Spice and the Devil's Cave by Agnes Danforth Hewes

ajar, was now, he saw, fast shut. Was the Girl behind it? … Or where? Why this mystery and secrecy about her?
    Old Abraham’s voice broke in on him. “Did you say you’d seen the spices growing?” he was eagerly asking Scander.
    The sailor nodded. “Seen ’em and traded in ’em, both.”
    â€œIn India, I take it?” Gama inquired.
    â€œWell, sometimes. But oftener, the Arab captain I shipped with regular, got his spice first hand from the growers: cinnamon from Ceylon, and pepper where it’s plenty, ‘round Penang, and cloves and nutmegs from Am-boyna and the Bandas.”
    No one spoke. The very air was charged with profound suspense. Abel and Nicolo exchanged elated glances and Nicolo said, in a low tone, “That checks my Conti letters!”
    Ferdinand’s eyes, fixed on Scander, seemed more than ever like smouldering fires. “Is the spice trade the big thing in that part of the world, as it is with us? “he asked.
    â€œYes and no, lad. It’s this way: all east of Aden it’s about the same, gold, pearls, ivory, silk.” He reeled the list off as casually as one would say flour, eggs, milk. “But at Aden there’s a change and spice jumps into the lead.”
    â€œWhy there?”
    â€œWell, you see it’s near enough to the Mediterranean to feel the European premium on spices.”
    â€œThen why couldn’t a European,” Nicolo quickly took him up, “who understood both ends of the business, make a good thing of it in Aden?”
    â€œHumph! I was just waiting for someone to say that.” Again that hostile note.
    At once everyone was on the defensive: “Why not?” “What’s the matter with that?”
    â€œWhat’s there against my Aden scheme?” Nicolo insisted.
    â€œA European wouldn’t be what you’d call exactly welcome at Aden. That’s what there is against it!” Scander said shortly. He looked deliberately around the table. “You gentlemen thinking of going into spice?”
    â€œNot so much for personal profit,” Abel replied slowly, “as for the nation; for Portugal.”
    â€œKnow anything about the other end of the spice trade, the Arab end? Well, before you break into it, I can tell you a thing or two that might save you some trouble.”
    In the words there was foreboding that riveted every eye on the tanned face.
    â€œIt was one time, some years back, when we’d just made Aden from Calicut,” he abruptly began, “that we got wind of some gossip that had come up the African coast, about a Franj ship-their word for European-that had been seen away to the south.”
    There was a stir around the table. Everyone’s eyes sought Diaz, and those near him saw his hands clench. But Scander, intent on his story, went on:
    â€œIt didn’t sound sensible to me, but when we started outh to Melmde, for ivory, up popped the story again; kept on popping, too. Seemed as if every place we went, we heard about this Franj ship.”
    â€œDidn’t they know you were a European?” Gama asked.
    â€œFunny part of that was that I’d been there so long and got into their ways so, that I didn’t think of it myself – at least, not at first.”
    â€œWhere did you say that place Melinde was?” Abel interrupted, and jotted hasty notes as the sailor directed.
    â€œThe next time we were at Aden,” Scander pursued, “talk about the Franj was running high, and in particular about – about –” he nervously wet his lips –” a Franj spice dealer there.”
    For a moment he seemed to have forgotten his audience, and his eyes, staring over their heads, had a curious, dazed expression. Someone moved uneasily, and at once he recovered himself.
    â€œOdd, how talking about it brings it all back,” he said, apologetically. “They were telling it around that this Franj had the finest