Spice and the Devil's Cave (17 page)

“Tell me, when those times come, Nejmi!” He drew close to her. “When you feel the lock bursting, promise you'll tell me.”

“If I tell anyone, Nicolo!”

“Nejmi!” This, he decided, was the moment to speak of his caravel's name. “Would you mind if – if I called my ship
The Golden Star
? ”

She looked at him with shy, startled eyes that turned, even as he watched them, tender and radiant.

“The best of luck, Nicolo,” she said, very low, “to
The Golden Star!”

Somehow he got out of the court, somehow reached the foot of the long flight. It was his instinct to keep by himself, jealous of letting any thought outside the incident with Nejmi invade its precious secrecy. Over and again he lived every detail of it: the word, the gesture with which it had begun, had progressed, had ended.

Down the hill he wandered, past the Cathedral. In a vague sort of way he noticed how softly the evening light touched the massive walls. He looked back at the grim old Castle, aflame with the sunset's fire! A sudden loneliness swept over him. Oh, that Nejmi were here to enjoy with him this beauty! He began to wonder what she would say to him the next time. And so, dreaming and hoping, he ran into Ferdinand as dusk was falling.

“You've heard about the reprieve?” the boy hailed him. “Gama sent me up to Master Abel's with the first news of it. Oh, Nicolo, his face, when I told him!”

“I know! I saw him at work on the astrolabe, but he didn't see me-wasn't even conscious of anything but of what he was doing.”

“Speaking of that astrolabe, the date for theExpedition's sailing has just been set!” Then, to Nicolo's demand for details, “Yes,” Ferdinand declared, “Master Diaz says everything is ready, and Gama's just called the last conference with his captains and pilots. I saw them all coming out from it, and they looked solemn, I can tell you!” He was silent a moment. “Lord, but I wish I were going!”

“I suppose everything at the palace is upside down with excitement!”

“Oh, yes. No one can talk of anything but the Expedition. Even Manoel's wedding comes second to that!”

“How does Gama take it all?”

Ferdinand's face softened. “I used to think, Nicolo, that he was overbearing. I don't think so any longer. He stands as straight as ever, holds his head thrown back just the same, but – I don't know just how to say it-somehow there's a new look in his face: proud and humble at the same time! And you know, he says if anything should prevent his finding the Way, that he's not coming back!”

“I like him for that. But he'll find it – barring death!”

Ferdinand's eyes danced. “He used to play the gallant with the women,” he ran on, “but now, when they hang around him, and gush over him, he sort of backs off, says he's something to attend to, and vanishes! I told him the only trouble he'd have in picking a wife was to know which one to pick!”

“Just about like your impudence!”

Ferdinand assumed an injured air. “That's what he said! And then, into the bargain, one of the old cats, who'd give her eye teeth to marry him, overheard me and reached out to slap me-only I dodged. And me going on eighteen!”

“Women have a way of slapping truths they don't like!” laughed Nicolo.

The boy's eyes sobered. “All except Nejmi,” he qualified, in a tone that made Nicolo glance at him with a sudden pang. Was it possible that Ferdinand, too, had set his heart on her?

But already he was rattling on: “By the way, I heard something about you, today.”

“About me?” Nicolo's voice was incredulous.

“Yes. Manoel was talking about a street row that someone had reported, and then he turned around to the Venetian ambassador, and began to twit him with a Venetian's making all the trouble.”

“What did the ambassador say to that?” chuckled Nicolo.

“Why, that was the curious part of it. ‘Yes, sir,' says he as cool as you please, ‘but, also,
another
Venetian put a stop to it!' and he mentioned you. He seemed to know all about the row. He spoke of your business, too-threw out something about Venetians knowing how to build ships!”

Who could it be, Nicolo puzzled, when he had left Ferdinand, that had told the Venetian ambassador of his part in the brawl and the other particulars about him? Carefully he reviewed the incident. To be sure, there was that seaman with the thick accent, who'd asked him about his ship-building, but certainly a fellow of that class wouldn't be on familiar terms with anyone at Manoel's court. Wait, though! Hadn't he, according to his own account, given evidence that he knew of the Jewish reprieve, before it was made public? Where else could he have got that first information except from the palace?

Well, granting that it was he who had mentioned him to the ambassador, what harm? Still, Nicolo reflected, it was just as well not to be too free with a stranger, and uneasily he recalled the eyes that had seemed to watch him through their dropped lids while he talked of the Expedition.

And by San Marco! It was because of drinking with that chap that he'd forgotten about Pedro's tailor friend, and the cloak that was to have been, ostensibly, for Gama's honour – but really for Nejmi. … Ah, Ferdinand's eyes, his softened tone, when he had spoken of her!

CHAPTER 14

Vasco da Gama

L
ATE
on the night before he was to sail, Gama slipped away from insistent visitors and climbed the hill to Abel. He found him and Diaz in the court.

“I've been telling Abel,” said Diaz. “of my orders to leave the Expedition at the Verde Islands and proceed in my own caravel to Mina”

“You don't know when you'll be back?” Abel asked.

“No. But I know the spot that will see me first when that time comes.” Diaz' eyes clung to the square of light from the workshop. Abruptly he turned toward the gate. “Well, Abel! …”

“I'll go a step with you, Bartholomew.”

Gama saw the two figures linger at the head of the stairs. Then one of them disappeared. When Abel returned, alone, the desolation in his voice didn't escape Gama.

“Bartholomew gone, you gone – what will the workshop do without you? Nevertheless –” he laughed forlornly –“let's go in there, Vasco!”

“Master Abel,” Gama said, when they had sat down at the big table, “I want to tell you something that no one knows; no one, that is, except Diaz and my captains. From the Verde Islands I'm going to put straight out to sea, fetch a wide compass to the southeast, and then head about toward the Cape.”

“So! You aren't going to follow the coast, as Diaz did?”

Gama smiled. “That's all everyone thinks I have to do: repeat Diaz! But that's not the reason for my own plan, just to do something different. The reason is that by going well out and then making for the Cape, I avoid foul weather off the Guinea coast. You see, Master Abel, I've been studying our navigation charts and talking with my pilots. You knew, by the way, that I'd been lucky enough to get hold of Diaz' old pilot, d'Alemquer?”

“Good! What better could you ask than one of Bartholomew's veterans?”

“I wish I could have got Scander, too; knowing the Indian coasts as he does, he'd have been invaluable to me. Strange, how stubborn he is about sticking to Lisbon.”

“Well, after that Aden experience, can you blame him? But I'm going to keep him busy here, helping me on maps. Between us we should be able to get out something that will be really useful.”

Absently, Gama assented. Suddenly, he leaned forward. “Master Abel, there's something I want you to know: once I've set sail to find the Way, no mortal shall turn me back; but if I fail to find it and the world beyond, I shall not return.”

“I should expect that of you, Vasco,” Abel gently replied. “Just that.”

“I want you to know it from my own lips in casein case of the unforeseen.”

“I, too, have something to tell you, Vasco.” From a cupboard Abel took the completed astrolabe and compass, and placed them on the table. “That's the first metal astrolabe this side of the Orient,” he said, a little proudly. “And this compass is the best I can make-though my next will be better! But if-” his voice sank to a whisper –“if it ever helps you a fraction as much as it did me . . . Vasco, it steered my soul out of hell!”

Silently Gama took up the instrument, turned it this way and that, ran his finger tips along the clean, true lines and the satiny surfaces.

“Master Abel,” he said, very low, “if ever, on the long ways ahead of me, my courage slips, I shall look at this compass until I stand firm!”

Next morning it was very early, when Vasco da Gama waked; much too early for anyone to be about. He was glad, so that he might meet, alone and quiet, this sovereign day. There had been so much to think of, to work out; details, questions, decisions, people in endless procession always waiting for him, always besieging him.

An arrow of flame shot across his bed. He sat up, to see the sun coming in at the window. His Day! Would that his father and mother were here! Ah, well, who knew but from some far, golden window a kind God would let them look forth? The thought filled him with a quick humility, for, after all, it was only a freakish accident that this day's choice was himself. Diaz should have been the man. Instead, Diaz had sweated under the gruelling of the past months, so that another should reap full honours.

How unflinchingly the old veteran had stood by, handled the practical end of the preparations with a resource that experience had made superlative. How patiently he had hunted up his own men of the famous Cape Expedition-those of them that were still living. How rigorously he had weeded out the new enlistments, until he had assembled a crew to his liking. And who but Bartholomew Diaz would have insisted that, in addition to his own craft, every man of them must learn how to handle carpenters' tools, do his turn at the forge, and caulk a hull!

The sun was now blazing full into the room, a midsummer sun that climbed strongly, since it must do a long day's work. Gama flung back the bed covers, and stood on the floor. As the morning air struck his warm body, a boyish tingling ran through him: to go-now! Now, while the day and he were keen and young, to slip away from the final ceremonies, the crowds and streets and noise and heat, and run with the tide. But there! Already someone at the door.

Time to dress for Mass, for the procession. For convention's sake he must wear this gorgeous velvet cloak, but a sailor's coat and breeches were more fit! This one and that one at his elbow, while he snatched a mouthful of breakfast. … “If you see a good buy, when you get out there, Gama, don't forget me! “Messages from so and so to save a moment for a last, private word. Lord! As if every moment weren't already full to bursting!”

Now the Cathedral. Every flagstone of the floor crowded. Every niche jammed. Armour and head dresses and perfume and spurs and velvet. Paulo, Nicolau Coelho and himself, in the place of honour, next to a curtain behind which sat Manoel. He must listen to the service – the Bishop of Lisbon, himself, was officiating – but somehow it was impossible to fix one's thoughts on anything, in this air thick with flaring tapers, and one's eyes dizzy with so much gold and scarlet. . . . How white Paulo looked in the shifting lights! He wasn't over strong, and if anything should happen to him, this favourite brother . . .

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.