“Stand by for a line,” shouted the pilot above the wind.
“Rodriguez! I’m coming aboard!” Nicolo peered up at him, expecting to see the usual, broad smile. ‘He’ll be surprised to see me here,’ he thought.
But the face that he saw by the flickering light was possessed by something deeper than either laughter or wonder. What had happened? Nicolo wondered. Could it be pirates?
And then Rodriguez, leaning far out, was speaking, entirely ignoring the pilot, too—and asking such a curious question: “Master Conti, is the King at Lisbon, or at Cintra?”
“The King!” Nicolo blankly repeated. “The King—” Almost he’d added, “What the devil!” but managed to stammer, “He went to Cintra yesterday.”
“D’you get me out here to gossip?” bellowed the pilot. “Want me to take your vessel on to Lisbon or not? I’ll give you two seconds to make up your mind.”
“My vessel stays where she is,” Rodriguez snapped back, “but you’re to set me in at Cascaes!”
“Wait, Rodriguez! I’m coming aboard,” Nicolo shouted, hardly believing his ears at his astonishing order. “I’ve got to see you.”
But already the man’s legs were over the rail—he was sliding down the side of The Golden Star.
“What’s the matter with him?” muttered Scander. “Never saw him before like this.”
A minute later, Rodriguez’ feet were feeling for the skiff, and, as he dropped into the stern, he ordered the pilot to cast off.
“No, wait!” Nicolo sharply interrupted, “I’ve something to tell you that’ll make you change your mind about going to Cascaes. We must put to sea immediately!”
“Sorry, Master Conti,” Rodriguez struck in, “but I mustn’t lose a moment in getting to Cintra. I’ve news for the King that—that won’t wait. Tell your pilot to cast off—do, sir!”
Nicolo looked closely at him. The man was plainly under great strain and in deadly earnest. But what news for the King could possibly count now, when every moment was telling either for—or against—Gama? Besides, the pilot was grumbling at the delay.
“Listen, Rodriguez!” He bent forward and whispered in rapid succession, “Gama’s on his way home! There’s a pirate fleet somewhere off the Moroccan Coast waiting to destroy him. We must warn him, you and I. We must put right about as fast as we can—lose no chance to intercept him.”
As Nicolo spoke, he saw an extraordinary expression spread over the other’s face. “Holy Mother!” he heard him murmur, and then, to his amazement, Rodriguez raised an arm and sang out to the pilot: “Cast off!”
“What d’you mean ‘cast off’?” cried Nicolo angrily, “after what I’ve just—”
“Master Conti—” Rodriguez thrust his face close to Nicolo’s—“cross yourself, and swear that you’ll ask me no questions, and that you’ll tell no word of this.” Then, as Nicolo, in utter bewilderment, touched forehead and breast, he felt the other’s lips at his ear: “Set your heart at rest—Gama’s safe!”
It was at this particular moment that Nicolo, staring dumbfounded at Rodriguez, heard the pilot bawl out some order, and saw Scander scramble forward.
“I’ll manage alone,” he called as he passed. “You and Rodriguez’d better have your talk out.”
The two dropped into the stern, while Nicolo, bursting with the tremendous news, tried to keep from shouting it aloud.
So it was Rodriguez who spoke first. “How did you get wind of this pirate plot against Gama?”
Briefly Nicolo described what he had learned during the last three days. “By putting together what this fellow Marco has let drop, and the talk from the ships that have been attacked, Scander and I are certain that there’s a pirate fleet waiting to make a clean sweep of Gama.”
Rodriguez shook his head gravely. “A terrible blow it’d have been to Portugal. Terrible. Everything would have been lost—Gama’s work would have gone for nothing. It was just mere chance that those scoundrels didn’t get me.”
“I was eaten up with worry lest they would, and we’d lose cargo and all!”
“I’d have run square into them if I’d gone where I was headed, the Algarve12 and Cape Verde. What saved me was this: four days ago, I was putting out from Terceira13 loaded with sugar, when I heard this—this news. So I changed my course for Lisbon, and ever since I’ve been going at full speed, day and night, with all the canvas I could carry.”
“Only four days between here and Terceira?” exclaimed Nicolo. “Why, Rodriguez, you’ve made a record! But you must yet get to Cintra. How will you—”
“Oh, that’s just a matter of borrowing a horse from a man that I know here. I can make Cintra by midnight.” He was silent a moment, then, a little shyly, he added, “I’d like to tell the King what you were going to do for Gama!”
“Don’t, Rodriguez. Things of this sort sometimes take odd twists—turn ’round and slap one in the face! No, not a word.”
“As you say, Master Conti,” Rodriguez unwillingly conceded. “But I’ll tell you this: I’d have been proud to take The Golden Star out with you, if there’d been need for her—and, as it is, I’m proud to be sailing her for you, sir! I’ll be back by sunrise to take her in.”
Nicolo glanced at the fast nearing shore. In these last few moments should he reveal the rest of the plot—about the maps? Yet, why expose the Venetian ambassador and Venice? No, Scander and he would attend to that. And Scander—didn’t he deserve to be taken into the great secret?
“Rodriguez,” he whispered, “tell Scander what you’ve told me! He’s done more than I have in ferreting out this plot. You can trust his tongue!”
“Right!” the man came back heartily. “But it must be quick—we’re here now!” He moved forward just as the keel grated, and leaped on the wet sands. Hardly a pace behind him was Nicolo, with the astonished Scander in his wake.
“Rodriguez has something to tell you,” Nicolo said to him. “Keep her where she is!” he called, as he passed the pilot. “We’re leaving in her, directly.”
They started across the beach, while Rodriguez, without slackening speed, made Scander swear secrecy. Then, “Gama is safe,” he solemnly announced. And while Scander stared, open mouthed, “I’ve sworn to myself,” he rapidly continued, “that none shall know the whole of this matter before the King knows. That was why I anchored so far out, and would let no one aboard. Lest my crew should be tempted to talk!”
He broke into a run, and only swung up an arm as sign that he’d heard Nicolo’s “Good-bye and good luck!”
“I knew, first thing I saw him, that something’d happened,” Scander exclaimed. “Lord, but it’s wonderful! Where d’you suppose Gama is?”
“Wherever he is, he doesn’t need me!” Inwardly Nicolo hoped that he wasn’t too openly happy over the fact that he was returning to Lisbon.
“I’m not sorry we’re going to finish this job together!” Scander confided, as they walked back to the skiff.
Nicolo paid the pilot, and they put off, this time with Scander attending to the sails, and Nicolo at the helm.
“We’re in luck to have the wind with us,” Nicolo remarked, “even if this ebb tide is against us.”
“And we’re in luck to have this moon as bright as day and not to have to go around through the South Channel, with all those cross currents dragging a body over to the shoals.”
“If currents were our only worry!” returned Nicolo. “I don’t feel too easy, I can tell you, about the maps.”
“Oh, those chaps won’t leave without me. And as soon as it’s daylight we’ll find out from Master Abel what’s happened.”
“As soon as it’s daylight!” Nicolo reflected happily.… Morning in the court! Cool fragrance of dew-wet bloom. Early sunlight tiptoeing across slumbrous shade, touching a filmy dress, soft, bare arms, sweet, shy eyes.
“Shall we change places?” Scander sang out as they neared the narrows of the North Channel. “I cut my teeth on the Cachopos, you know!”
“Stay w
here you are, and call the course!” Nicolo returned. “You can see Cascaes light. This wind should take us through, square as a die.”
For the remainder of the narrows, Nicolo, at the tiller, steered by Scander’s quiet directions.
“Not much room to spare, is there?” Scander chuckled, as at last they passed Lage Point and came inside the bar.
“But at that, I’ll chance this side every time against the hellish rip in the South Channel,” rejoined Nicolo. “Still, if it hadn’t been for the moon so bright, you and I might be on the North Cachopo now!”
“Better ease her off a little,” Scander called, letting out the sail. “The wind’ll be square behind us past Belem.”
“She’s rough over there, off South Cachopo,” Nicolo remarked.
“Yes. The breakers sound plain even here,” said Scander as he made a half turn in the main sheet.
For some time they were silent. The skiff forged ahead under tight canvas. They should make Belem in less than half an hour, Nicolo calculated. Then Lisbon, and after that—
A gleam of white off the Belem shore caught his eye.
An outbound boat!
“Odd, that is,” he heard Scander comment. “Carrying that much sail, in such a wind!”
Yes, thought Nicolo, it was odd; a considerably larger craft, too, than their skiff—but of course she wouldn’t try the bar on this tide against an inshore breeze. As he watched, the craft came up into the wind and lay over toward the south shore, and somehow, then, he got the impression that she was feeling her way out to sea.
“She’ll cross us,” he heard Scander say in a low tone.
“Yes, we’ll go astern,” rejoined Nicolo. He suddenly felt a shift in the sail. “What’s that for?” He wheeled around to see Scander motionless, eyes riveted on the approaching vessel. The next minute Scander let out more sail.
“Do you want to hail them?” exclaimed Nicolo.
Scander nodded. “Bring her nearer,” he said, in the same low tone.
A little puzzled, Nicolo obeyed, and eased the helm. The two vessels, he saw, must now pass very close. The sound of the oncoming prow grew audible. What could Scander possibly want of her—leaning far over the port side like that, straining his eyes on her?
He heard a startled exclamation—” They’ve given us the slip!” Before his wits could seize Scander’s meaning, the vessels were passing, two faces glaring down at them from her stern—Marco and Marco’s running mate!
But who was behind Marco, staring out at them as the stern flashed by? A face—a woman’s face! Was he stark mad? It couldn’t be! Yet—it was! That face like carved ivory—Oh, merciful heaven, it was Nejmi’s!
For a stunned moment Nicolo stared at Scander. He saw the sailor pale under his tan.
“Come about!” he yelled to him like a man frenzied. “We must follow them!”
But already Scander was furiously hauling in the sheet. “Too slow!” he shouted back. “We’ve got to gybe. We’ve got to risk it.… That’s Abdul—the captain of the Sultana!”
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 scram
bled 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.”
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