Spice and the Devil's Cave

by Agnes Danforth Hewes

  The Litany had begun! He must pay attention, so he wouldn’t be responding out of turn.

  Hear my prayer, O Lord …

  How the sails would gleam, as the crews swayed on the halyards! It wouldn’t take long to get under way in this breeze.

  Incline our hearts, O God . . .

  That meant not only Christians but the heathen in the strange, glamorous lands where he was going. He’d see to it that their hearts inclined! He’d make Christians of them willy-nilly. That first, of course, and then – spice!

  Let us pray . . .

  Profound stillness among the kneeling uniforms and the taffeta trains. The Bishop had put aside his prayer-book, and was giving the final blessing.

  Hold thy servants in the hollow of Thy hand . . .

  The hollow of Thy hand? Three tiny ships between a vast-ness of tumbling waves and skies that stretched into eternity!

  Be thou unto them an help when they go forward …

  Right! The only time one deserved help was when one was going forward.

  An haven in shipwreck . . .

  Shipwreck? Trust Bartholomew to see that each timber was sound, each keel as true as his own true heart!

  Guide them, O God, to their desired haven . . .

  Ah, yes, O God, Thou – and dear Abel’s compass! Even now it and the astrolabe waited aboard the flagship-sent out, first thing after breakfast, by Ferdinand. All the ships were supplied with hour-glasses, and sounding plummets, and compasses, but Abel’s compass and astrolabe would be shrined in his own cabin – with his crucifix above them.

  A great rustling and stir, everybody standing. Was it all over? Manoe’s voice behind the curtain, wishing them all the best of luck. Diaz should have been there, getting those good wishes! Why in the world had Manoel chosen him and not Diaz?

  Outdoors. A hot blue sky. Bells ringing and trumpets blaring. An endless procession, and at its head himself, on horseback. Faces lined along flag-hung streets and squares, peering over balconies, and from roofs. Well, it was a moving sight, and a solemn. Yes, solemn. For all this wild outburst was the people’s way of saying, “Gama, we’re for you. God bless you, Gama!”

  Someone hailing him? Young Conti, waving his cap like mad! And what was that he was shouting? “Captain-Major! Captain-Major!” By heaven, the first time he’d been called that in public – gave one an odd feeling! Fine spirit that lad had, and a long head; not afraid to take a chance, as you could see by his leaving Venice for Lisbon. And there beside him, glum as a thunder cloud – Scander! Don’t believe in going after the spice trade, eh? Every hatchful would be paid for in blood was what he’d said. Oh well, old croaker, just you wait till Portugal brings in the Oriental wealth. Then you’ll change your tune! Still, it was strange how those words stuck in one’s memory: spice . . . blood!

  Now, going around this corner, one could look back along the line. There was Manoel, bristling with courtiers. There came Paulo and Coelho. Then the ships’ officers and pilots and priests. Next, two and two, the ships’ crews, stepping out brisk and fit, as if for a day’s outing. For some of them, poor devils, it would be a jaunt into eternity! And there, clanking along in their chains, were the six jail-birds he’d begged of Manoel. They’d save risking the trained men for dangerous errands and if the natives got them-why, they were sentenced to hang, anyhow! How Manoel had laughed when he’d asked for them-said it was the most original scheme he’d ever heard.

  The palace! . . . Hard not to show one’s impatience to be off. Hard to go through with the feasting and the dancing, when all you could think of was those caravels straining at their anchors. Particularly hard to look pleasant with everyone pressing about you, to pour out compliments about your ‘heroism.’ And the women, with their prattle and their gush! . . . Ah, Manoel beckoning! Come along Paulo, Coelho, and all of you officers. Kneel, and kiss your King’s hand, and say your farewells.

  Now, only to mount and ride to the harbour. And look! . . . Who but Ferdinand holding the horse ready! Good to have this last glimpse of the lad. How he stood out from the other pages! Young colt that he was, with those big eyes that burned their way right into your heart, and his impudence, and his everlasting kicking at the harness of convention! But, by heaven, he’d do something, one of these days, that would make folks sit up. Eyes like that didn’t often happen.

  Again those cheering throngs. God grant he should fulfill their hopes. Ah, at last the harbour – bursting at you like a garden of wind-sown, wind-blown flowers! Flags . . . flags, crimson and gold and scarlet and blue. Craft jammed in together thicker than crows in a wheat field. Lord! Where had they all come from? And all in honour of those three caravels that rode so soberly opposite the great sea-wall! The San Gabriel, the San Rafael, the Berrio. The ships that King John had named. The ships that Bartholomew Diaz had built.

  After all the long readying, how simple to dismount, to row out a little way, to stand on the deck of the San Gabriel. His own vessel! At this poop would hang the huge official lantern of the flagship. . . . Hear the people cheer! Manoel himself had never got anything like this.

  Now Paulo was on the San Rafael, and Coelho on the Berrio. Lucky they were to have Diaz with them as far as the Verde Islands. Nunez was just boarding the store ship. He wasn’t reaping as much applause as the other captains, because the store ship was to go only part way, but it took character to do those commonplace things.

  There went the sails, fair and full as a gull’s breast, each with its great, red Cross. And look! There, at the crow’s nest-like heart’s blood, splashed against Lisbon’s sky-the scarlet flag of the Captain-Major!

  By heaven, that salute! Almost forgotten it, thinking about the flag. Now let them have it: once … twice … and again! And once . . . twice . . . and again, the cannon on the quay are answering.

  Now the hawsers are coming in. D’Alemquer is bringing the San Gabriel about. He’d have to beat to windward all the way down river with this wind rising. Might make the bar impassable, so they’d have to anchor at Belem. Everybody waving, cheering, laughing, crying . . . forms and faces on shore beginning to blur . . . fluttering handkerchiefs, distant good-byes.

  One look back, before a turn in the river should shut off Lisbon. Ah, blue hills and climbing houses! Up yonder, in one of those houses, Abel was standing at the windows. He had said they would see it all from the workshop; that they didn’t like to bring Nejmi down town. Ruth would be on one side of him; on the other, Nejmi, with her shining eyes. Star of the Way, old Abraham had called her. Well, however that should turn out, it was her evidence that had started Manoel up, evidence that had come, you might say, from the very lips of Covilham. And presently they would know, one way or the other. The main thing was to keep straight ahead – and overboard with any who talked of turning back, if it took every man jack of the crew. So God on his great white throne be witness!

  There went the last of Lisbon, sliced off clean by that turn in the river – Lisbon a-sparkle in the westering sun like a jewelled crest! The streets would be quieting down now, people talking it all over at home, some women crying – the ones he’d seen kissing his men on the quay. Everyone who could would be planning to come down to Belem for the final departure, but that couldn’t be till this wind had died down; another day or two, likely.

  But however long they were delayed, one thing was certain: their last night ashore would be passed in the rough little chapel of Belem which the Great Navigator had built, where men of the sea might pray for favourable winds and seas. Ah, he had known, this strange and solitary Henry, that the more alone a man was in his supreme moment, the more clearly would he hear what God whispered in his ear. … A strange thing, Life, giving the praise only to the consummation. For instance, he, Gama, getting all the credit for something that had started before he was born: a stupendous vision of the Great Navigator which had become the precious trust of his intrepid disciples. Diaz, daring the sea, and Covil-ham the land, had all but given that vision a body, had all but achie
ved what Henry had dreamed. Then had come Nejmi . . . that extraordinary night . . . her breath-taking story told in the language of a child. And now, the Expedition, and himself its Captain-Major!

  * * *

  MORNING. Aboard the ships at Belem. Everything ready, after these three days of waiting for the wind to moderate. But it had been time put to good use. The crews had been reviewed, their names listed, payrolls made out of wages due on their return. And through it all Manoel had remained at Belem. A fine thing, that, for the men.

  Manoel had spent the last night’s vigil with them, too, when they had knelt the still hours through, under the flickering altar candles, each seeking according to his own need. For himself, Gama, there was but one prayer. There never had been but that one – from the hour that Manoel had said, “I want you to go, Vasco”– just man-courage to go forward in spite of entreaties to turn back, in spite of mutiny itself. . . .

  Manoel! Manoel, stepping from the royal barge aboard the San Gabriel; walking with him between lines of men drawn up at attention; giving them all his God-speed; addressing him as the Captain-Major. (Hard to think of himself by that title!) A last whisper: “Vasco, you’ll do this thing, I know you will!” Worth all the titles in the world, Manoel’s lips at your ear, like that. Put the heart into you, that “I know you will!” So, from ship to ship, reviewing the crews, giving each captain his royal blessing.

  Now they were breaking out the Royal Standard at the San Gabriel’s foremast. Please God it should carry the dominion of Portugal to the uttermost ends of the earth!

  At last, in midstream. Crowds lining the shore, sobbing, praying. Hark! The priests chanting: Kyrie eleison. And the people responding: Christie eleison. The priests again: Be with us that we may come to our home again in peace, in health, and gladness.… Well, God, in his mercy, grant that the home-coming would be that. But, whatever might happen, the will to go forward!

  Running, now, under full sail. Everything set, men at their Posts. sails bellving in the wind. Astern, the other shins pounding a white wake to the San Gabriel’s lead. On the poop of the San Rafael, a steadfast figure-Paulo. There was a heart that would never fail one, never ask to put back! Coelho and Nunez, too, fine captains as one could wish. D’Alemquer at the helm might almost be playing with it, so easily it swings in his deft brown hands.

  A white swirl ahead. The bar! Feel the ship responding to d’Alemquer as he luffs her a little to meet the swell . . . as he eases her on. How confidently she leads the way! How confidently the other vessels follow! … Past shoals, through treacherous cross currents, and so, out into mid-channel. . . .

  Over, at last! Over the bar. . . . Lisbon behind. . . . O God of battle and of sea, before Thee do I swear never to turn back one span of the way!

  CHAPTER 15

  Rumours

  SCANDER, bent over the table, meditated a long minute before he took a ruler, and carefully laid it on the unfinished map. Nicolo covertly watched the faces-Abel’s, Ruth’s, Nejmi’s – waiting for his instructions as for a judge’s sentence. That rapt attention was, of course, to be expected from Abel, but from Ruth! … A different Ruth from the one whose chief concern in the workshop used to be the “clutter” on floor and table. Had it been those days of death and threatened exile that had so changed her? Changed her into this person who brought her work to sit beside Abel – to brood over him with tender eyes when he wasn’t looking? And Nejmi who once had shunned the mention of maps . . . Her head was as close to the drawing as Abel’s!

  “There!” Scander finished his measuring, and with the ruler beat a gentle tattoo on the table edge. “That’s as near right as I can reckon. Safe to ink it in now.”

  Abel’s waiting quill was promptly dipped into ink, and then applied to a pencilled outline. Nejmi’s eyes travelled with the quill point; Ruth put down her sewing, and watched until it came to rest.

  Abel straightened up, and surveyed his work with satisfaction. “How Bartholomew would like to watch this map grow!” he mused aloud.

  “What are you making now, sir?” Nicolo drew up closer.

  “The Spice Islands,” Scander replied, as Abel was already engrossed in the next outline. “Near as I can remember them, that is.”

  “We’re going to draw little trees on them to show that the spices grow there,” Nejmi added.

  “Not only that, but we’ll write the names of the important products where Scander says they’re shipped. It will be of the greatest help to merchants.” Abel spoke without raising his eyes from his work, in the absent, jerky tone of one trying to keep his mind on two things at once.

  “Like this. See!” Ruth dropped her sewing and indicated a port. “That’ll be marked ‘Slaves and Ivory ‘!” she importantly announced.

  “No, not them from there, ma’am,” Scander corrected with an amused smile. “From here!” He pointed to the East African coast: “Mombassa and Melinde.”

  “It’s a long way to the Spice Islands,” Nicolo observed, as he watched Abel’s quill,” much longer than we’d thought.”

  “But,” Scander broke in, “see how cheap you’re going to get your spices, bringing ’em all the way by water. Why, I’ve seen cargoes re-shipped and re-caravaned as many as five times between Aden and the Mediterranean, and a fat toll piled on to the price every shift!” As he glanced at the map, an idea seemed suddenly to strike him. He dropped the ruler and sat back, staring before him. “I never thought before what the route ‘round the Devil’s Cave would do to the Red Sea!”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Abel mildly suggested, “if the Soldan of Egypt had something to say on the subject.”

  Scander’s eyes were faintly amused. “Well, seeing as he depends on those tolls for a living! … I can’t picture it,” he went on reminiscently. “That sea all a-boil with craft bursting their seams with stuff from everywhere – dead as a pond!”

  Involuntarily Nicolo thought of Venice-of the Mediterranean. They, too!

  Nejmi’s voice broke in on him. She had straightened up from watching Abel, and in her eyes was the horror that came even now when she was reminded of the past. “Will Aden be ‘dead,’ too, Scander?”

  He nodded, his eyes soft, as always, when he looked at her. “I expect, child, we’d hardly know it in a few years. As far as I can see,” he meditated aloud, “the whole world’s going to be made over!”

  “And all,” Abel threw over his shoulder, “all, for a fragile thing of wood and canvas that is daring the unknown!”

  “It’s the same to me who gets the blasted spices,” Scander observed.

  “What?” protested Nicolo. “You wouldn’t care, for instance, if Gama failed, and some other country stepped in on the spice trade ahead of Portugal?”

  Scander took time to spit. “No, I wouldn’t care, knowing it’s as sure as I sit here that whoever gets the spice is going to settle for it in blood. But Master Gama’s failing – that’s something else. I’d give a year of my life to see him walk in here, this minute, and tell us he’d found everything as we “– he jerked his head toward Nejmi –” as we said ‘twas!”

  “You will see him!” she declared, with that look in her eyes as of sunlight in a deep, deep pool. “Some day you’ll watch him sail up the river!”

  Ferdinand’s head suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Watch whom?”

  “Where did you come from, so early?” Ruth asked him, as he stepped into the room and nodded to everyone.

  “Oh, the King thought it was too warm to drive out, so I’m off duty for a while.” He stood for a minute near the open door, and mopped his forehead.

  “Summer’s here, full force,” he declared. He turned to Nejmi. “Who was that you were saying would ‘sail up the river’?”

  She was bending over the map, and hardly looked up to answer him: “Master Gama.”

  “I thought so! Do you know,” he went on half talking to himself, “as I came up here I was thinking about the day he went away. My, but it seems a long time! People have begun to
talk, too, about it’s being too long – going on two years.”

  “Come see how this map’s gone ahead since you were here,” Abel broke in with apparent irrelevance. But when he had pointed out the freshly inked outlines, he quietly observed, “He could hardly have taken less than a long time to go as far as that, could he?”

  “Still, sir, there’s no denying it’s being whispered around that Gama said he shouldn’t return, if he didn’t find the way to India.”

  “Yes,” Nicolo agreed, “a man was complaining to me, today, that business hadn’t come up to people’s expectations, when Gama first went away. This chap had bought up land for warehouses, but now he didn’t know whether or not to build.”

  Abel laid down his quill, and sat back in his chair, and in his face was a look of bitter reminiscence. “They’ve forgotten the time they were climbing over each other to get information about the Expedition, so they could make something out of it! I remember someone’s coming to my office about that very matter of new warehouses.”

  He broke off, and there was a conscious silence in the room, for this was one of Abel’s rare references to the office and the business he had given up in those black and terrible days of Manoel’s decree against his Jewish subjects.

  “That’s just it!” Ferdinand contemptuously burst out. “All that they thought of was the trade Portugal was going to get from Gama’s finding the Way, instead of the glory of just finding it!”

  “I suppose,” Nicolo shot back, with some heat-for somehow, he felt that Ferdinand was covertly thrusting at him –” that you’d be satisfied to give Portugal the glory, and Spain the trade.”