Spice and the Devil's Cave by Agnes Danforth Hewes Page A

spice concern on the coast, and the story went that he’d married an Arab girl to keep in with the native merchants – who are all Arabs, you understand. I’d seen the place, sorting sheds and warehouse, and his own house, too, a big palace of a place. Well, instead of putting to sea, the way we usually did, we hung around. I noticed several merchants come on board, and they appeared to be having some sort of conference with Captain. He had something on his mind, too. The way I noticed it first, he was so in earnest over his prayers; seemed almost like he was having a real talk with Allah!”
    â€œHow would you have happened to hear him at his prayers?” Abel inquired.
    â€œThat’s so!” Scander exclaimed. “I’ve been among the Arabs so long, I forget you don’t know their customs. You see, sir, every good Mohammedan prays three times a day: drops on his knees wherever he is, faces toward Mecca, and starts right in, loud and free. No whispering in dark corners or behind curtains the way you do here-nothing like that.
    â€œWell, I began to suspect something was afoot, and sure enough, one morning, Captain told me that all up and down the African Coast and the Red Sea, across to Malabar and Cochin and Calicut, word had been passed to stand together against the Franj, to do no business with them, and to make way with them when it came handy.”
    â€œI’d like to take my chances with a good stout caravel and a Portuguese crew!” Gama quietly commented.
    â€œAll the time he was talking,” the sailor went on, “I could feel something coming. Finally, he said Aden was going to start in by cleaning out the Franj merchant, and – ’Will you help?’ says he, looking me in the eye. It went through my head like lightning that he was trying me, which side was I on, for I knew he’d not forgotten I was a Franj. ‘What you going to do, Captain?’ said I, playing for time. He didn’t mince words: ‘Burn,’ said he, ‘burn and-kill. Are you with us?’”
    â€œâ€˜When?’ said I, still playing for time, and thinking that, if I couldn’t warn this Franji, I’d at least find a way to get out rather than take up against one of my own kind, as you might say. But he was too sharp for me. ‘At once, when evening calls the Faithful to prayer. Are you with us? ‘he asks again. But not a word did he say of my Franj blood! ‘Certain, Captain,’ I said, I’ll go with you.’ I reckoned that was the only way to save my skin. Later, I figured, I’d find some way to get back to the Mediterranean.”
    â€œWhy folks want to kill each other,” Ruth exploded from the doorway, “for stuff that makes your tongue smart and your eyes water, is more than I can see!”
    â€œMaybe you could, ma’am,” grinned Scander, “if you could sell it for half its weight in gold, as the Arab traders do!”
    â€œBut the call to prayer?” Nicolo reminded him.
    â€œYes . . . yes.” Again there was that nervous wetting of the lips. “Well, just as soon as we heard it, Captain gave the word, and we all started for the Franj outfit. Some carried long, two-handed native swords, and some had knives. The warehouse was right on the water front, and I figured that as soon as we got there I’d make a break for the house and warn the Franj merchant.
    â€œBut no sooner had we reached the place, than Captain herded us around to the big sorting shed. Through the cracks we could see the pepper and cloves and cinnamon piled up, and the sweaty, half-naked natives with their brown arms and hands gliding in and out as they sorted. It was half-dark in there and hot-hot as hell’s cockpit. And all the time we could see those shiny, brown bodies and their black eyes that sort of slipped around in their heads – instead of their heads turning, as yours and mine would, you