The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

  Half fearfully she stared at him. “That was what he said.”

  He sank back, breathing like a man at the end of a race. Slowly the hand which had been on the Girl’s arm went to his forehead in a sailor’s salute, and they heard him murmur “Thy dream… Great Navigator!”

  He glanced up, as if for the first time he remembered the others, and his gaze rested on each face in turn. “This child,” he solemnly said, “has answered the question that all Europe is asking.”

  “She is the Way of the Spices!” cried Abel.

  “And Covilham was right! Covilham was right!” shouted Ferdinand. In his excitement he had leaped on his chair, and was wildly swinging his arms. “The old fellow knew what he was about—just as I always said he did!”

  The men burst into a furor of talk, of questions, of speculation. They had hoped and dreamed so long that, now reality had come, they hardly dared believe it.

  The Girl surveyed the commotion with puzzled eyes. “Why do you care so much? That little bit between Sofala and the Devil’s Cave—what of it?”

  In the complete hush that followed this astounding innocence, Ruth raised a triumphant voice: “There! That’s what I’ve been asking for the last ten years, and you all thought I was stupid!”

  There was an uproar of laughter, and everyone was volunteering explanations to the Girl, when Abel put them all aside.

  “There’s only one way to make her understand,” and, diving into the table-drawer, he brought out a map.

  But no sooner did she see what he was about, than she shrank away from him, her eyes full of dread. As it happened, no one noticed her but Abel and Nicolo. Nicolo was already starting toward her with that overwhelming impulse of protection which her fright roused in him, when he heard Abel murmur, “My poor child, forgive me! I didn’t think.”

  “Wait, Zakuto!” Diaz reached out for the map that Abel was hurrying back to the drawer, spread it on the table, and for several moments studied it. Finally, his finger rested on a certain spot. “Those ‘white stones,’ of which this child says her father told, are—or were—here.”

  “I saw them go aboard when you set out from Lisbon, sir!” Gama broke in.

  “So did I!” rejoined Abel. “Don’t you recollect, Bartholomew, our watching the men cut the King’s name and yours on them?”

  Diaz’ eyes glistened. “The last thing, just before we put about for home,” he said, in a moved voice, “d’Alemquer and I, and one or two others, set those two pillars up as near as we could to the big Cape—the Devil’s Cave, as you call it.”

  “It’s pretty clear,” Scander thoughtfully said, to the Girl, “that someone knew what your father had in mind when he went down to those parts. Wasn’t it just after he’d got back to Aden that—that—”

  Her brows drew together as at a stab of pain. “Yes,” she murmured, “just after. So, when I heard Master Abel and Ferdinand talking about those places I thought—I was afraid to think!” She suddenly turned to Abel. “Where is Master Covilham now?”

  “No one knows,” he mournfully told her. “In the same message that he sent us from Cairo, about the sea route to India, he said he was bound for Ethiopia for further information of the Orient. That is our last news of him.”

  “And that,” Gama gravely added, “was a long time ago.”

  “You don’t know, child, from where your father came,” Ruth ventured softly, “nor his name?”

  The Girl shook her head. “No; and I never heard him called anything but ‘Effendi.’”

  “Like you’d say ‘sir,’” Scander explained. “And that reminds me,” as a sudden thought struck him, “I’ve always wondered what your name was.”

  Ferdinand jumped to his feet. “The time I’ve spent trying to find out without her suspecting me!” His eyes, luminous with mischief, challenged her, and Nicolo, observing that intimate glance, was devoured with envy.

  “As if I didn’t know, every time!” she shyly retorted.

  “Well,” Scander insisted, “what is it?”

  But it was to Abel that the Girl turned entreating eyes. “How could I tell you before? I was afraid you would guess from it my language, my country—all. And my only safety was to wipe out every clue. But now—” she made a pleading little gesture—“now, that there’s no more need to be afraid, it’s—Nejmi!”

  “Nejmi!” the sailor repeated. “Star! That’s what it means in Arabic,” he announced to the room, with an air of large satisfaction. “Star!”

  “As lovely a name as I ever heard!” Gama’s usual reserve melted into boyish enthusiasm.

  “I’ll agree to that!” Abel caught him up. “And the best of it is, it suits its owner. Isn’t that so, Ferdinand?”

  The boy’s eyes danced. “Couldn’t have chosen a better, myself, sir!”

  “It’s easy to say, too,” Ruth comfortably contributed, with her arm around the Girl. “Not like some of those outlandish, foreign words that tie your tongue in a knot.” Softly she tried it over: “Nejmi—Nejmi.”

  “And who shall say,” Abraham asked, looking from face to face, “that it’s not a portent from the heavens that we shall find the Way of the Spices? For it’s the stars that steer the mariner’s course!”

  “I’m thinking, Master Abel,” Nicolo spoke up, “that what we’ve been hoping for has happened: the thing that will start Manoel up!”

  “Right! I fancy he won’t dally much, after he’s heard what Nejmi and Scander have told us. Who’s to take it to him? You, Bartholomew?”

  “Wait a bit, sir!” Gama’s voice was perturbed. “Was it your idea that someone of us should repeat to the King what we have heard tonight?”

  “Why not?” Abel challenged. “Have you any doubt about the truth of it?”

  “Do you remember, sir,” Gama asked, in his turn, “that Master Abraham said, just now, the name Nejmi might be a favourable portent for the Way? Now, if he could put this matter to Manoel as coming from the heavens, instead of from…”

  “You’re right!” Diaz declared. “I see your point, Vasco.”

  “So do I,” Abel ironically rejoined, “and I’m not afraid to put it into plain speech, either! You’re trying to say, Gama, without being disrespectful to the King, that he might be jealous of Nejmi’s and Scander’s part in this business; that he’d get more glory out of sending an expedition to find the Way if he joined hands with heaven rather than with mere humans!”

  “Any way you like, sir—” Gama was laughing and a little embarrassed—“but the thing is to carry our point; and everybody knows Manoel pins his faith to what’s read in the stars!”

  “Master Abraham is the man for us,” Diaz agreed, “and the less said about what’s gone on here, tonight, the better.”

  “You can tell Manoel,” Abel said, happily, “that the last word in navigation instruments will be ready for the Captain-Major of the expedition!”

  Involuntarily, everyone’s eyes sought Diaz, for it was quite understood to whom Abel was speaking over Manoel’s shoulders.

  “We must put down the names of those places you mentioned,” Abel told Scander, and he eagerly bent over the map. He began to sketch in the new landmarks while the sailor named directions and laid off distances with a stubbed thumb.

  “There’s Aden, of course, and Malacca, considerable away to the east’ard—”

  “An island?” Abel’s pencil hovered in mid-air.

  “A big port, thick with traffic as carrion with flies,” Scander inelegantly replied. “Then there’s the Banda Islands, of course, where the cloves grow; and Macassar away over at the tail end of things.”

  Ferdinand eyed him with envy. “I suppose you’ll get the job of master pilot to the new expedition.”

  “Me?” Scander’s fist banged on the table. “Nothing in God’s earth’d make me take that blasted trip. I’ve had enough of spice!”

  Under cover of the talk that followed, Nicolo watched for a chance to speak to Nejmi. He had seen her shrink back when Abel had bro
ught out the map. Now she was standing, alone, at the windows. As often as he dared, he stole a glance at the delicate face, flowerlike above Abel’s black cloak. This was his time he decided, but before he could reach her, he saw Ferdinand step ahead of him. As he hesitated, wondering how to join them, Ferdinand beckoned to him.

  “Come here! We’ve a question for you.”

  Nicolo noticed, as he approached them, that the Girl was grave and perturbed, and in her eyes was a hint of the old fear. Ferdinand’s were dancing.

  “Nejmi wants to know who paid for that sugar,” he grinned. “You don’t happen to know, do you?”

  Before Nicolo could muster a reply, Gama approached, and took Ferdinand by the arm. “Come along, youngster,” he said, good-naturedly, “or you’ll get a reprimand for late hours.”

  “And for deviltry in general!” Nicolo murmured, in an aside, as Ferdinand passed him.

  “Do you know?” the Girl insisted, as they were left together.

  “It was I.” He tried to make his voice casual. “The captain is a friend of mine,” he hastily added as he saw the colour flame in her face, “and he wasn’t on hand to speak for himself.”

  She looked at him with distressed eyes. “That makes twice that I’m in your debt! If you hadn’t caught the bird the other day—”

  A thousand things rushed to his lips. “Let it stand that way,” he said, trying to laugh off the incident. “I’ll promise to claim payment when I need it!” Then, lest he should say too much, he turned the subject: “I saw you go away, when Master Abel brought that map out.”

  “I hate it!” she told him in a low, vehement tone. “I wish I need never see it, never hear those names again. Are you—” she paused as her frightened eyes searched his—“are you like the rest of them?” She motioned toward the heads bent over the table. “Do you want, more than anything else, to find the Way of the Spices?”

  For a moment he hesitated. How should he answer her?

  He looked meaningly at her. “Not more than anything else!” he said, very low.

  * * * *

  Night was graying into dawn when Nicolo went silently down the long stairway behind Diaz and old Abraham. Out of these incredible hours he carried an indelible image of the fright in Nejmi’s eyes. Already he called her so to himself. Around her fear his mind revolved. To banish it, forever drive it away, ah, what would he not give?

  He hugged to him the thought that, all unwittingly, they had made port together; together become citizens in a strange land. Dear fate that had singled him out to make good that empty barrel! He could have found it in his heart to envy Scander—Scander, who had veritably snatched her from death, stood between her and worse than death. A wave of gratitude rushed over him. That chap should have the best he could give!

  Had she, he rambled on to himself, noticed that he had been the only one to say nothing about her name? How could he, with the whole room talking about it? Something had taken him by the throat, paralyzed his tongue. But some day all those dear, suffocating things should be told to her.

  Nejmi! He said it over to himself, and across his fancy smote the vision of a star of palest gold set in a tender, evening sky.

  CHAPTER 11

  Debacle

  All day, at his office, Abel answered questions and gave advice to those who dropped in to talk over a rumour which was said to come from the palace; for his intimacy with Abraham Zakuto and Bartholomew Diaz was known to give authority to his information about court matters.

  How much truth, he was asked, was there in the report that an expedition to India was on foot? Were John’s ships to be finished, or new ones built? What about prospects for contracts to outfit such an expedition with supplies, clothing, arms? Would his bank loan to a small firm that was competing for such orders?

  Just as he had finally contrived an excuse to slip away, a new-comer seized his arm.

  “A minute, Zakuto! What’s behind all this gossip? They’re telling it around that Manoel’s started things going on the strength of some nonsense he’s got from the stars. Know anything about that?”

  “What do you care,” Abel evaded, “from where his authority came, so long as he’s acting on it?”

  “Have you faith in a sea route to India?” the other pressed him. “Fact is, my firm would buy up land for warehouses, if there were good prospects for the Oriental trade.”

  “Man,” Abel assured him, “the sea route to India is just as sure as the ground under your feet!”

  He went off inwardly amused. If they all, Manoel himself included, could know what was really behind this tremendous business: a girl and a sailor!

  At every corner he heard men eagerly discussing the new excitement. Little boys, importantly beating their drums, bumped into him. What was that they were shouting?—“Enlistments in the Expedition of the Spices!”

  So they, too, had caught the fever! From every tavern door, between drunken snatches, there floated out to him the name of Diaz. Yes, thought Abel, Diaz was the unanimous favourite for the new command. No question about it. What a splendid piece of fortune for Portugal that she had the right man for the great crisis which was upon her. For once, at least, the times and the man fitted!

  Bartholomew, he mused, would soon be up to tell him the latest developments; perhaps even today; and, with that in mind, he hurried along.

  “Master Abel!” he heard someone call, and looked around to find Gama out of breath behind him.

  “Vasco! Where’d you come from?”

  “I’ve been trying to catch up with you, sir. I had to see you at once.”

  Abel looked closely at him. “Why, man, what is it? You look ill.”

  “I am, sir! I’m sick at heart, and you might as well know why, first as last: the King has named me to head the Expedition.”

  Like a man stunned, Abel stared at him.

  “I knew you’d feel that way about it,” Gama murmured. “I could hardly speak when he told me what he wanted me to do.”

  “Wasn’t there even mention of Bartholomew?” Abel managed to get out.

  “Not a word. ‘I want you to go, Vasco,’ Manoel told me—just like that. I protested that my brother Paulo would make a better leader than I, but the King wouldn’t hear of that, though he promised me Paulo should command one of the ships.”

  “But Bartholomew’s experience, what he’s actually dared and accomplished, does all that count for nothing?”

  “There’s every reason in the world why he should have this appointment, and not a single one why I should,” Gama said deprecatingly. He suddenly threw back his head and looked Abel gravely in the eye. “But now that the King has named me, I have sworn before God that I will see this thing through.”

  “Does Bartholomew know?”

  “I begged permission of His Majesty to tell him, myself. It was the hardest thing I ever did!”

  “Gama, you’re a man!” Abel’s hand shot out to him. “That was hard to do. But I’ll warrant that Bartholomew, too, took it like a man!”

  Tears stood in Gama’s eyes. “Nothing ever so wrung my heart, sir. He would have no apologies, no explanations; just held me together with those eyes of his. And when I asked him if he’d take charge of the whole thing—a good many, you know, sir, under such circumstances would have refused altogether—he stood like a soldier at attention, and merely said, ‘When shall I begin?’”

  “Magnificent!” Abel cried. “I’m going to find him and tell him so as soon as I can! Where is he, do you know?”

  “I believe, sir, he meant to see you at your house, perhaps is there, now.”

  There was a subtle note in Gama’s voice that made Abel look sharply at him. Was the man withholding something?

  A minute later, he forgot the incident, but as soon as he caught sight of Diaz’ face, at the workshop door, that hint of foreboding in Gama’s tone vaguely recurred to him.

  They stood a moment without speaking, hands on each other’s shoulders.

  “I’ve just come
from Gama,” Abel at last said.

  Understandingly Diaz nodded. “Then you know that I’m to superintend preparations for the Expedition?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Abel sorrowfully answered. “Ah, Bartholomew—Bartholomew! Who’d have dreamed that things could have taken such a turn? Everyone talking of you, and no one even thinking of Gama!”

  “I’ve had my chance, man,” Diaz calmly told him. “Why shouldn’t he have his?”

  “But surely you’re to go with the Expedition?”

  “I doubt it. The King was hinting, yesterday, that I was needed at the fort at Mina.10 But,” he broke off, “that isn’t what I’ve come to speak about.”

  Again reminded of Gama’s tone of foreboding, Abel glanced apprehensively at him.

  “You must brace yourself, Abel!” Diaz said, very low, and he squared his own shoulders. “You knew, didn’t you, that the marriage contract between Manoel and the Infanta of Spain would be signed within the week?”

  “I supposed as much. Well?” Abel’s voice was as puzzled as his face.

  “The Infanta of Spain, Abel!”

  At the marked emphasis on that dreaded name, Abel’s face changed, and over it crept a slow fear.

  Diaz turned away his head. “The price of that contract,” he faltered, “is the exile of your people from Portugal.”

  For a moment Abel wavered, put out his hands as if to steady himself. “You mean we must—go?”

  “Would that I could have borne this blow for you!” Diaz cried out in an anguished voice. “I couldn’t bear to have it first reach you through the public announcement, so, with the King’s sanction I came to you myself.”

  Abel sat down heavily, and motioned to close the doors. “Ruth mustn’t hear this just yet—nor Nejmi. This edict is to be pronounced—when?”

  “In a few days, after the signing of the royal contract.”

  “Does Abraham know?”

  “Oh, yes; Manoel told him first of all, and afterward Gama and I were called in. Abraham was too prostrated to come to you, so—”

  Abel’s hand groped toward the other’s. “I’m grateful to you, Bartholomew. It’s something to know there’s one I can look to in this world that’s fallen around me.”