Ramage & The Drum Beat

by Pope, Dudley

  Jackson realized Ramage was not going to finish the sentence and said, ‘He seemed to have happy memories of the place, sir: the church clock and the walks and the morning mist. Doesn’t seem at all bitter. If I’d left because of some landlord, or because I was wanted for some crime, I think I’d be bitter about a place, not sentimental.’

  And Ramage knew that Jackson was right. But since the American Consul in Cartagena was the personification of neutrality, was he likely to do anything more than give the statutory assistance to four men claiming to be United States citizens and wishing to return home? They could be fairly certain he’d do nothing to harm them. Should he reveal himself as the Earl’s son in a gamble to get more help, at the risk of getting none?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Next day, while Ramage walked out along the hills forming the bay and examined the batteries protecting it, the six seamen sat chatting with their backs to the Muralla del Mar and, without the Spaniards realizing it, studied the zebec La Providencia until they knew they could board her – or any other zebec – in the dark and set all sail without a moment’s delay.

  ‘It ain’t a seamanlike rig,’ concluded Stafford. ‘Might do fer a lot o’ ’eathen Moors, but wot, I hask yer, ’appens to those yards in a gale o’ wind? I’ll tell yer: they whip like a master-at-arms’ rattan.’

  ‘But each one’s got a vang at the lower end and another near the top,’ Jackson interjected mildly.

  ‘Yers,’ jeered Stafford, ‘they’ll be useful when you want to ’aul ’em back in again after they’ve gorn overboard.’

  ‘But very fast ships,’ Rossi interjected. ‘The fastest. That’s why the Moorish pirates use them.’

  ‘And that’s why Mr Ramage is interested in them, Rosey,’ said Jackson. ‘When we leave here for Gibraltar we’ll be in a hurry.’

  ‘Like as not there’ll be a Spanish three-decker chasin’ us,’ Fuller added gloomily.

  Stafford laughed. ‘If they get close, yer can ’ave a boat and row over to the Spanish admiral wiv a big plate o’ fish and tell ’im we was really only ’avin’ a nice day’s exercise wiv rod an’ line.’

  Fuller grunted contemptuously: he couldn’t be bothered wasting his breath on a man who talked like that about fishing.

  ‘She’s fast enough,’ said the Dane. ‘And she’s not too big for us to handle.’

  ‘That’s the point, Sixer,’ said Jackson. ‘Four of us could, if necessary.’

  ‘When do we sail Jacko? Tonight?’

  ‘No – at least, I don’t expect so.’

  ‘Why not? No point in ’angin’ about. Two weeks in that inn’ll cost us two years’ pay.’

  ‘What are you worrying about? You’re sitting here chatting, you’re not standing watches, you’ll sleep soundly tonight in a bed with no chance of being roused out to take in a reef, and there’s no deck to holystone tomorrow morning. And Mr Ramage is paying you all the time.’

  ‘Mr Ramage? Oh, yer mean for and on be’alf of ’Is Royal Majesty King George, an’ all that.’

  ‘No – Mr Ramage is paying out of his own pocket.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘You asked him about pay, didn’t you,’ Jackson continued. ‘You said you’d heard our pay stopped the day we were captured. Well, he waited a moment before answering. ‘I saw he’d heard the same thing and didn’t know for sure. But straight away he said, “You’ll get every penny owing to you: I’ll see to that.” Well, I know your pay does stop. So in fact what you got was a guarantee from Mr Ramage that he’ll pay you.’

  ‘Cor,’ exclaimed Stafford. ‘Why didn’t yer tell ’im?’

  ‘No point,’ Jackson said impatiently. ‘He’d still have paid you out of his own pocket.’

  ‘’Ow d’yer know?’

  Before Jackson could answer Fuller said flatly, ‘Because he’s Mr Ramage, that’s why.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Rossi. ‘If he say he pay, he pay.’

  Jackson suddenly asked Stafford, ‘Why did you stay with him? You didn’t intend to when the Spaniards sorted out the foreigners, did you? You reckoned this was your chance to say goodbye to His Royal Majesty King George, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not “Royal” Majesty,’ said Fuller. ‘Just “His Majesty”.’

  ‘Yers,’ Stafford ignored Fuller and admitted, ‘Yers, to begin with I intended to be quit of His Royal Majestic Highness King George.’

  ‘But why–’

  ‘Well, later on it didn’t seem right to leave Mr Ramage,’ Stafford said almost defiantly. ‘What about all of you? You intended to quit too – not you Jacko,’ he added hastily, ‘but the rest of you.’

  ‘Not me!’ Rossi said sharply. ‘After how he rescue the Marchesa when she is a stranger, and after he is a good captain to us – no! At first I do not know why the Spanish pick me out, but when I see Mr Ramage comes with us, I am not frightened.’

  ‘And that goes for me too, you miserable little pick-lock,’ Fuller growled at Stafford.

  ‘I wasn’t a pick-lock, you fathom o’ fish bait.’

  ‘Steady now,’ said Jackson, running his hand through his sandy hair, ‘the only thing that matters is we’re still with him. And all that matters to him is that those ships out there–’ he nodded towards the Spanish Fleet at anchor across the harbour, ‘–can do a terrible lot of damage when they sail, unless Old Jarvie knows they’re at sea.’

  Jensen glanced at Jackson. ‘Do you mean that we’ll…?’

  ‘I don’t mean anything, Sixer; I’m just telling you what I think matters to Mr Ramage.’

  * * *

  The long, many-arched balcony on the first floor of the American Consul’s house was large and overlooked the Plaza del Rey. The apex of each arch was high, which added to the feeling of coolness. Ramage sat in a comfortable cane chair which had a small oleander plant growing in a tub beside it, and reflected that his impulsive evening visit to the Consul was proving interesting, if nothing else.

  The Consul was in an expansive mood. He had loosened his silk stock, apologized for discarding buckled shoes in favour of embroidered Moorish slippers and now that four glasses of brandy had followed a good dinner eaten amid a gentle flow of sentimental reminiscences, he viewed most of the world with favour. The exception, Ramage was surprised to learn, was France.

  ‘I think you’ll agree, Mr Gilray,’ he said, holding up his brandy glass against the light from the chandelier, ‘that although in general the Italian people have a certain shallowness, a certain insincerity, they make up for it by their artistic nature and gaiety. The Spanish, in my experience, are also rather an insincere people, yet in compensation they have a natural dignity, and a personal sense of honour – although not a national one – and this reflects in their fighting ability. But the French…’

  The Consul drained his glass, saw that Ramage’s was also empty, and rang a little silver bell on the table beside him.

  ‘The French – well, their present behaviour frightens me. They’ve grown greedy. It’s only seven years since the Bastille was stormed, and when they executed their King four years ago last January they made fine speeches about liberty and equality. Then, already at war with Austria, they declared war on Britain, Holland and Spain. They’ve butchered their own people by the thousands, and Spain has since changed sides.

  ‘I agree it’s not our business what goes on in France while they try to establish a better system of Government. That was long overdue. But how does declaring war on everyone else help? Now, still talking of liberty, they’ve over-run half of Europe. Since this – ah, liberation – has simply replaced the previous misrule with French misrule, I think we’re entitled to ask the Directory if one inch of the foreign lands captured by General Bonaparte has helped give France a better Government, put more bread in the French people’s larders, or helped the peoples of the foreign lands. From what I hear, Bonaparte charges them a pretty penny.’

  A servant came on to the balcony and poured more brandy.

  ‘Since I’
m here solely as the Consul of a neutral country, I suppose I should guard my tongue; but I keep on asking myself whether Spain has just entered the war against England of her own free will, or because France has given her no choice. I’m certain of one thing, though: the French consider the Spanish Navy as being virtually under the Directory’s command.’

  Ramage felt the Consul had a good reason for saying that, and wondered how to discover what it was.

  ‘Surely, sir, the King of Spain is too proud a man to take orders from men like Barras and Carnot? Surely he isn’t at the Directory’s beck and call?’

  ‘He has no choice,’ the Consul said drily, and as he looked out across the Plaza del Roy. Ramage took the opportunity of pouring most of his brandy into the oleander tub. ‘No more choice than you’d have if a footpad stuck a pistol in your back on a dark night and demanded your purse. I suspect the Directory have been more responsible for Langara’s replacement than the King.’

  ‘Langara’s replacement?’ Ramage exclaimed. ‘I’ve heard nothing of that! Why, he’s been back in port only two days.’

  ‘Langara himself heard only when he arrived in Cartagena. In fact,’ the Consul could not help adding, the brandy getting the better of discretion, ‘I was in the curious position of knowing even before the admiral.’

  Ramage nodded knowingly and said, ‘You obviously have influential friends in Madrid – and a fast messenger!’

  Would the Consul fall into the trap and, in correcting him, reveal his source?

  ‘I have influential friends in Madrid, yes; but I don’t need my own messenger,’ he said enigmatically, then deliberately turned the conversation by adding, ‘Aren’t you interested to know the name of the new admiral, and why Langara was replaced?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Langara has gone to Madrid to be the new Minister of Marine: I assume to liven up the Navy. The new admiral is Don Josef de Cordoba.’

  ‘Has he arrived here yet?’

  ‘No, and I doubt if he’ll hurry himself.’

  ‘Why, isn’t the Fleet going to sail again soon?’

  ‘No – they’ve been given at least four weeks in which to refit, and from what I hear they need every minute of it. Anyway, I’m sure Admiral Cordoba won’t want to arrive here until his house is prepared for him!’

  The Consul spoke ironically and Ramage laughed. ‘Yes – they must air the bed, polish the silver and stock the cellar. Is he going to be a neighbour of yours?’

  ‘No – he’s taken a house near the Castillo de Despenna Perros. But my dear young man, forgive me: your glass is empty!’

  Again the servant was called, and again the glasses were filled.

  ‘Your health, Mr Gilray.’

  Ramage raised his glass. The risk involved in calling on the Consul and revealing, by inference rather than a direct statement, that he was not simply a seaman, had so far been more than worthwhile. But he was curious to know if he’d been right in not risking telling the Consul his real name. If the old chap knew, would it lead to him sharing more of the information he was getting about the Spanish Fleet, or throwing Ramage out of the house?

  ‘You spoke of Cornwall yesterday, sir. You were born there?’

  The Consul put down his glass and settled more comfortably in his chair. ‘Yes – I spent the first twenty years of my life there. Or most of it, anyway. My family were Bristol merchants and shipowners trading with America. My father went to Bristol once a week, otherwise we lived – well, in some comfort, at St Teath, while his partner, my uncle, lived in New York running affairs there. And then the War came… Soon we had lost all but one of our ships, and all our American market, so we could not do business elsewhere. Naturally we were quickly impoverished. Fortunately my uncle had foreseen much of what would happen – I fear my father tended to ignore his advice – and had begun other commercial enterprises in America which were not so badly affected by the war and increased considerably at Independence. He had no children, and I had no inheritance to come from my father…so I joined my uncle in New York.’

  ‘So you are an American citizen by accident, almost.’

  ‘Yes – but when I see a young Englishman like you, with your life of adventure, I think I envy you. Mainly, of course, I envy you your years!’ he added with a smile. ‘Yes, if I was twenty now, I think I’d like to be English again.’

  Ramage knew at once there was nothing to be gained by revealing his real name; the Consul would help as much as he was inclined without that.

  As if reading his thoughts, the Consul said quietly, ‘You still have your duty to do, I suppose, hence the – ah, gentle subterfuge. Are you alone?’

  Ramage shook his head. ‘Mercifully, no.’

  ‘But with three men…’

  ‘Six – I have a Dane, a Genoese and a West Indian as well.’

  The Consul laughed. ‘The world – in a microcosm – in arms against the Directory! These men are reliable? They won’t disappear in an emergency? After all, not one of them owes you any loyalty as far as the Spanish authorities are concerned, although you personally are safe enough while you have that – that, ah, Protection. Without it you could be shot as an English spy – you realize that?’

  ‘Yes, but I think they are loyal. I hope so. The one real American, Jackson, certainly is.’

  ‘I trust you’ll forgive this question,’ the Consul said, looking into his glass. ‘You were genuinely captured? I mean, it was an accident of war? Your Protection…?’

  ‘Or are the English deliberately planting spies in Cartagena?’ Ramage said with a grin. ‘No, I’m afraid it was all too much of an accident: we were caught by the whole Spanish Fleet: I have a Protection simply because one of the seamen had prudently acquired an extra one without the details filled in.’

  ‘A wise move. All the Protections are genuine documents, incidentally, although I noticed the details of yours were written in a different ink from the notary’s. I asked that man how much he paid for his merely to see his reaction. It was clear only one man was a genuine American.’

  Again Ramage laughed and as the Consul joined in, looking up at the ceiling, Ramage emptied his glass into the tub. At this rate he’d soon be able to see the oleander growing – or swaying.

  By the time Ramage left, to be back at the inn before curfew, the Consul was happily drunk and insistent that Ramage soon paid him another visit. All the men appeared to be asleep, but as Ramage crept to his bed he heard Jackson whisper, ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes – he’s friendly enough.’

  The small amount of brandy Ramage had drunk was not enough to soften the mattress. He tried to sort out from the rambling conversation exactly what the Consul had revealed. Admiral Cordoba had been given command of the Fleet and a house was being prepared for him. Typically Spanish, that: too fond of comfort to live on board his flagship, even though it was the largest ship of war afloat. With four weeks to refit, the Fleet would be ready to sail, allowing for a few delays, by mid-January. The admiral wouldn’t be concerned with the refitting, so could arrive in early January.

  The Consul’s source of information was not from friends at Court and he’d given a curious answer when Ramage had referred to ‘a fast messenger’. What had the old man said? – ‘I have good friends in Madrid, yes; but I don’t need my own messenger’. There’d been a slight and probably unwitting emphasis on ‘my own’, as though he relied on someone else’s messenger. He wasn’t relying on a spy close to Admiral Langara since he’d known of the replacement before Langara.

  Ramage knew instinctively that the Consul had told him more than he intended and more than Ramage himself yet realized, and a little thought should reveal what it was. Not the Consul’s messenger, but someone else’s, and not a spy in Langara’s staff: that much was certain. So – how did the information come to Cartagena? Start at the beginning. Probably the King decided. He would tell the Minister of Marine that Cordoba should replace Langara. Normally the minister would write to
Langara – and to Cordoba, if he was not in Madrid. That letter would be sent by messenger here to Cartagena and given to Langara, or kept here until he arrived with the Fleet. Of course! Sent by a messenger… ‘I don’t need my own messenger!’

  Yet a messenger of the Ministry of Marine could not be in the Consul’s pay because messengers would change: there was obviously a regular messenger service between Madrid and the main ports, Cadiz, Cartagena and Barcelona, just as there was between London and Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth. It must be all of two hundred and fifty miles to Madrid from here, mostly across the province of Murcia, which was fairly mountainous, with a high range running parallel with the coast. The condition of Spanish roads was notorious, so the messenger would ride on horseback rather than by carriage, and would probably stay at least two nights at regular inns. Could the Consul have someone at one of the inns who abstracted letters from the messenger’s bag, opened, read and re-sealed them?

  As the seamen sat on forms round the bare, grease-stained table eating a breakfast of hard bread and highly spiced blood sausage, Ramage found himself listening to Stafford’s cheerful chattering. A lad trained as a locksmith in Bridewell Lane and by chance swept up by a press gang and sent to sea was now sitting in a Spanish inn, armed with an American Protection, and just as at home as if the inn had been next door to his father’s shop. Yet had he signed the indentures or stayed at home the day – night, more likely – that the press gang was out, he might well have died of old age without going farther than Vauxhall Gardens, a mere five miles from his birthplace…