1 Most southern province of Portugal.
2 One of the Azores Islands.
CHAPTER 22
The Bar
AT Scander’s cry Nicolo’s blood seemed to freeze. The foreign captain who wished to see Abel’s maps . . . the Venetian ambassador’s friend . . . the captain of the Sultana – one and the same! And this man now had Nejmi! How had he found her? What had happened? Why, why, had he taken Scander to Cascaes at the very time Scander would inevitably have come face to face with Abdul and saved Nejmi? In his torture every thought of the maps left him. In that ship ahead was Nejmi . . . Nejmi! And with every second the distance between them was widening!
Suddenly and violently he came to himself. That distance mustn’t widen! By every power on earth and above, no! What was that Scander had yelled? That they must gybe, must risk it? Risk! What was risk when the dearest that life held was being snatched away under your very eyes? He put all his skill into the manoeuvre as Scander, with unbelievable strength, hauled in the sheet. He realized that the next moment would need all their effort to prevent disaster. He must keep the skiff in line as the sail swung over – he knew the shock would be terrific.
A moment the little craft shuddered, and the beating of the sails was like gun shots. Instinctively he managed the helm, fastening his whole strength to it, as Scander braced himself for the shock. It seemed an age until the sail snapped over to the full length of the shortened sheets. Then, with unexpected smoothness, the boat stood away on her new course, following the bright wake of Abdul’s speeding craft.
Seconds passed before either spoke. In a frenzy of hope and horror, Nicolo watched the vessel dancing in front. With such start, was it humanly possible to overhaul her? But they must-they would overhaul her! No one but Scander and he could possibly save Nejmi now. Perhaps she had seen him. Perhaps she could see him coming now!
But Abdul, Nicolo recalled, had seen Scander, and would do his cursed best to escape. By what monstrous trick of fate had he found Nejmi? Oh, how, how had it happened? The cruelty, the irony of it, after her flight from him-after Abel’s careful shielding of her! His heart contracted as he recalled his vow that he would never let fear come again to her dear eyes. There must have been violence, for Abel and Ruth would never have given her up. Oh, that he had only left Scander in Lisbon!
Nearer and nearer came the sound of the breakers on the bar. Nicolo saw that Scander eased the sheet a fraction.
“Whew!” cried Scander, as a wild expanse of boiling surf broke before them. “See the rollers the wind and this ebb tide have kicked up in the South Channel! They’re breaking clean over the bar!”
At times the little boat sank in the huge troughs, and then Abdul’s vessel was out of sight. The uproar increased. Nicolo saw Scander’s lips form words that he could not hear. But there was no thought of their own safety now, for ahead, speeding toward destruction, was Nejmi.
“If he goes any closer to the shoal,” yelled Scander above the boom of the surf, “he’s lost – the shore current will catch him.”
“Our chance,” shouted Nicolo, “is to gain on him when he comes about-if he can make the turn!”
It was now a matter of seconds. Both boats were in the raging seas of the South Channel. Nicolo could already feel the drag of the inshore currents of the strong ebb. Abdul’s vessel, a half league away, changed her course. The flash of the moonlight on the moving sails was plain. For a moment she seemed to stand still, and lay over almost on her beam ends, as, close hauled, she headed northward across the tossing rollers. But in that brief moment the skiff cut down the lead.
Slowly the larger vessel righted, but again seemed to stand motionless. For a few instants she held her course. Then, heavily, the bow swung toward the oncoming skiff.
“She’s lost her helm,” yelled Scander, and the two saw the sails lay over again, almost flat against the water.
“We’ll be in the same fix,” cried Nicolo, bearing his full weight down on the tiller. “The current has got them!”
The skiff struggled, but, almost to their amazement, answered perfectly, and in a moment they were tearing away on the starboard tack, passing almost within hailing distance.
But horror! Abdul’s vessel was plainly sweeping helplessly into the breakers, head swung completely around, sails furiously slatting.
“She’ll go aground in another minute,” cried Scander, “and everyone’ll be washed overboard.”
Aground in this pounding surf! Inwardly Nicolo groaned. Could anything survive that? He dashed the spray from his eyes. “Hard down!” he shouted. “It’s our only chance to save her. We’ll have to risk it and stand over there!” What was risk now, with Nejmi rushing toward possible death?
Again the skiff came up, hesitated, and swung over on the southwest course, bearing, now, directly toward the fury of the breakers-a desperate hazard, but, as Nicolo had said, the only one.
They saw the ship ahead list, stagger, pitch helplessly forward, and then, as she lay over on her side in the bright moonlight, a man’s figure wildly scrambled forward. The next moment she struck. Their skiff passed like a shot.
“He’s cut the halyard,” shouted Scander.
The big sail crumpled. A huge roller broke completely over the stranded hull. Another followed, and with a crash the foremast, unable longer to withstand the strain of the big foresail, went into the water.
“If she’d been three lengths farther west,” said Scander, “she’d have floated. There’s deeper water here.”
But Nicolo, eyes strained on the other ship, hardly heeded him. Clinging to the stern rail were two figures! Suddenly the tiller was torn from his hands by Scander’s full strength, and at the same time he was violently thrust into the cockpit as the skiff came up again into the wind and tacked away northward. Nicolo’s eyes never left the stranded vessel. Now he could plainly see two clinging figures.
“What you doing?” he cried.
“Got to keep afloat, haven’t we? So when this millrace of tide slackens we can come up on Abdul’s vessel from deeper water.” Without turning, Scander spit out the words sideways.
“Idiot!” Nicolo exploded. “We must get to them at once! That craft can’t live an hour.”
Scander shook his head. “She’s in soft sand. She won’t break up in weeks.”
Nicolo barely heard the answer above the noise of rollers.
“But Scander,” he yelled back, “look at that!” He pointed to the seas that now swept Abdul’s boat continuously. “Nobody can live on her in that surf.”
“Not unless they’re lashed!” called Scander.
“We must get nearer at once!” Nicolo shouted angrily.
But Scander stood his ground. “I figure if anyone goes overboard this tide will take ’em out,” he said shortly. “That’s where we’ve got to be-outside; and as close as we dare.”
Instantly Nicolo saw the force of that reasoning. Another short tack brought them astern of the stranded boat, and perilously near the first line of breakers.
“It’s still deep here, though the surf’s worse,” cried Scander above the breakers. “It’s soft bottom, and a fathom or more under us.”
Nicolo suddenly realized how well Scander knew his ground; how he had indeed “cut his teeth on the Cachopos!”
Scarcely an hour had passed since they had sighted Abdul. He glanced at the moon. If they could only hold their little boat for another hour!
Scander turned and pointed to the sail. For a second the canvas had spilled the wind! “Wind’s going down,” he shouted.
Incredible as it seemed, Nicolo sensed the truth, for when they again came about, it was easier. With amazing strength and skill Scander had managed to shorten sail, and, braced against the windward rail, was easing and tightening the sheet to meet the combers. Then again, and still again, they manoeuvred to hold their position.
In agony of suspense Nicolo watched the waves wash over the wrecked vessel. Would the tide never turn so they could approach
her? Still, her condition was growing no worse. As Scander had said, she lay fast in soft sand.
A crash of surf made him shudder. Another wall of foam swept over the grounded ship. Could anyone live through that?
At times, when the skiff’s position was favourable, he could dimly distinguish figures clinging to the rail. Ah, what if Nejmi were not one of them! He braced himself against an overwhelming fear. He fixed his mind on the helm, realized that at last they were actually approaching the wreck.
Suddenly a faint call seemed to mingle with the wind and sea. A man’s voice! Nicolo strained his ears.
“A line! Stand-by-for-a line!” Scander began to let down the sail as Nicolo eased the skiff still nearer.
And then it came, whistling through the air – a rope flung with unmistakable skill. But to Nicolo’s horror the line fell short. Conflicting thoughts raced through his mind. Would those scoundrels save themselves-leave her alone out there?
Hark! That call again! Between the crash of the breakers came detached words: “Stand in closer-as close as you dare! You must take off a woman!”
A woman-a woman! Thank God, a woman! In ecstasy of relief Nicolo almost dropped the helm, but quickly recovered. Scander lowered the sail, and together they worked the tossing little boat through the now lessening rollers toward the wreck.
“That’s not Abdul’s voice,” he heard Scander exclaim. He finished stowing the sail.
Again came the whistling line. This time Nicolo caught the wet coils and took a turn through the forward chuck. Violently as the skiff still tossed, they had now worked her close under the stern of the wreck.
“That talk about taking off a woman may be to put us off guard,” Scander said briefly. “Better let me stand forward – you haven’t a knife!”
“What! Abdul would . . . when we’re saving him?”
“Humph! He’d slit our throats and then get away in our boat!”
They were now as near as they could be to the stranded vessel. Plainly two figures only were at the stern rail. Suddenly, to Nicolo’s incredulous joy, he heard Nejmi’s voice –“Nicolo!”
“Nejmi!” he called back, all but choking over the dear word.
Scander took position in the tossing bow. The still strong ebb stood off their boat, with the fastened line taut.
“Send the girl first!” cried Nicolo.
Words unintelligible to him floated back, but there was an astounded cry from Scander:
“There’s only Marco and Nejmi! Abdul’s gone – washed overboard!”
“Thank heaven!” cried Nicolo on first impulse.
“Best thing that could have happened,” agreed Scander. “There it comes,” he shouted as a second line whirled aboard. He caught it, bracing himself with feet wide apart. “I’ll haul in. You stand ready to take her.”
In spite of being soaked to the skin, Nicolo, as he fixed his eyes on the far end of the line, felt moisture break out on him. If at this last moment Marco should play them some treacherous trick … if the line should break . . . But at last, a slender figure swung off from the wreck. He saw that Scander was breathing hard, as length after length of line disappeared through his deft hands. Now she was half across. Now he could plainly see the delicate face, the wet, clinging clothes.
And, now, reaching, stretching out for her, he had drawn her, with tremendous effort, to the rail. For a moment she clung, dazed and breathless. In another moment he had raised her, drenched and limp, into his arms.
“Nicolo!” she gasped. Then her eyes closed. “Gama!” she murmured faintly. “They’re plotting to kill him!”
Something blinded Nicolo, took him by the throat. Herself at death’s very door, yet thinking of Gama-of the Way!
“Nejmi, darling!” He caught her to him, trying to think what he should tell without breaking his promise to Rodriguez. “Gama doesn’t need us, dear,” he whispered. “They can’t hurt him now! I mustn’t tell you any more yet – I’ve promised.”
She leaned back from him, staring at him with startled eyes. “Nicolo! Where were you going?” she asked him breathlessly.
“I was coming back from Cascaes. I’d just heard there what I’ve told you.”
An instant he felt her arms go around him. Then Scander was saying, gently, “My child, I must take off this line.”
She looked up at him, and for the first time seemed to realize his presence. “Scander! Dear Scander –” Wildly weeping she dropped her head on his shoulder. “You’ve always saved me!”
His rough hands soothed her. “I’d give ten years of my life not to have had this happen to you, my child!”
“It’s my fault! I took him off to Cascaes,” cried Nicolo. “Did you know us when we passed, Nejmi?”
“Yes! And I was so afraid Abdul would – know!” she panted. “I was sure you’d come. And I watched you following all the way –” She broke off with a sound of anguish. “Master Abel, Mother Ruth! What are they thinking? Oh, Scander, hurry, hurry back to them.” She seized his hands, her face convulsed. “We must get back to them!”
“Are they alive – safe?” Nicolo and Scander cried in the same breath.
“Abdul never saw them,” she said, reading their thoughts. “When he came to the house I – I –” She closed her eyes, shuddering uncontrollably.
“Spread your coat out for her, Scander,” cried Nicolo as he untied the line about Nejmi’s waist. “And hand me mine-under the seat there. She mustn’t talk any more now. We know Master Abel and Mistress Ruth are safe.”
“Heaven be praised for that!” Scander fervently exclaimed. He snatched the coats they had flung off, laid one in the cockpit, and tossed the other to Nicolo, who stripped off Nejmi’s wet cloak, and wrapped his coat around her.
As they lifted her into the cockpit, she opened her eyes. “Abdul didn’t find the maps,” she whispered. “They’re safe!”
“Maps!” cried the two men in the same breath.
“They’d gone clean out of my mind!” Nicolo declared.
“So that’s how that blackguard found her!” Scander said between his teeth. “I’ve a mind to leave that scoundrel of a Marco out there for his part of it!” he wrathfully burst out.
“Why, Scander –” Nejmi’s hand reached out for his sleeve –“it was Marco who saved me! If he hadn’t lashed me to the rail, I’d have – have gone – the way Abdul did. Do save him, Scantier,” she shuddered. “You – you don’t know how dreadful it is out there!”
Scander’s only reply was an uncompromising “Humph!” but he nevertheless hurled the line, and presently they saw a bulky figure drop over the stern of the foundered ship.
Both Scander and Nicolo took a hand with the line, for Marco’s weight was a different matter from Nejmi’s.
“Wind’s going down fast,” observed Nicolo, as they hauled. “See the difference in the waves just since Nejmi crossed. We won’t have any trouble getting home.” Home! Blessed thought! Nejmi, Abel, Ruth-safe. Sunshine flooding court and workshop. He could have put his arms around all Lisbon!
“Good enough for you if we’d left you out there,” Scander greeted the bedraggled Marco. “Helping that partner of yours to steal this poor child!”
“But he didn’t! Abdul came alone!” cried Nejmi.
“I swear I never laid eyes on her till I saw her with Abdul at the dock,” Marco declared.
“That makes it a little better,” Nicolo told him shortly. “We’ll settle with you later. Sit down now and dry your precious self in what’s left of this breeze,” he directed the abject sailor, who blankly took off his coat.
With a stroke of his knife Scander cut the line. For one moment Nicolo stopped to draw his coat still closer around Nejmi, and to feel her hand in his. Then he had grasped the helm, while Scander was once more raising the sail. Within minutes – though it seemed hours – they had picked up headway against the remnant of tide, and were making slowly toward the lights of Belem.
“What happened to Abdul?” Nicolo inquired, when s
teering had become a matter of merely guiding the helm.
“Last I saw of him,” replied Marco, “he was cutting down the fores’l. A breaker took us broadside, and when it cleared, he was gone!”
Nejmi raised her head a moment above her coverings. “And if Marco hadn’t lashed me to the rail,” she added, “I’d have gone with the next breaker.” Wearily she lay back, and when Nicolo looked at her again, he saw she was fast asleep.
“What made you try the South Channel in ebb tide and an inshore wind?” Nicolo inquired after a while.
“It wasn’t my doing,” Marco sullenly replied. “I looked everywhere for Scander to take us out, and when I couldn’t find him, Abdul swore we’d make it alone.”
Scander shrugged. “What could you expect? All he knew was the Mediterranean, that never saw a tide! Still,” he mused, “it’s hard to believe. Abdul, who laughed at Allah and the devil, and stuck his knife into anybody that crossed him, carried off like the greenest lubber! Kind of spoiled your plans, didn’t it?” he asked pointedly.
Marco’s eyes shifted, and he fidgeted in his seat.
“Yes!” Nicolo put in sarcastically. “You were expecting to accomplish quite a stroke with Gama, weren’t you?”
Marco’s heavy face puckered up like an aggrieved baby’s. “How’d you know so much?” he whimpered. “I don’t care, though, if you do know,” he quickly added. “It’s all up now.”
“What made Abdul change his mind so sudden about leaving?” Scander demanded.
“He heard that Zakuto was to be at the proclamation about sundown. He figured he could steal the maps while the old chap was away from home, and get off before he came back.”
“So that was his hellish game!” Nicolo exclaimed, as he suddenly recalled the coin Pedro had held up to him. “He made a cat’s paw out of old Pedro, you see, Scander, to point out Master Abel, so as to be sure no one was at home.”
Scander’s palms came together in sudden enlightenment. “That’s how he found Nejmi alone!” He glanced at the sleeping figure. “We mustn’t speak so loud!”
“But he never got the maps,” Marco said, in a low tone. “I knew the minute I saw him at the dock that something’d gone wrong.”
Spice and the Devil's Cave Page 22