It seemed to Cavendish that every sunrise showed him patchy clouds and a gray and white ocean. The storms blew down from the northeast; August passed, and the weather grew worse; all August it was bad, and now every morning, as he paced the deck, he looked upward at the straining sails.
On the twenty-fourth they sighted the Azores. He did not put into the islands. They were too near England. The ocean was calm, the wind from the southwest, a gentle wind, and the Desire was carrying full canvas. Even so, he watched the sails again that day.
"We should be done with foul weather," Moon said.
"Aye, we should," Cavendish replied, but there was no assurance in his tones.
Moon looked surprised. "Tire weather seems fair enough," he offered.
But the wind had dropped even as they talked. The sea looked molten and heavily and satinly gray. Over their heads the gulls screamed, and then the seabirds wheeled, in a flock, and soon they were lost to sight in the gray skies. The birds knew well when storms were coming.
Moon fidgeted. "We're so near home," he said.
"You can drown here as anywhere else," Cavendish said. "Send men aloft to brace the rigging and run preventer rigs up the yard-arms. Batten all hatches except the main hatch. Double lash all boats." He was staring ahead, frowning. "That's all, Moon. This blow is going to be soon."
He went below. He was working on his charts of the Straits. It had not been accident that he had taken twenty-two days to go through the Straits. His charts would be vastly important to the men to follow him. His charts would be accurate and complete, and when he worked on them he could forget that Havers did not smoke his pipe and lounge in his hammock, talking; he could not forget it perhaps, but it was better to work.
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The first sign of storm came when the Desire began to roll a little. He was out of his cabin in a second, and up the narrow stairs to the poop. Wind greeted him.
The ocean had already responded. Now, before his eyes, the heaving quiet gray was gone. Like a harp whose strings have been violated by a restless hand, the sea was answering the call of the wind.
Spray was flying. The Desire was beating now to windward, taking the seas across her bows; her decks were awash as the water foamed over them.
Cavendish raised his voice. "Master Fuller, strike all sails!"
The wind blew the words away. Men were in the shrouds, in the rigging. It was almost dusk. Cavendish had allowed no fires tonight in the galley stoves, but he had ordered an extra ration of wine. And they might need more in the night to come of that strong powerful white liquor from the East Indies.
The wind had a high whining sound to it. It was blowing directly from the northeast. The rigging braces creaked; and the great ocean was moving itself and bestirring itself as it prepared for an Atlantic summer storm that was going to leave its mark on history. Leagues to the north, a Spanish and English fleet were locked in battle for the control of the seas, and the building of a vast empire was in its beginning.
The Desire shuddered as she took the next roller. Her timbers protested; she had fought many battles against the seas. She plunged heavily down the next crested wave, and before she could lift herself, an angry twenty-foot comber of water came crashing down on her decks. Even on the high poop, the water flew up in Cavendish's face. He knew before the end of this storm she would be taking water across the stern.
It was almost dark. Dead ahead, he saw the curtain of slanting rain coming, steely and strong and cold. He reached quickly for the clasp of his leather jacket and fastened it tightly around his neck. Automatically his eyes squinted, his head bent a little, and then the rain began to beat down on the Desire. Moon came struggling up the poopdeck.
"Jesu," he said, "you were right about the weather." Cavendish looked out to sea. The night had come; with the storm the night had descended, as though to make the tasks of men and ships more stern. Out of the blackness, the terrible crested rollers arose dead ahead, almost upon the weary ship before they could be seen.
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"It's foul weather!" Moon yelled. His hat blew off in another gust of wind, and he snatched vainly at it, stumbling to regain his balance as the Desire pitched sharply. "But we have gold as ballast."
Cavendish did not smile. "This is what the Indians call huracan," he said.
Now they both had to hold on to the ropes to keep from being swept overboard. Moon felt fear for the first time. The Desire shook as she took the next wave, and again water poured over her decks, and poured from her scuppers as she lifted herself, and came up to the head of a huge trough that suddenly appeared in the water beneath her.
This time she took water worse than before. It came crashing down on her and at the same time there was a splintering sound, and a tearing sound, and Cavendish knew instantly what it was. He ran down to the main deck.
The lanyards on the great mainsail had broken loose; the yardarm swung outward, and Tyler, on the deck, threw himself flat on his face and slid across to the rail, the water splashing over him, carrying him down the deck like a toy. He seized a hatch top and clung to it frantically.
The Desire lay on her side. Then she righted. Cavendish jerked Tyler to his feet. Both men struggled forward to the broken lanyards and as they did, a piece of sail came free, tearing free; the wind caught it.
Cavendish started up the shrouds. Braced in the top, he drew his knife and began to cut.
There was no need to shout orders. They could not have been heard anyway. The men knew what to do. The yard hung lop-sidedly. The sail was whirled out by the wind and the mast must be freed from the torn sail; it was too weak to take the strain.
He clung with one hand, bracing himself while he slashed through ropes and braces with his knife, great tearing slashes. The howling of the wind and the crashing of water were in his ears; faintly he heard shouts, as a great wave caught the Desire amidships. She rolled over; Cavendish threw both arms around the mast. He was over the water, angry beneath him. A terrible ripping sound told him the sail had gone; the mast was freed; they had saved it, perhaps. But there was no sail left.
Fuller, at the helm, felt the ship right herself. Cavendish slid down onto the deck. The waves were waves no longer; they were
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mighty rollers, as though from the bottom of the sea, and they were crested and thirty feet high as they surged up on the ship.
The Desire shuddered from bow to stern. Cavendish clung against the shroud. He could not move. A wall of water crashed over his head; the force of it almost sent him hurtling across the deck, his fingers stiff on the ratlines. But he held on, and when the water surged past him, he saw that the foresail had gone too. Pretty must be fore. He knew grimly that even if they could save the ship, only the mizzen's lateen sail would be left.
He struggled forward, foot by foot, to reach the safety of the poop. It was no longer possible to stay on deck.
Below decks, it took three men to hold the helm. Men were manning the pumps; all through the night the sound of the pumps would be in his ears. If the ship survived.
"North northeast," Cavendish said. The water dripped from him.
"Aye, sir," Tyler said.
The whole ship trembled. Above their heads the weight of tons of water buried the Desire and sounded like thunder. She keeled over, then she righted. The sweat was pouring down Tyler's face. Cavendish shouldered him aside. He took the helm himself. If they didn't hold the Desire into the wind, she would go. The sound of the pumps was insistent.
At two o'clock Fuller relieved Cavendish at the helm. At the end of the middle watch, Cavendish went out on deck. The boats were gone, all save one. The Desire was still taking water over the stern.