The two Portuguese tumbled onto the deck and came running to Cavendish. They seized his hands.
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"We are so glad to see you!" they cried, simultaneously.
Cavendish said politely, "I am no less glad to see you, sirs."
"Our King," they were both crying. "Don Antonio of Portugal, is he dead?"
"No," said Cavendish. He started to explain Don Antonio's whereabouts, but the Portuguese were shouting loudly with joy and venting epithets on the Spanish who had told them their King was dead.
"Those thrice-damned Spanish," the one Portugal was repeating, over and over. Finally he asked, "Where is our King, then?"
Cavendish said, "In England. He took sanctuary in England, under Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. Her Majesty has given him an honorable allowance."
"You fight with Spain?" the Portugal cried, pointing at Cavendish. "You have sunk their ships?"
"Twenty," said Cavendish, turning down the corners of his mouth so he would not smile.
They clutched his arm; one kissed him soundly on the cheek. Moon turned away to hide his face, and the crew giggled with merriment.
"We must have some wine," Cavendish said hastily, "and we can drink to your King, Don Antonio. And to the King of this land."
"They are preparing a feast for you," the Portuguese cried. He pointed to the town. "There is far more food for you, Captain, too! There are live oxen, and plenty of live hogs. Only, the wind was so scant and the canoes so deeply laden, they could not put out from shore."
Cavendish grinned with pleasure.
"We'll go below," he said, "and get out of this sun." He leaned down and picked up an orange from a big woven basket. He began to peel it, and between bites he told Moon how many men could go ashore now.
"I'm sending almost all of them," he said to the Portuguese. "God knows they need it. They're taking presents for the women."
He was leading the way to the great cabin. It was cooler there, and Cosmos brought wine and the fruit. The Portuguese and Cavendish began to talk.
When darkness fell, all the company were back aboard. Pretty had not gone ashore, either. He had stayed with Cavendish, and watched the men come back, laughing, singing, and most of them a little drunk. Tyler hurriedly helped a shipmate across the deck, and
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Cavendish pretended not to see. He looked the other way, and the Portuguese laughed.
"No incidents," said Cavendish feelingly.
The Portuguese said, for the twentieth time, "You come ashore now, Captain. We have prepared dinner, and wines. In the finest house."
Pretty grinned. There was open affection in his eyes. "Why don't you go, sir?" he asked softly.
"Come with me, then," Cavendish said, and he waved to Fuller and slid down into the Portuguese boat.
Ashore they took him to a house with carved wooden pillars, set under trees. Inside it was cool, and there were low couches with pillows. The Portugals could not keep from smiling.
"It is a joy to have you!" one kept repeating.
The food was wonderful. They had roasted chickens and pork, fruit, and rice, heaped high and served with a strange pungent sauce.
"It's marvelous," said Cavendish.
"How he eats!" said the Portugal to Pretty; and turning to Cavendish, "Taste this wine, Captain."
Cavendish raised the full cup to his lips. It was clear and colorless. "It's as strong as Scots whiskey," he said. "Or aqua vita."
He was full of food. He had eaten a whole chicken besides tasting of all the other food.
"It's enough to make a man very drunk," the Portugal said, happily. "Like the islands from which it comes."
Cavendish drank it off. He leaned back against the pillows, putting his feet up. His whole body felt relaxed.
"We brought you something else," his host said. He spoke a few words in Javanese, and Cavendish turned his head lazily. The curtains of the doorway parted and a girl came into the room.
"She speaks a little Portuguese."
She moved like a cat. She wore a single garment wrapped around her; her bare shoulders were golden; she went over to Cavendish and sank down on the earthen floor beside him.
"She is virgin, Captain," said the Portuguese.
Cavendish looked at her. The Portugal grinned. "A nice present, is she not?" He stood up and filled Cavendish's cup. "You have a long voyage ahead," he said.
"I wanted to hear more about China and India," Cavendish said, letting his eyes rest on the girl beside him.
"I tell you," the Portugal said eagerly.
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The lamps flickered. Outside, the jungle insects sang softly. Cavendish listened to the Portugals talk; strange names rolled off their tongues; Cavendish tried to remember them. Suddenly he sat up and unbuckled his belt. Without a word, the girl took it from him and laid it on the floor beside her.
He lay back again, stretching luxuriously. He reached one hand over to touch the bare shoulder so near him. The Portugal kept right on talking about Soychin, and Canton, and Paquin; the girl moved a little. Her skin was smooth under his fingers. He held out his empty cup to her.
She stood up like a fluid column and refilled his cup. The wine was stronger than whiskey and it rolled down his throat, burning like fire.
"Are you writing all this down, Pretty?" he asked, his eyes half closed.
"Aye, sir," said Pretty.
Cavendish turned over on his side. He was a little drunk. The girl's dark eyes were fastened on him; he held out the cup to her again.
She brought it back to him. He took it from her and sat up, drinking off the white liquor in one draught. A lock of short hair fell over his forehead as he leaned back again, and the girl smoothed it back with her hand.
He said low, "Do that more."
She smiled, her white teeth gleaming. He felt her fingers as she she stroked his head. The Portugal was still talking, and Cavendish did not hear a word he said. Then the Portugal rose to his feet.
"We leave you, Captain," he said.
Pretty said, "Good night, sir." He started for the doorway, but he gave one last look at his Captain, who had not waited until he left the room. He had already pulled the girl down beside him, in a close and passionate embrace.
Chapter XXXIII
The mule train was very slow, the heat was intense, the spring sun burned down on the sand, as the mules struggled onward across this strip of continent that separated two great oceans.
The mules walked slowly enough to allow the native bearers to keep up with them. There was little talk among the men; the journey was coming to an end, soon. The Indians who walked alongside the burdened mules slapped lazily at the animals with whip or broad-leaved branch which they used also as a fan. Only a few natty horsemen rode ahead of the train, and in the middle came a few litters, borne on the shoulders of four dark-skinned Indians.
Catherine wore a broad-brimmed hat to protect her face and throat from the sun. The same kind of hat was worn by Kate, who rode at her side on an ambling mule, with Tina walking beside her.
It was midday. In the swaying litter, Catherine dozed in the heat. It should be time to stop; all morning they had been crossing this belt of sand that meant that Vera Cruz was near.
Suddenly there came the sound of voices; the natives began to chatter, and ahead the first horseman pointed with his whip.
Kate cried excitedly, "I see the blue of the ocean!"
Catherine raised herself up. Across the shimmering waves of heat and sand was the faint blue of the sea, and the outline of the old town clustered at the side of the harbor. She looked forward eagerly.
The sea. It was homecoming. Across its pathway some day they would meet again, and she felt happiness rise in her, for during this long journey she had been bound by land and hemmed in by rough mountains, and now, once more, the sea would pound on the beaches near and she would be nearer to him because of it.