On the seventh day he lay quietly. Occasionally he opened his eyes, and it was on this day that Cavendish knew there was little hope. He stayed by Havers' side, but Havers did not speak. On the eighth day after he had succumbed to the fever, he died. It was Ash Wednesday.
Cavendish could not believe it. Havers was dead. Cavendish sat beside him and could not encompass the fate which had struck at him. Here he sat, alive and well, and Havers was dead.
He dressed Havers himself. He used a linen sheet to wrap him in. He sewed it carefully. He left the shrouded body in the cabin.
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Burial was before the mast, at sunrise. The Desire could not come to anchor. The Desire had to sail on, her white wake foaming, her spritsail taut with wind. On her decks the company stood bareheaded and silent, their brown-bearded faces blank and still. There was no man aboard the Desire who had not loved Captain Havers.
The body was placed on a plank. Moon's gun crews manned the light cannon and all the small shot in the ship. Pretty held one end of the plank and made no secret of the tears in his eyes above the bearded cheeks.
Cavendish stood alongside Havers for the last time.
"Heavenly Father," he said, "this is our comrade. It is our duty to commit his body to the deep; in Thy hands we leave him, our beloved friend and countryman, who shall be buried here so far from his native soil."
Cavendish stopped.
"Let us pray," he said.
The men bowed their heads.
"Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . ."
They had dressed in their best for Havers. They were neat and clean, and in their strong voices they prayed to the Lord for Havers. They were using the same prayer de Ersola had used, only this time the language was English.
". . . For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever. Amen."
The last salute for Havers was fired. Master Pretty heaved on the plank, and the shrouded body went overboard into the waves. Cavendish dismissed the crew, the watch was set, and the Desire kept on her course. Cavendish went to his cabin alone. He sat down at his table and anguish gripped him.
"Oh, Catherine," he cried. "Catherine, he is gone."
An hour passed, and he still sat his table. He felt intense weariness. His head was in his arms, and he knew he had slept a little, sitting there, sleep mixed with dreams, sleep mixed with remembering.
Suddenly he stood up. He picked up his brush and brushed his hair back, for the unruly lock had fallen across his forehead. He changed his shirt. It clung to him in the heat. He went out on deck.
Pretty was standing at the rail, staring at the island of Bali.
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Cavendish approached him from behind. Pretty heard him and turned.
"It's you, Captain," he said, as if surprised to see him.
"Aye, Pretty," Cavendish said. He looked out across the gray water to the island of Bali.
"You knew him better than I, sir," Pretty said abruptly. He sighed deeply, a long sigh; he felt a little better with Cavendish there beside him. It came to him suddenly that he had written much about the man who was his Captain, and he was just beginning to understand him, a little. His Captain had heavy and terrible responsibilities, and there was no one to whom he could look for help.
"You have so much, sir," he blurted. Through his mind flashed the face of Catherine. "I mean so much to do that's hard, Captain. Sir, those charts you draw, the soundings we take, the ports we discover, the islands we name—do you think that men who come after us will know how much it cost? How much it cost?" He had turned and was regarding Cavendish with appealing directness.
Cavendish said, "Why, of course they will. Some. Never all, but always some. Will you accompany me now, sir?"
"Aye, aye, sir," said Pretty.
He followed Cavendish into the forecastle. Twenty-eight men lay there, sick with fever.
Cavendish paused before each hammock. Some men were sleeping like the dead; to the others he talked a little.
"How do you feel, Johnson?" he asked.
"Better, sir." Johnson smiled.
"What tastes best to you?"
"The lemon juice and water, sir."
Cavendish nodded. He put his hand on Johnson's forehead; the ship's surgeon came up.
"Moon told me you were here, sir," he said hastily.
"Johnson seems to have no fever," Cavendish said. "I'd suggest you move all men who have no fever out onto the fore galleries, where there's more air. I'll send men to move them. They shouldn't walk yet."
"Aye, aye, sir," said the surgeon.
"And there are plenty of lemons for the sick. The rest of us can do without."
Cavendish left, with Pretty trailing him. As he emerged onto
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the lower deck, a group of men sprang apart, their faces grim. Cavendish wanted to smile; he had evidently just interrupted what might have been a brawling quarrel. The tenseness aboard was apt to explode into flying fists and drawn pocket knives.
"Williams," he said, fastening whom he thought might be one of the main culprits with a stern eye, "report fore to the surgeon. All of you. Step lively, now. You can help your shipmates."
The men moved away. Oppressiveness had settled over the Desire. The volcanoes of Bali stood up like sentinels in the sky, rising over the lush green of its shores; and from the island came a rumbling like thunder in the distance. Fuller came up to Cavendish.
"The wind's holding," he said. "We should fetch Java by nightfall."
"I think so," Cavendish said. "Fuller, issue an extra ration of wine to all men who are not on the binnacle list. It may help strengthen their blood.
"And there should be fish in these waters. Cast out the names; we'll trail them. And man the harpoons in the head."
"Aye, aye, sir," said Fuller, happily, for at least it was something to do.
Tyler ran joyfully to the first harpoon. He readied it; he scanned the water; then he gave a shout and loosed the harpoon.
"A shark!" he yelled.
In a minute the water was red with blood, and gray and white with the swirling movements of the angry creature. Cavendish ran down, across the main deck, and mounted up into the beakhead.
"Any man overboard gets a week's confinement!" he roared, as one man perched himself precariously on the rail.
The man slipped down onto the deck, turning startled eyes on his Captain.
"D'ye want to lose a leg?" Cavendish asked him, grimly. He stared down at the writhing shark.
"Cut him loose," he ordered.
Tyler obeyed. Most of the well men were on deck, and with her tops reefed, the Desire entered the straits between Java and Bali.
The straits were narrow, and edged with foamy surf. The sun was setting over the mountains, and just before nightfall, as Fuller had predicted, the Desire heaved out her anchors in a large bay on the underside of the island of Java.
It was a strange scene, this bay at dusk. The Desire rode like a
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toy ship; the land looked mighty and savage. The bay was dotted with islands, and the shore was empty. The silence was deep, and through it Cavendish could hear drums beating. Suddenly there was a heavy rumble, and then from a crudely carved island to windward, a shower of sparks lighted the darkening skies.
"Volcano," Cavendish said to Pretty.
The drums beat plainly in the distance. There was no sign of human life.
"Double the watches tonight, Pretty," Cavendish said.
"Aye, sir," said Pretty. "This is a savage and barbaric land," he added. "So I've read, sir."
Cavendish stared at shore. He needed food. He needed food and water. Ahead was the Indian Ocean. Two thousand leagues of ocean. He must have food and water, and he must get it here.
Pretty said, "Tyler asked me if you would like your hammock slung out on deck tonight."