There was a knock on the door. It was John Davis. He came into the cabin; he carried a silver cup of wine.
"Good morning, Captain," he said. "I brought you a little wine this morning. They—the men—wanted you to have it."
Cavendish's blue eyes concealed themselves from Davis. Davis was deeply touched. Emotions were near the surface today, and yesterday, and the day before.
"They wanted you to have it," Davis repeated, setting the cup clown gently, slowly releasing his fingers from the precious liquid, to make sure his unsteady hands didn't tip it. He knew Cavendish was waiting for whatever other news he had brought.
"There'll be no burials this morning, sir," he said.
Cavendish sighed with relief. A gust of wind shook the Desire, and Cavendish stood up. He picked up the wine. He started to drink it. He sipped it slowly, and handed it, half-empty, to Davis.
"You take the rest," he said. "Issue the same amount to each man. We're going to sail this morning, wind or no."
At eight they went ashore to loose the Desire from the trees and ropes that moored her to the land. Thirty minutes later, the anchors laid to seaward were weighed. The sheeted cross jack held her close into the wind; the sprit unfurled, and close hauled, on a larboard tack, she edged out into the currents of Famine Reach.
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The wind, like a miracle, dropped a little. The heavy seas washed over her decks and the bowsprit turned to ice, chunkily. The sun shone through a patchy sky; the water turned deep blue. On deck, Cavendish watched; he paced the high deck to keep warm, and he stopped walking when it was physically impossible for him to walk longer. Then he leaned against the rail. The sun was setting when the Desire entered the Pacific.
The Pacific was rolling blue and mighty. Cape Deseado crouched against the shore line, a monstrous sentinel of the world's vastest ocean. Across it, the sun was sending its last light of the May day; long purple streamers flung upward against the white-gray sky; westward on the horizon a pale golden haze was over the ocean. Cavendish straightened up and his voice rang out. The objective had been reached, and he spoke only four words to tell of triumph.
"North northwest, Captain Davis!"
The course was set for the Juan Fernandez islands.
He slept that night from eight to twelve, the beginning of the middle watch. The Desire had only nineteen officers and men. Cavendish was taking the middle watch himself. It was during that watch that the wind sprang up again. The wind blew from the north northeast.
All sails were furled. The helm was lashed alee. For six hours the Desire lay ahull, and for six hours she was driven south. When dawn came she was three leagues to the leeward of Cape Deseado.
There was only one way to save the ship. She was being blown southward, as Drake had been, into the uncharted Antarctic. She must put back into the Straits; it was the only way.
The Desire was not half so big as the icebergs that floated in the seas here—great hunks of glacier whose white sides came down into the seas and broke off as the endlessly churning waters tumbled at them. Those seas broke over the Desire, broke over the poop, and clung to her ropes and rigging and turned them to ice.
On deck Cavendish said, "We must double the Cape before noon, or die." He said it bluntly, leaning back against the ropes and steadying himself. A great wave broke over the poop and washed past his feet. "Get sail up," he said to Davis, "and we'll put it to God's mercy."
The Cape on the southern shores of the Straits was two leagues distant. On the north shore was nothing but a company of dangerous rocks and isles and shoals. The seas were churning now as the Desire unfurled her sails and began her battle once more.
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In half an hour the foot rope of the foresail broke. Nothing was holding the sail but the eyelet holes. The Desiie was falling more and more to the leeward of Cape Deseado. It did not seem possible that she could double the Cape and enter the Straits; instead, she was going to be dashed onto its rocks.
Only a half mile of leeway separated the Desire from the Cape. She was so near shore that the counter surf rebounded against her sides. In desperation Cavendish ran down to the lower deck; he started up the shrouds; Tyler was with him.
Between the two of them, they veered the mainsheet. The Desire leaned perilously; she quickened like a live thing, the spray flew up as she dipped and steadied her course. High in the shrouds Cavendish clung; the Desire hesitated; the wind blew, and the sound of the heavy surf was crashing over the ship. Then the Desire shot past the Cape, close.
Tyler and Cavendish took in the mainsail. The foresail was furled. Below, it took three men to guide the helm, and the Desire spooned before the seas without an inch of canvas. In six hours she was within the Straits by twenty-five leagues. Cavendish stayed on deck. He knew these waters.
At seven o'clock the three ounces of meal were doled out; the precious wine parceled to each man. Cavendish went below for the first time in twenty-four hours.
"Call me in half an hour," he said to Tyler. Davis was asleep. "Just let me have half an hour, Tyler," Cavendish repeated. He stumbled. He was wet through, and there was a knifing pain through his back between the shoulder blades. He bent over suddenly with a cough.
"Captain?" said Tyler.
"Call me in half an hour."
He stood in the center of the cabin. "We'll try again tomorrow, Tyler," he said. "Call me in half an hour."
He sat down in his hammock; he stretched out on his side curling his legs up and wrapping his arms around his chest for warmth. He was back in the Straits, and the sun-drenched tip of California seemed as though it must be farther away than heaven. Surely, this was hell.
He opened his eyes. He felt a little warmed, and the pain that had tormented him all day seemed less. He moved his head a little, to ease the throbbing, and he felt bitter cold, but there was warmth in his body; he could feel the warmth with his hands. He could
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rest a full thirty minutes, and he knew these seas well. The im mediate danger had passed. They hadn't foundered on the rocks of Cape Deseado. They were back in the Straits.
His eyes were closed, and he wasn't asleep; yet he knew he must be dreaming. He saw Catherine plainly; she was coming nearer to him, running, and she spoke to him in Spanish, forgetting her English. He must be dreaming, and he opened his eyes and he was in his cabin, alone. Yet she was near. All during these months she had been near. It was here that he had told her he loved her; it was here that he and de Ersola had played their endless games of chess; the paneling in the cabin must be impregnated with the smoke of Havers' pipes.
He was here, in his cabin aboard the ship Desire. He felt quite warm, and his eyes closed again; there were twenty-five minutes left to rest. He had used but five of the thirty.
The hammock swayed. At Trimley, in the spring a year ago, he had slung a hammock for Kate, under the trees. She was probably there now, and Bess would be old enough to sit in the hammock and be swung to and fro. He sighed, and the intake of breath was painful. He breathed lightly, and his eyes closed again. He had twenty-three minutes left to sleep. And he would sleep, he knew. Before the deep sleep came he would dream of Catherine. The memories were so close today, and the image of her so vivid. He moved his hands up under his head, his arms against his chest. His legs were still drawn up for warmth. For the last time he opened his blue eyes, to make sure which was the dream and which the reality. The cabin was just the same, neat and tidy, and cold and dark in the light of the stormy day. The wind was still blowing outside, but he was warm, and Tyler would not call him so soon. There were all of twenty minutes left—so long does it take time to move when it is mixed with eager dreaming. He went to sleep.