A slight Spaniard, rapier in hand, was rushing toward him. David raised the heaw sword and brought it sideways into his opponent's outstretched arms. The Spaniard cried out.
The Englishman next to David was killed outright. He fell almost at David's feet. Another Englishman was wounded in the arm; he was battling with two Spaniards, and David stepped to his side.
"Retreat," he said.
The man obeyed gratefully. David thought they had held the deck for about fifteen minutes, although it seemed like hours. He had learned in the last year and a half to reckon time, to reckon when he would lose more men than Tom would want. He had seen two of his men die.
"Retreat," he called out evenly, as he himself began to back to the rail, slowlv, giving his men time to extricate themselves from the mass of defending Spanish. The melee of swords and men, and shouts and arrows made the English indistinguishable from the enemy.
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He could not turn his head to see his men slide back to the safety of the Desire. A heavy stone landed on the deck beside him. The Spanish were even hurling stones. His sword found another target; he was sure he alone had accounted for five Spanish at least. Behind him he felt the rail.
He swung one leg up. His sword swept the space before him. He gained the rail; he was safe, and he was the last man to leave the Santa Anna. He had done a good work and he would be briefly commended. He heard Cavendish's voice.
"Lay off!"
Knives slashed at the ropes. Freed, the Desire's sails filled with the wind; she stood off quickly. In the Spanish stern, guns fired. The Desire sustained a hit, and two Spanish shots plowed through the maintopsail. David came running up to the poopdeck. For a minute he was silent, watching, as the Desire put a safe distance between her and the Spaniard. David was silent while the Content, seizing advantage of the Spaniard's preoccupation with the Desire, had slipped in for another broadside. Then she, too, stood off. David sighed with relief. He could speak now.
"Two men lost—Richards of Dorsetshire, and William Stevens of Plymouth. Four men wounded, sir. But not badly."
"Excellent, David," Cavendish said warmly.
"It's going just as you said it would," David said.
The Spanish were shouting derisively across the water. David said, surprised, "They think they've repulsed us, Tom. They think we're done fighting."
Cavendish smiled. Pretty appeared. "The shot hole is above the water line, sir."
"Good," said Cavendish.
He was looking toward the Santa Anna. Her mainmast was a stump; her forecastle had been badly damaged. The first hours of battle had gone exceedingly well; some of the tenseness had left the crew; they were more eager now. He looked upward at the sun.
It was exactly noon and the land of California had dropped away. It would continue to be a running battle. Pretty had gone below to supervise the serving of a cold meal to the gunners who remained at their posts. A ration of ale was issued to the men. The top sail was mended; two leather patches were sewed on it.
Cavendish paced across the deck, restlessly. He did not intend again to expose the Desire to the Spaniard's heaviest guns, whose muzzles protruded menacingly from her red sides. She was tough,
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but she was hurt, and now he made ready for the running battle.
There were seven hours of daylight left. They should be enough. There was no necessity for hurry. The Desire prepared to harry her enemy.
The soldiers shed their mail. Naked to the waist, and barefooted, the topmen clung in the shrouds. The Desire—she had been for these minutes under shortened sail—heaved out her sails and loaded her guns. She was ready.
"We'll go in again, Master Fuller," Cavendish said quietly.
During the next hours he did not leave the deck. During those hours they heard again and again his quiet commands, in between the guns of the Desire, the Content and the Santa Anna. And hours passed. Slowly the sun started its dip downward. The great Pacific rolled endlessly; farther and farther away dropped the coast of California which echoed to gunfire for the first time. Cavendish had been standing in the sun since eight o'clock. Across his cheekbones and nose, the red of a fresh sunburn showed plainly, tanned as he was. His blue eyes were squinted under the golden helmet. He was succeeding slowly; the Spanish knew it, and so did his own crew. This morning they had doubted success; even Havers had doubted it, when they had seen the galleon and the size of her.
The Content had been keeping up a steady firing from a safe distance. Her light shot was plowing across the Spanish decks. The Desire was bearing down for a broadside; Cavendish could hear the orders shouted aboard the Santa Anna as her officers vainly tried to bring her huge bulk about so her heavy guns could be trained on the small enemy ships.
"Hard to starboard!" called Cavendish. "You may fire, Master Moon."
The Desire's heavy shot ploughed into the Spanish stern, the castles, the decks. Smoke poured from the wounded ship. The wind was still holding fair, and the Desire came about and steadied her course.
The Santa Anna wallowed in the Pacific swells. She was wreathed in smoke through which the sun shone. Her foremast was gone; her sprit had been shot away. Her bulwarks were crumpled; her stern galleries were gone. She was helpless now except for her size. Methodically, she had been reduced to this. Cavendish looked to the west, to the lowering sun.
There were roughly two and a half hours of daylight left. He had expected to be able to board the Santa Anna again and finally at
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nightfall. But there had been hope that it wouldn't be necessary.
The Desire and the Content numbered only eighty crew. He didn't want to spare any of those men, not one. And perhaps he wouldn't have to.
"Master Fuller," he said, "trim all sails. We'll bring her in close."
"Aye, aye, sir," said Fuller, excitement in his voice.
The wind held fair. The sails squared. Aloft the bowmen fitted their arrows; on deck the muskets were loaded; the powder-blackened gun crews worked methodically under Moon's command. Incredibly, they smelled victory. They were closing in for the kill; it was time.
The Desire bore down on her quarry. All heavy ordnance was fired; the great guns thundered forth, and when the smoke lifted there came a shout from the Desire, a ringing shout. The Santa Anna had taken heavy damage between wind and water.
"She's bad hit, sir," Moon cried.
She was.
"She's in danger of sinking," Master Pretty cried to Cavendish. Master Pretty had a vivid imagination.
"No, she's not," Cavendish contradicted. "But she's bad hit." He was loading his musket, for he was going to bring the Desire in again. The Content stood off, as she had been ordered; she stood off, ready to come to the aid of the Desire should the Desire need aid. Aboard her, Brule watched through his glass.
The Desire stood in, her guns blazing, her target, now that she dared to come close, not the decks but the Santa Anna's thick sides. Smallshot tore through her rigging and sails. The cries of the wounded were plain. There was a heavy explosion, and Cavendish heard a woman's scream.
The Desire shook with the recoil of her own guns. Smoke enveloped both ships. Arrows winged from the Desire; musket fire rang out, the two ships were locked now in close battle.
"Fire!" cried Moon, his voice rising above the din, and through the smoke.