Aboard the Desire the excitement was wild. Sweat poured from the gunners' blacked bare shoulders and chests. Heat rose around them. And, suddenly, through all the cries and shouts and orders, came a Spanish voice crying, "Abajo! Abajo!"
Moon halted in the middle of a command to fire. The smoke curled upward, the sky was red with sunset. Against that red, at the Santa Anna's mizzen, the flags of Aragon and Castile came swiftly
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down; more swiftly to the masthead rose the white flag of surrender.
The Desire's crew let out one long yell. Tyler seized the nearest shipmate and slapped him so hard that he almost fell onto the deck. The already loaded muskets were fired wildly up into the air. Master Fuller roared for quiet. The Content steadied on a starboard tack, bore down on both ships, her twenty crew raising their voices as loud as they could.
In the midst of the joy with which the English greeted victory— a victory hard won and wrested from under the noses of the biggest Spanish guns afloat—into that joy a voice came across the water. It was an even voice, speaking flawless English, an authoritative voice: "We yield our goods." There was a pause. "We ask mercy for the lives aboard."
Cavendish had walked to the rail.
"Strike your sails," he said. The two men might have been in quiet conversation.
"We ask mercy for the lives aboard," once more came the Spanish voice.
"You shall have mercy," Cavendish said. There was only a narrow strip of water between the lovely swift Desire, her white sail gleaming in the sunset, and the huge crippled galleon.
"Hoist out a boat, sir," Cavendish said. "You may come aboard the Desire to parley." He looked up over his head. The flags flew bravely. He spoke to Fuller.
"Have a prize crew ready for me, Master Fuller," he said. "We have not too much daylight left."
Chapter IV
The Desire was hove to alongside her prize, the seamen were in the rigging; the gunners, sweaty and black, had come up on deck. They were watching the boat that pulled evenly from the Santa Anna.
The boat drew up alongside the Desire. Hands reached out to steady her. Then the first Spaniard mounted the Desire's painted ladder. He stepped onto the deck. Cavendish went forward to meet him.
The Spaniard was as tall as he was. He was slender and graceful and his eyes were brilliant black in his lean face. But before the two men met, another man, slight and with terrified face, gained the deck and threw himself forward at Cavendish's feet. In the startled silence he cried brokenly, "I offer to kiss your worship's feet."
Cavendish looked down at the kneeling man and his own polished boots. Tyler looked down at his own bare feet and wanted to say something. But he did not. The Englishmen were silent so they could hear the powder-blackened men edged closer to this scene on their deck. They stared at their Captain and waited for him to speak.
"We crave your mercy," the frail Spaniard pleaded.
The tall officer's face had frozen into a mask. He paid no attention to the kneeling man. He said evenly, "You have already pledged mercy for our company and our passengers. I am Señor de Ersola, chief pilot aboard the Santa Anna."
"And I am the chief merchant," the still kneeling Spaniard cried.
"You may stand," Cavendish said to him. "Later you may provide me with a full list of your merchandise." His eyes were on the tall officer. It was this man with whom he had spoken during the battle. He could not mistake the voice.
"Captain Cavendish," he said, "and Captain Havers, Señor de Ersola."
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De Ersola bowed. He drew his rapier from its sheath, reversed it and held it forth. Cavendish took it, and again the two men surveyed each other. The Spaniard wasted no time.
"I offer myself as hostage for Captain Flores of the Santa Anna," he said briefly.
"I fear that is not possible," Cavendish said, just as briefly. "I desire to speak with your Captain."
De Ersola gave a glance around, quickly summing up the numbers of the Desire's company. Then he walked to the rail and gave an order in Spanish to the seamen in the boat. The boat pulled away. De Ersola turned slowly and walked back to Cavendish. Once more he spoke in his flawless English.
"Captain Cavendish," he said, "there are eighty passengers, including women, aboard the Santa Anna. For their safety, for the ship is holed between wind and water, I have ordered them onto the quarterdeck."
"Your passengers and company will have good usage," Cavendish said.
"Excellent," said de Ersola. He did not ask what Cavendish intended. He stood easily, unarmed, looking to the Santa Anna; he saw the stout figure of his Captain descending into the ship's boat. Then he looked back to Cavendish and Havers.
"Let me congratulate you on your splendid seamanship," he said.
"Thank you," Cavendish said. "You are out from Manila?"
"Six months," de Ersola said. He was watching the boat; he went over and extended a hand to his Captain. Flores gained the deck and de Ersola stood next to him.
"Captain Flores," he said, "let me present Captain Cavendish and Captain Havers."
Flores inclined his head. Through his dignity, he was still struggling with the incomprehensible thought that he had lost his ship. He looked hopelessly at Cavendish, but Cavendish was hardly conscious of him. He was conscious of de Ersola, for de Ersola knew that this one battle, the loss of this great ship, was not the important thing. What was important was that there were English ships here in the Pacific. Flores had fought a battle and lost it; de Ersola knew the fight was bigger than that, and he was not defeated. Cavendish had seen him mentally counting the Desire's company. They were far less than the Spanish. The prize crew which he intended to throw aboard the Santa Anna tonight would be comprised of only forty men. He said curtly, "Tonight I shall keep yourself, Captain
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Flores, and your pilot and chief merchant aboard the Desire as hostages."
"I should like to speak with you further!" Flores said. Sudden excitement blazed in his eyes. He looked anxiously toward the Santa Anna. "What—"
"You may surrender me your sword, sir," Cavendish interrupted.
Flores drew the sword from its sheath; silently he gave it up to Cavendish, who in turn handed it to Havers. The Spaniard spoke again, but Cavendish had already turned away.
"Are your men ready, Master Moon?"
"Aye, sir," said Moon.
While Cavendish had been talking, a boat had been hoisted out; Moon barked an order; another boat was pulling from the Content. There was no time to lose, for darkness would soon be on them. Without a backward glance, Cavendish slid down into his longboat. Havers and Fuller would take good care of the Spanish. He took Moon and Pretty and David with him; Brule was sending ten men and two officers from the Content.
Cavendish was the first over the side of the Santa Anna. He stumbled against something; he looked down.
Cavendish had stepped over a dead man, but David had bumped him, and then he too stepped across the body and felt himself slide forward in the blood that lay on the deck. He steadied himself. Pretty was by his side; a piece of mast lay to his right, and a heap of torn sail; there were figures on the deck—prone. Even as David watched, he saw one figure rise up, and he started.
It was the priest. His cassock flapped as he moved forward and knelt by another man who lay on his side and groaned in quick small gasps. David heard the priest's voice, low; then he took another step toward Cavendish.
"I've never seen it so bad," he whispered.
"Watch your step," Cavendish said.
A mangled ship's boat blocked their way. An eerie silence hung over the stricken vessel. Now David could see her forecastle plainly. The starboard side was torn away, and one of the guns mounted there hung crazily downward. There was a cleared space before the mast. About a hundred men were gathered there, waiting. David reckoned quickly then that about two-thirds of her crew had been killed or wounded. Under his feet the deck slanted; he slipped again on the bloody planks. And aft—he could see them now—aft on the quarterdeck were the passengers. David stared. There were