Spice and the Devil's Cave

by Agnes Danforth Hewes

  “Ruth,” he said with an effort, “Abraham’s gone,” and he repeated his message.

  Ruth’s eyes blazed. “Why doesn’t Manoel put us all to death, and have done? Do you remember-do you remember, Abel,” she faltered, “what Abraham told us happened in Spain, when they tried to force baptism on our people? That parents killed their children and then themselves rather than be false to our faith? Oh, God above, must that happen here?”

  Trembling, she sank on a seat. In silent misery Abel sat beside her, chafed her cold hands.

  “If I could only shut it out, forget what he said!” she moaned. “Oh, those poor fathers! Those mothers drowning themselves and their babies!”

  “Let Manoel try his baptism on us!” Abel said, vehemently. “Let him see what will happen if his priests come here!” He looked at her with sombre meaning.

  For a minute she closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were brave and steady. “Yes, Abel, dear!”

  From that day, ready at an instant’s notice, there lay, in one of the workshop cupboards two little vials filled with a colourless liquid. Why they were never used, Abel, in the anguished days which followed, forgot to wonder or ask. And Diaz never told him of the exemption which Gama had begged from Manoel, and had received as a special favour.

  “As long as we must go,” Ruth said, heavily, “we’d better take Abraham’s advice and go as soon as we can find transport.”

  “No!” Abel was firm. “Not until we know where we’re bound. If it were only you and I, Ruth-”

  “You’re right,” passionately she agreed. “For her sake, poor homeless lamb!”

  Abel rose and began restlessly to pace back and forth. The necessity for decision forced itself on his misery like a blade in a mortal wound. He paused to look out of the windows. Could it be that he was to leave it all? The climbing roofs. The blue bowl of Tagus. The bustling harbour front. Oh God, it was too bitter!

  Suddenly Ruth’s arms were flung about him. “Abel – Abel,” she was stammering between her sobs, “well start over again! There’s plenty of time – we’re not old!”

  “Of course we aren’t,” he managed to say. “Not for a long time yet, my dear.”

  “If I could only bear it all for you!” Her arms tightened about him. “Ah, Abel, there’s no one like you in the whole world!”

  “Well, my dear –” there was something like the old twinkle in his eyes –“if I’d thought there was another like you, I’d have been put to it to know which of you to marry!”

  Nejmi’s steps in the court made him say, quickly, “Go to her, Ruth. She mustn’t suspect. And I’ll begin right away to inquire about where to go. Rabbi Joseph may have something to suggest.”

  Left alone, he turned again to the windows and, standing there, gazing down on his Lisbon, he was seized by the impulse – not merely wish or desire, but consuming necessity – to go to the shipyards. Yes, even in face of engulfing tragedy, in spite of all, he must see those ships – the Expedition of the Spices! And without saying a word to Ruth or Nejmi he hurried out of the house and down the long stairway.

  He was not half-way to the water-front, when someone stopped him with a ghastly rumour of a massacre somewhere outside Lisbon. A farmer, on his way to market, had brought the first report. Later, a Jewish lad, spent with hunger and crazed with terror, had staggered into town and gibbered out horrors that were past belief. And even as Abel sought here and there for further details, there arrived a small company of fugitives with a story that took Lisbon’s breath: a band of Jews from outlying districts, on their way to embark according to Manoel’s order, had been attacked by bandits who, on the strength of a report that the exiles had swallowed jewels and coin, had ripped them open by the hundreds.

  In a very sickness of spirit Abel wandered blindly about. What streets he walked he would never know, and passers-by he saw as shadows moving in a sea of sunshine.

  At last he became aware of noise, loud and insistent. A strong odour of hemp and resin stung his nostrils. Bewildered, he glanced about, and, with a stab of recognition, saw that he was at the dockyards. He recalled that, some time ago, he had meant to come here; in fact, this very morning, when he was standing at the workshop windows.

  In spite of his leaden heart, his numb senses thrilled to the surge of life about him. Near by, carpenters planed huge timbers; over here, coopers were bending hoops; and there, billowed about with seas of canvas, tailors cut and sewed new sails. Caulkers’ mallets beat a steady tattoo to the scream of saws; pulleys groaned, windlasses shrieked.

  He caught his breath as his eyes rested on three tall caravels that reared against the sky: the ships that John had ordered for the finding of the Way! The ships that Diaz had designed! Well, at least, Bartholomew would have the satisfaction of seeing them put forth on the great adventure, and, undoubtedly, of seeing them return. But he, Abel Za-kuto, where would he be when the Expedition came back? Ah, his compass that was to have guided it . . . his astrolabe! . . .

  He walked on to watch a fleet of high prowed fishing boats toss the catch to waiting groups. The river bank swarmed with women and children washing and scaling fish, which others salted and piled. Farther along, he saw men skinning and quartering carcasses. Beyond were rows of barrels ready to receive the cured meat. “Gama’s crews must eat and drink,” Abel reflected, as a single-sailed wine carrier passed on her way to the warehouses.

  How busy they all were – and how little they needed him! What was it to them that his tools were idle, the workshop silent, the compass unfinished? Well, hadn’t he told Diaz that Lisbon would go on just the same, even though half of it lay in its death agony? What cared the other half, going its triumphant way, drunk with the glory of this supreme adventure!

  He stepped aside for a boy with a great bundle of flares. Abel watched him plant them at convenient intervals, and then set them afire. Could it be that work would go on after dark? Yes, here were fresh shifts to relieve the day workers.

  In the jostle Abel felt a hand on his arm and heard his name spoken.

  “Nicolo?”

  “You, Master Abel, down here? Why, I was just going up to your house to tell you that I’ve stopped my own work – loaned my men to Diaz!” There was suppressed excitement in his tone.

  “Loaned your men?”

  “Haven’t you heard, sir? The news came yesterday from England that Cabot is sailing in search of a northwest passage to India!”

  Understandingly Abel assented. “So preparations must be rushed to prevent his getting too much of a start on-on Portugal! Is that it?” Almost he had said “on us “-forgetting that Portugal no longer counted him hers.

  “And of course,” Nicolo pursued, “it’s no secret that Columbus is moving heaven and earth to get off ahead of us. So, yesterday, as soon as we heard this latest news about Cabot, Master Diaz ordered night shifts. The least I could do was to loan him my men – but only on condition that Scander shouldn’t be impressed into the Expedition. He’s here, you know, at work.”

  A moment later, the tanned face peered out of the dusk. This was Scander’s first meeting with Abel since the ban against the Jews. For a full minute the small, sunken eyes surveyed him in silence. Then the hairy fist grasped his hand.

  “You’re hard hit, sir! And I’m sorry – sorrier than I ever expected to be about anything.” He hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other, then, “Odd, this business of religion,” he broke out. “It’s like a saw – works both ways. If you happen to touch it –” He clicked his tongue to indicate something swift and final. “It all but did for me once, and I haven’t forgotten!”

  From anyone else this frank handling of the subject would have rasped Abel, but, as it was, he felt a curious comfort in the simple directness.

  “I don’t wonder,” he said, “that, after the Aden experience, you’re firm on not going with Gama.”

  “Lisbon’s good enough for me,” Scander meditatively replied. “I’ll stick here.” He looked sharply at Abel
, as if minded to add something. Evidently thinking better of it, he reiterated, “I’ll stick here.”

  Long afterward Abel recalled the incident: that starting to speak, that change of mind, that stubborn “I’ll stick here.” But, at the time, it made no immediate impression on him, for both Nicolo’s and Scander’s voices, even the rush and stir around him, seemed to come from very far away. For between him and the roaring shipyards, between him and, indeed, all else, rose up a host of mutilated corpses that would never be avenged, that already were forgotten under a pitiless sky.

  “You did right,” he said at last, to Nicolo, “to loan your men.”

  He saw Scander go to join a knot of men at work in the light of a flare, and mechanically he turned away with a vague thought of home.

  “I’ll walk along with you, sir,” he heard Nicolo say, but was not again conscious of his presence until, on the long flight of stairs, he felt a cloak thrown about him. “It’s raining so hard, sir!” Nicolo was apologetically explaining.

  As the gate swung back, Abel halted, caught his breath. Across the wet flags of the court, streamed light – light that came from the workshop! He was dimly aware that Nicolo walked by his side, and that together they entered the room.

  Under the great “lighthouse” lamp, with something in her hands, sat Nejmi, apparently too absorbed in it to notice them. Abel took a step toward her. She looked up at him, nodded absently to Nicolo.

  “I’ve rubbed and rubbed,” she said, anxiously, “but I can’t make it shine.”

  She laid aside a heavy cloth that Abel used for polishing and held out to him-the compass frame! Incredulously he stared at it; at her who had shrunk from sight and mention of all that had to do with the sea, from all that had to do with the Way and its finding!

  “How do you polish it?” she was pleading. “If you’ll just show me –”

  “Fetch me that bottle of oil, and that box, over there.”

  Abel spoke with an effort, and his hands were trembling. In spite of his fondness for her, he was conscious of bewilderment, even of annoyance. Why had she chosen this time to do this thing? Couldn’t she see how spent he was? Hadn’t she sensed his utter and heart-sick revolt from his instruments – she who was usually as sensitive to the moods of those about her as a flower petal to sun and wind?

  But Nejmi, apparently engrossed in the business in hand, gave undivided attention to the oil and rotten stone that he was mixing.

  * * *

  ABEL LOOKED up at last, to find himself alone. How had Nicolo gone without his knowing it? Nejmi, most likely, had grown sleepy, and was in bed – Ruth, too.

  His eyes returned to the frame in his hand. What a polish! Better even than he had expected; repaid him for that long process of selection from those many samples of wood. A beautiful colour, too, as of deep red roses dipped in wine. That paste he had mixed, he mused, was particularly effective. He took a pinch of it, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, and smelled it. A good, clean smell it was, so wholesome, so real!

  He rose and laid the instrument on its own precious shelf, and stood, looking down on it. Tomorrow he would try more paste, more rubbing. Tomorrow? Ah, God! For the moment he had forgotten! What had he to do with tomorrow or with any part of the future? Despairingly, his eyes sought the compass. That all that beauty of workmanship, of form and colour, should be wasted!… Wasted? He felt himself trembling as something leaped in his breast. Didn’t Gama still need a compass? Wasn’t the Way still to be found? Well, then, why not tomorrow? And as many tomorrows as would fulfill – yes, his part in the Way!

  But after that? The old agony laid hold of him. Exile. Hunger. Death.

  Ah, for something to steady him, to keep that black flood from again engulfing him! His glance fell on the paste, the polishing cloth. He took them in his hands, grasped them in a sort of desperate defense from himself. He would put from him everything but the one thought that tomorrow he would polish. Polish! And so, from hour to hour, not looking ahead. For the present he mustn’t reason about the future – he wasn’t clear-headed enough. He would hold himself only to taking one step at a time, not thinking of the next.

  He laid down the cloth and paste, and stepped into the court for a breath of freshness. The rain had stopped, and there was a broken sky. Great clouds raced before a clearing wind, and between their dark, fleeing masses Abel saw the sweet radiance of stars.

  CHAPTER 13

  A Street Quarrel

  NICOLO was sitting at a table in The Green Window, finishing the fish that Pedro had fried for his breakfast.

  “Hardly out of the water before it was sizzling in oil I” announced the old man, and Nicolo made out that he was expected to praise its freshness.

  “You take good care of me, Pedro,” he said. “I’m lucky to be with you.”

  “Provisions, these days, aren’t easy to get,” Pedro plaintively remarked. “Meat and fish are highest I’ve ever known on account of so much being needed for the Expedition.”

  “Cheer up, Pedro! Gama’ll soon be off, and when he gets home, there’ll be such a rabble to sign up for the next trip to India, that The Green Window won’t hold them, and you can charge anything for a meal; any price you like!”

  Nicolo’s banter was not so whole-hearted as it sounded. While he spoke of Gama’s return he was heavily thinking ‘Where will Nejmi be then? ‘

  “That’s what I hear,” Pedro hopefully returned, “that prices are going up. There’s a tailor friend of mine says he’s even going to raise his figure before Gama sails.”

  “Good business!” commended Nicolo. Then, because Pedro’s mention of a tailor stirred a half-formed thought, “Think your friend would make me a cloak for the big day?” he ventured.

  It had occurred to him, some time ago, that he would like to have something new to wear on the day the Expedition sailed. To be sure, Nejmi wouldn’t be among the spectators. He had heard Abel say they would watch the scene from the workshop. But, he reflected, afterward he could go up to Abel’s. His fancy dallied with the notion: the new cloak with the sunlight in the court weaving patterns on it – and Nejmi near by. Even, he might drop a hint to her that she was its incentive! And at the same time he would make bold and tell her that his ship was to be named The Golden Star!

  “He’d do it fast enough, if he had his regular help/’ Pedro replied, “but he’s had to loan his men to make sails in the shipyards. You knew Captain Diaz was having two sets of sails for every ship? But I’ll tell you where his tailor shop is; and say I sent you.”

  As Nicolo neared the address Pedro had mentioned, he became aware of some disturbance ahead. Loud voices rang out and, looking in their direction, he saw a knot of spectators already gathered, and others running to join them. He hurried forward, and came up in time to see, in the centre of the crowd, two sailors making unsteady passes at each other. One of them he knew, by his dress, was a Venetian; the other was unmistakably Portuguese, and they both were half tipsy.

  “Funny, what you think you’re going to do with those three or four little ships – caravels is it you call ’em?” the Venetian was drawling in bad Portuguese.

  “You won’t think they’re so funny-nor so little – when you see your galleys coming home empty, one of these days,” retorted the Portuguese. “Gama’ll teach you a thing or two!”,

  “Oh, curse Gama!” shouted the Venetian as he reeled toward the other.

  There was a growl from the bystanders, and several started for the Venetian.

  “String him up and let him dangle!” cried someone.

  Nicolo waited for no more. He dove through the crowd and stepped in front of the Venetian. “Better let me take you back to your ship,” he sharply told him.

  “Take me back to my ship, would you?” yelled the fellow. “Get out of my way before I take you where –”

  Furiously he swung on Nicolo who, just in time swerved aside, while he, unable to stop himself, shot helplessly forward and struck the ground, face down.
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br />   “That’s what you Venetians’ll come to!” jeered the Portuguese sailor.

  Nicolo stepped up to the grovelling figure, and jerked it upright. “Come along with me before you start trouble,” he advised, in a low tone; then, to pacify the crowd, “He doesn’t know what he’s saying!” he laughed.

  “I don’t, don’t I?” stammered the Venetian. He raised his fist, which Nicolo promptly caught and held.

  Suddenly someone pushed toward them, and laid hands on the sailor. A tall, swarthy fellow, Nicolo noted, with bushy black hair.

  “Been drinking again, eh?” he asked with a strong foreign accent; then, aside to Nicolo, “Shipmate of mine,” he explained, as he walked the other man away.

  The sailor looked back at Nicolo. “I’ll settle with you, yet,” he called, “you cursed Portygee!”

  Nicolo burst out laughing. “As it happens, brother, I’m a Venetian!” Then, as the bystanders, including the tipsy Portuguese, had moved off, and there seemed no more chance of trouble, he continued on his way to the tailor’s.

  Some distance on, he was aware of someone falling in beside him: the tall, dark stranger!

  “Lucky for me that you interfered,” the man laughed, in his foreign accent. “If the crowd had got their hands on that mate of mine –”

  “It might have been serious,” Nicolo agreed.

  “That chap,” pursued the other, “is the handiest you ever saw on a deck. But he can’t keep away from drink, and then there’s no lengths to which his tongue won’t go!”

  “It was a poor time he chose, with the mood Lisbon is in just now!”

  “Yes, the town’s gone mad over Gama,” the stranger admitted. “I stopped in here to see if I could pick up a cargo – being a small trader, myself – but a fellow has no chance at all at his own affairs, with everyone taken up with this Expedition.”

  “I’m in exactly that fix,” said Nicolo. “I’ve a caravel half built, and there she’ll stay till Captain Diaz gets through with my men!”