Through the glass she saw that the Spanish captain was smiting—his shot was a challenge to battle, he thought he could quickly best the black frigate, ill-captained as he deemed she was.

  The Rana’s guns burst in rapid succession and raked the brigantine’s decks and rigging. Turning about, to provide only a narrow profile to the Spaniard’s guns, the Rana continued to fire and, under Sirena’s keen direction, was preparing to ram the larger vessel.

  As the two ships neared one another, the captain of the Crimson Fire raised his ship’s horn and called out in haste: “Quarter! We ask quarter!” Then, throwing his cutlass to the deck, he called out, “We surrender! We surrender!”

  Few of the Spaniard’s missiles had struck the Rana, and those had caused little damage. Nevertheless, Sirena was not of a mind to spare the crew of the offending trader until Jan reminded her that since she had not been able to let the Spanish ship sail on—and bring the D.E.I. Chief Pensioner to suspect her allegiance to the Spanish Crown—she ought, at least, to spare the Crimson Fire’s crew as she had the Dutch brig’s. “Why stir up Alvarez’s suspicions of a Dutch alliance?” he said.

  “You’re right, Jan,” the Capitana replied. “We’ll take her cargo this time, however—to share among the men.” Sirena laughed heartily. “We’ll get the Spaniards into their jolly-boats, check their hands for any sign of The Hook—and off they may go, paddling away, home to Java! Unless they want to try for Spain!” she roared. “Two ships in one day!” Sirena smiled. “And I only sought one!”

  A cheer rang out from her men for the gallant Capitana.

  Sirena stood on the captured trader’s decks, musing, and grinning as she did. In the distance she could see the Crimson Fire’s jolly-boats rowing wearily back toward the Sunda Strait—on the heels of the Dutch trader’s two tiny craft. What a sight the four would make, limping into Batavia harbor late that night or the next morning!

  Her crew, ransacking the brigantine’s hold, had brought up silks and other Javanese handicrafts and left the nutmegs, peppercorns, and other spices below. What need had they of those? They lived in the Spice Islands! But their wives, back in Teatoa, would put the other cargo to good use. And the Spaniards had, they discovered, also carried kegs of a type of Javanese whiskey that could be transferred to the Rana’s stores.

  “Make haste, men!” Sirena cried out finally. “We’ve the tide with us yet, and we want to reach the river by midday. We’ll want to pass those four cursed dinghies long before they see us turn into the River of Death!”

  She turned on her heel as she heard a heavy puffing behind her. It was Jacobus, the Rana’s cook.

  “What have you there, old man?”

  “An interesting chest, Capitana—which I found in the captain’s cabin … and,” he chuckled wickedly, “which I just happened to open with my handy blade.” Dramatically lifting the lid of the chest, he displayed to Sirena myriad shining pieces of eight, as well as a rainbow of gemstones.

  Sirena toyed with the gems, and pocketed a few. Then she called to her men. “Here, my hearties, a pleasant booty Jacobus has discovered for you! But fast, men, we must away. And we still must gut this proud brig!”

  The sleek black frigate skimmed the calm sea, several miles away now from the slowly sinking Crimson Fire. Caleb stood, once more, next to Sirena as she held the ship’s wheel.

  “What do you think will happen when the four jolly-boats get back to Batavia?” he asked.

  “Don Chaezar Alvarez will throw a beastly fit-and Mynheer van der Rhys will charge around his office like a bull!”

  Caleb laughed, but Sirena’s expression turned thoughtful. Mention of Chaezar had brought to mind the startling information the Dutch captain had passed on earlier … “Unlimed nutmegs”—what were they? What did the expression mean?

  Her musings were interrupted a moment later.

  Jacobus, the toothless old cook, came out on deck carrying a mug of strong, fragrant coffee for his “capitana.”

  Accepting the mug from him, she asked, “Jacobus, you were on the deck, were you not, when we took the Dutchman’s ship?” He nodded. “What did he mean when he spoke of ‘unlimed nutmegs’ and how some Spaniard, he thought, might be intending to start a nutmeg plantation nearer Europe?”

  From his surprised look, it was evident to Sirena that Jacobus was amazed to find she was ignorant of the most stringent rule of the Indies—and the single most important precaution upon which the Indies trade, both Dutch and Spanish, was based. “Capitana, no fertile nutmegs are allowed to be shipped out of the islands. All the merchants—Dutch and Spanish alike, as well as any incoming ships of other nations—abide by the rule. For only if the Indies holds the monopoly for the spice trade are the Dutch and Spanish fortunes secure. We want no other plantations established in, say, the Caribbees or Africa by, say, the French or English or Austrians, or anyone else.”

  Sirena noticed that Caleb was evidently embarrassed at her ignorance. The boy must know the rule, too, and had obviously thought she was aware of it …

  Jacobus continued speaking: “Every planter has his slaves pick the ripe nuts, and then certain of the slaves immediately steep the nuts in a bath of lime—which makes them infertile, though when they’re cleaned they can of course be used without fear.” A sharp gleam burned in Jacobus’s watery, pale-colored eyes. “As for the common seaman like me—well, he’d never be able to get his hands on the fertile nuts, but”—the old cook shook a warning finger—“our persons and gear are frequently checked anyway. And, Capitana, anyone caught smuggling fertile nutmegs out of the Indies can expect the death penalty!”

  Later, alone at the rail of the frigate, Sirena thought over Jacobus’s words. And the Dutch captain’s, whose ship she had gutted. Who among the Spanish—if indeed it was the Spanish—could be foreswearing the agreement made between the two nations and stealing great hordes of fertile nutmeg seeds? It would have to be a person of some power. And … only with difficulty and a great deal of bribing could it be a merchant or trader, for he would have only tenuous contact with the plantations. The most likely suspect would be a plantation owner, or someone who dealt directly with the island chieftains whose people grew the nutmegs. Someone like Regan … or—Don Chaezar Alvarez! The man’s vainglorious personality, his desire for luxuries, his wish to return to Spain an honored and wealthy man … all these things came immediately to mind, though Sirena cursed herself that she should accuse, even mentally, a proud Iberian, a man of her own race. But … could Don Chaezar be removing the nutmegs from the island—hiding . them somewhere beyond the seas, or even on a neighboring island? Or perhaps simply secreting them somewhere on Java, ready to abscond with them to his beloved Spain when the opportunity presented itself? But, then, where would he grow them in the homeland? Spain was far too dry, too rainless …

  The wind blew Sirena’s hair back from her face, the salt spray misted her eyes. Her heart lay heavy in her chest. Mournfully she remembered Jacobus’s words: “Anyone caught smuggling fertile nutmegs out of the Indies can expect the death penalty.” She was so mesmerized by her own thoughts that she failed to hear the soft, padding footsteps behind her. And then, suddenly, an uneasy feeling settled between her shoulders. The ship was too quiet. Where were all the men? Oh, yes, she remembered, she had told them to go below for ale. Perhaps she should join them—she had been “distant” for far too long.

  She swung around from the rail—

  And stared into the lustful eyes of the seaman Wouter.

  She stood as if rooted to the deck, her mind spinning back in time to the moment when she stood like a trapped animal, staring into Dick Blackheart’s eyes. Panic stunned her, but she willed her body into movement. Stumbling, she backed off one step, then two steps, her eyes glazed with fear. Step for step, Wouter stalked her—till he had her backed into the doorway of her cabin. Sirena knew she had to do something, but the fear coursing through her veins rendered her immobile. Her cutlass! She had to get her cutlass. Where was it? God in heaven! It was resting on a coil of rigging, where she had stood at the rail. But she had to do something. Anything! Her indecision cost her dearly, for Wouter forced her into the room and slammed the door shut.

  No words were spoken as the seaman forced her backwards … backwards … till she collapsed on the narrow bunk, her eyes dilated with fear. Merciful God, not again! Not ever again!

  A blood-curdling, high-pitched scream ripped from her throat just as Caleb burst into the room. Fearlessly, the boy brandished his rapier, and his voice was high and shrill as he demanded Sirena’s release.

  “Get out of here before I kill you, you whelp,” Wouter shouted. “That puny blade is no threat to me. Now get your carcass out of here!” the seaman said, bringing up his cutlass.

  Caleb, beside himself with fury at the torment in Sirena’s eyes, shouted, “En garde!” and advanced a step aiming the rapier low and bringing it up with a lightning-quick movement. He noted the surprise in the hooded eyes of the seaman—for Caleb brought his blade straight up and then down with such force that the man’s trousers ripped from groin to ankle. Clumsily, the seaman swung the heavy cutlass, missing the boy and slicing the air, and agile and quick-footed as a cat, Caleb leaped and parried with expertise.

  Sirena knew that she must summon aid: the boy was not yet fully trained in the art of swordsmanship. And he would soon tire. On trembling legs she sidled out the door and shouted, with all her strength, “Jan! Jacobus! Anyone!”

  The two men, accompanied by another seaman, Willem, and quickly followed by several more, arrived on the run, their cutlasses drawn.

  “Nothing must happen to the boy! Nothing must happen to my brother!” Sirena screamed, gripping Jan’s arm.

  “He appears to have the battle in hand,” Jan grinned. “That scurve Wouter is so full of ale he can barely see straight! The boy will finish him off in another minute.”

  “No, no, Jan, Caleb mustn’t kill! Somehow you must intervene. The boy is too young to have blood on his hands!”

  Jan looked with compassion at the Capitana. He nodded, waiting for an opportune moment. Caleb parried each thrust of the seaman’s cutlass with wide purposeful lunges. Twice he drew blood from the drunken sailor. And both times he seemed to regain his stamina at the sight of his opponent’s spouting blood.

  “End it!” Jan shouted. “Let him go, Caleb, or kill him!”

  The youth turned at the sound of the first mate’s words and lost his advantage. Quickly Jan sliced the air between the seaman and Caleb, thrusting the boy out of harm’s way.

  “Open your drunken eyes now and fight like a man,” Jan said brutally as he sliced at the man’s legs. “No man on this ship swears his allegiance to the Capitana and then turns mutineer. You deserve to die like the vermin you are!”

  “Bah,” Wouter spat. “She’s a piece of flesh, just like all women! She has one use and I claim her as mine!”

  Wouter’s hooded eyes were those of a vulture as he swung his cutlass, missing Jan’s head by a wide margin. The first mate thrust again and again, forcing Wouter against the wall and knocking the cutlass from his hand. Then Jan drew back and swept the cutlass between the rebel seaman’s ribs.

  A fountain of blood gushed from Wouter’s chest; his eyes went wide and disbelieving as he fell forward, his hand grasping for Sirena’s booted foot. “You’re—just a—piece—of flesh,” he managed to gasp out in a froth of blood as his body slumped to the plank floor.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sirena bided her time with short strolls around the vast van der Rhys gardens and frequent excursions into the kitchen to talk with Mella about the tasty new dishes the cook was now preparing for her mistress and young Caleb. Sirena had a growing affection for the kindly Malayan woman, who was enjoying her work immensely now.

  At the back of Sirena’s mind, however, the question still nagged: Was it truly Don Chaezar Alvarez who was hiding vast quantities of unlimed nutmegs somewhere on the island, or sending them off to a cache in Africa, India, or some Caribbean isle, She hoped, out of pride for her country’s honor, that it was not he—not a Spaniard. But, she told herself, I must discover whether or not he is the offender. And discover it I will! If only to clear the name of the Spanish Crown! I

  Today Sirena had been sewing in the shade of a luxuriant, wide-leaved shrub in the corner of the gardens farthest from the house. Abruptly laying aside her needlework, she stretched her arms wide and gazed around at the beautiful flowers that met the eye on all sides. Graceful breadfruit trees swayed and dipped in the light easterly breeze. Soon it would rain and then she would have to go indoors. With an anxious eye to the light fluffy clouds that were rapidly changing color, she noticed Caleb catapulting himself over the garden gate.

  “Sirena!” he gasped, out of breath. “What a story I have to tell you! I had taken a walk—to the east side—of Batavia harbor,” he stammered.

  “Slow down, Caleb, or I won’t be able to understand a word you say,” Sirena ordered him, breathless in anticipation herself. Somehow she knew that what he had to tell her had something to do with the mystery of the unlimed nutmegs.

  “Well, I was lying, out of the sun, in a clump of mangroves near the edge of the water. There are only a few small fishing boats at that end of the harbor, and almost nobody goes there. I was falling asleep when—when I heard him, and another man!”

  “Heard who, little brother?”

  “Señor Alvarez!”

  Caleb took a deep breath and sank to his knees at her side. His breathing more normal, he hastened to explain: “I heard the Señor tell a man—and a cutthroat he was from the tone of his voice—that he was to help him tomorrow at dawn to move some nutmegs to a safer hiding place. That’s what he said, Sirena, a safer hiding place. The other man was angry and called the Señor a ‘worrying old woman.’ And he said he had no intention of breaking his back a fourth time! He said he’d moved the nutmegs in their heavy casks three times already. He called Señor Alvarez many names and told him all the money in the Indies wouldn’t make him move them again.”

  “What was Chaezar’s answer to this?”

  “The Señor told the man this was the last time they would be moved. He said one more trip and he would be ready to go to his ‘kingdom’—whatever that means. And I know where he’s going to move them, Sirena!”

  “Where?” Sirena asked excitedly. This was what she’d been waiting for!

  Caleb frowned. “To the southwestern tip of the island, fairly far from where he has them stored now. Now they are not far from Teatoa, where our crew live. “I think,” he said, continuing to frown, “that if … if we were to go there, however’—his eyes sought Sirena’s and she nodded to go on—–“it would be best to go by land, and on horseback. The Señor intends mainly to go by sea and the lagoons, in a small launch with his man.”

  “You are right, Caleb. We could not risk attacking his tiny boat with the Rana, for we would be too close to shore, and would be seen.”

  Caleb continued: “I remember from my study of the maps, Sirena, that the cove where the Señor must berth his ship is small and narrow—and is the only suitable landing place on that part of the island; the other coves nearby are full of coral reefs. It is logical that he must take the nutmegs by boat, for carrying them overland would take more time and would be dangerous. Natives, or even white traders, might see him and his man. But you and I, and perhaps Jan and some of the crew, could go overland without too much suspicion.”

  “It certainly would be a novelty to have the Sea Siren attack by horseback. “Yes, little brother, horseback it is.” He smiled as she continued: “Did the Señor say, more specifically, where near the cove he plans to store the nutmegs?”

  Caleb laughed. “He was most explicit when he told his man where to place them. He said he wouldn’t have to carry the casks far inland and that he had no need to worry about a strained back. Actually they are to be placed in a cave in plain view of the cove. Mangroves are to be cut and thrown over the entrance when the casks will be secured.”

  “You did well, little brother. When does he sail, did he say?”

  “At mid-evening, Sirena.”

  “Do you think it would be wise for us to travel tonight by horseback and wait near the cove, or let them secure the nutmegs and set out tomorrow night?”

  Caleb’s eyes danced with excitement. “Speaking for myself, I’d rather go tonight. I’m tired of sitting about with nothing to do. I’d best set off immediately to alert Jan, and maybe Willem, to meet us as usual with the horses.” Then, as was his custom when he became bored, he harked back to his favorite subject. “When are we going to have another fencing lesson, Sirena?”

  Ever since the day he had confronted Wouter and had failed to finish the job himself, Caleb had insisted on doubling his fencing lessons. More than once Sirena had been tempted to tell him that Jan had only intervened on her orders. The boy had taken a wide leap toward manhood when he challenged Wouter to defend Sirena, and his expertise with the rapier had been formidable. Indeed, he could have finished off the lustful seaman. But Sirena had not wanted the youth’s hands to be tainted with blood—not yet. And, she had told herself several times since the encounter aboard the Rana, too much confidence —if he had in fact killed Wouter—might be the death of the boy.

  Nevertheless, Caleb believed that Jan had intervened because he had not had the skill to fight Wouter to the death. And this belief nagged at him, hurt him.

  “We could practice tonight, Sirena. After my return from the village, and before we follow Señor Alvarez and his man.”

  “On our return from the cove, little brother. On our return. You’ve enough to test your strength before our departure! Now—off you go to Teatoa!’

  Caleb’s eyes swung overhead to the daily gathering of dark clouds as Sirena picked up her needlework and headed for the house.