. In fact, Fuller thought, he would be finished shaving and ready to eat.
By the time Fuller had thought of all this and reckoned what his Captain was doing, he was standing before Cavendish's door. Master Fuller knocked.