He went to the window.
"Sleep well," he said. "I am here, now."
"Oh, David," she said.
He took her bright head in his hands; he kissed her lightly.
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"I'll bring you to Tom. The bastard. He has complicated matters."
She was smiling at him. He knew she felt happy. And much safer. He told himself there was no reason for the disquietude he felt as he looked at her.
"You can trust this woman?" he asked. "Señora Araceno?"
"I'm sure, David," she said. "I can tell."
He nodded. "Then sleep well. Dream of Tom." He was out the window. The blind closed behind him. He walked on, deep in thought.
Chapter XXXIV
"The rest of march, and all the month of April," wrote master Pretty in the leather-bound journal, "we spent in traversing that mighty and vast sea between the island of Java and the main of Africa, observing the heavens, the Southern Cross, the other stars, the fowls, which are marks to seamen of fair weather, foul weather, and approaching of islands; the winds; the tempests; with the alternating of tides and currents."
Pretty looked up as Moon came into the cabin. He nodded but Moon was preoccupied with putting on another pair of boots, and was not disposed to conversation. Pretty wrote on:
'The tenth of May we had a storm at the west, and it blew so hard, it was as much as the ship could stir close by under the wind, and the storm continued all that day and all that night.
"The sixteenth day of May, about four o'clock in the afternoon, the wind came up from the east a very stiff gale, which held until Saturday with as much wind as the ship could go before, at which time by six o'clock in the morning we espied the promontory 01 headland, called the Cape of Good Hope."
Moon stood up. "What are you saying?" he said, looking over Pretty's shoulder into the open book.
Pretty said embarrassedly, "Nothing much, Moon."
Moon said, "Aren't you going to put in that the Captain corrected the Portuguese sea charts by one hundred and fifty leagues, in the crossing of the ocean?"
"Certainly," said Pretty, laboriously writing it down under Moon's eyes. He tried to pretend Moon was not watching the words as he wrote them down. He continued doggedly, with Moon repeating the words aloud to himself as Pretty's pen scratched on.
" 'The eighth of June'," read Moon. "You're bringing this up to date, I see. 'We fell in sight of the island of St. Helena. The next day having a pretty easy gale of wind, we stood in with the shore,
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the Captain having his boat sent away before to make harbor, and about one o'clock in the afternoon we came to anchor in twelve fathoms of water two or three cables length from shore, in a very smooth and fair bay under the northwest side of the Island "
"Aye," said Moon, buckling his belt, "and you'd better hurry, or you'll hear that Captain asking Fuller where the devil you are. We're going ashore."
Pretty grinned. "I'm coming," he said. He closed the book. "I want to observe this island, Moon. I like to write about the lands we see."
"Well, don't forget it's hot, fair as it seems." And he added, "And for your information, Pretty, the island lies in 15 degrees, 48 minutes to the southward of the Equinoctial line."
"I know it," said Pretty, stiffly.
Moon mounted the narrow ladder, using cheerful and obscene language about the absence of women on this island. He was talking as he reached the deck. Cavendish heard him and began to laugh.
"There are flocks of goats, Moon," he said, sliding down into his boat. He watched the shoreline as they pulled to the curving beach.
Pretty was staring ahead too. There was a valley spread out before them; from the trees and the sloping hills behind the valley rose a church spire. They tumbled out onto the beach and there was a path, well defined, leading into the little valley. It was like a big fruitful garden, cradled in hills.
Cavendish walked ahead, his musket held loosely under his arm. He walked along under the fig trees; there were pomegranates and date trees. The air was sweet, and through the valley a stream tumbled, coming swiftly from the hills that had given it birth.
Walks led to the few white houses with porches. The church was tiled, and it boasted a porch, too. He set the musket against the stoop, and entered the small church. He closed the door behind himself.
It was cool and half dark inside. At the upper end was a large table, and on it a picture of the Saviour on the Cross and the image of the Virgin. The sides of the little church were hung with tapestries.
He knelt down and bent his head. The church reminded him of Havers; kneeling there reminded him of Catherine, and the night they had taken their vows.
It was June. June already. By now she should be in Spain, or
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perhaps even in England. She had only one ocean to cross, and the great Spanish galleons plied that ocean regularly and often. That made him remember that he himself might sight Spanish ships soon. He rose to his feet, dug in his pocket for a coin which he put in the box on the table. Then he went out, closing the door again and picking up the fowling piece he had laid against the stoop.
Moon was waiting.
"There's nobody here, in these houses, save six Negro slaves who keep the gardens. Smell the spices, sir!"
Cavendish sniffed. There were radishes and mustard plants growing here in the orchards, parsley and fragrant basil and fennel.
"The Portuguese use these islands as a stopping place only. The Negroes said we missed the East Indian fleet by twenty days. And the place is crawling with pheasants, sir!"
Cavendish smiled. "Call all hands," he said. "We'll have a shoot."
But there was more to be done than to shoot partridge, important as that was. The next day Cavendish set about to clean up the ship, and ready her for the voyage home.
The Desire had taken very heavy seas for the last weeks. Her decks were crusted. The men took white sand from the beaches to scrub her with.
Her sails were torn. She had only the one suit of sails left; these were patched, with leather patches, sewed on carefully. The men cut new spars; the ship's carpenters worked all during the days, and all the water casks were cleaned and filled once more.
During these two weeks the men grew fatter again. There were flocks of wild goats on the island—flocks so big, they seemed at least a mile long as they traveled together, their shaggy beards hanging down almost to their feet, climbing the steep mountains with incredible surefootedness. But swift as they were, the Desire's crew caught them. They caught wild fat vicious hogs, which they slaughtered and salted. There were guinea hens, black and white, with red heads, and these laid eggs. The eggs tasted marvelous, boiled or made into omelettes. Cavendish had an omelette every day for breakfast, and he too gained weight, after the weeks at sea.
It was the twentieth of June before the Desire was ready for the sea again, her patched sails brave, her new spars gleaming with oil and tar. Once again she was well provisioned; once again she had fresh water and fresh-cut wood aboard. That night, at eight o'clock, she set sail. The wind was at the southeast, and the Desire haled
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away from the island northwest by west. On the fourth day of July she crossed the equinoctial line for the fourth time. The Desire set her course for the Azores.
Now foul weather set in; the Desire reefed her weakened topsails and sailed on, close under the gales. It was summer now, and the weather was warm, but the summer storms were swift and unpredictable, and they lashed themselves at the sea-weary Desire; deeply laden, she struggled with the winds and currents of her own ocean.