by Dudley Pope
The daughter was beautiful; as unexpectedly beautiful in such a dull island, Ramage thought, as a frangipani blossom. She had corn-coloured hair that glinted gold; blue eyes that betrayed a sense of humour; full lips that hinted at—well, they more than hinted. She was physically the opposite of Gianna: she was only a couple of inches shorter than Ramage, while Gianna was a fraction under five feet tall. She had full breasts while Gianna’s were small and firm. If Gianna was the imperious little Latin, then Maria van Someren was the typical blonde Amazon, not large-limbed or heavy-featured but a young woman who could look a man straight in the eye without shyness or coyness. And, Ramage was sure, she had known immediately that the moment he had first met her in the drawing-room, when she had been wearing a cool, long white dress in the French fashion, clinging and cut low in front, he had in his imagination seen her standing there naked, elegant and proud. She had given a slight curtsy as they were introduced, a curtsy when Ramage had imagined her breasts moving slightly, her nipples caressing the silk of her clothing.
“You agree, my Lord?”
Ramage, his lips kissing those nipples, suddenly found himself in the Council room and the three men waiting for him to answer. To answer what?
“I’m sorry,” he said heavily, “I was thinking of something else.” Deep thoughts, his voice implied, weighing, for instance, the importance of Curaçao against Antigua, or comparing Amsterdam with English Harbour. They would be large nipples. “Would you repeat that question?”
The Governor’s smile showed that he understood how important matters required careful consideration. “I was asking if we should begin.”
“We are ready,” Ramage said, glancing at Aitken, who was going to take notes if necessary.
The Governor said: “You are curious why I wish to surrender the island to you—to Britain, rather.”
“I have been trying to find out from the moment you first mentioned it, Your Excellency,” Ramage said dryly. “It seems to be the point upon which all negotiations must pivot.”
“It is, it is. But I regret the surrender is not entirely straightforward.”
There is always a catch, Ramage thought sourly. Now come his terms: you can have my island wrapped up in Bruges lace on condition that you …
“Nor,” van Someren continued, “is it very complex. If I may explain some of the background, you will understand at once why you have been seeing smoke at the western end of the island, and hearing occasional gunfire.
“First, you know the circumstances by which the French claimed the United Netherlands as an ally and that our Prince Sovereign had to flee and is now a refugee living in England. Anyone who disagreed with France or the Revolution was—” he made a chopping gesture with his hand to imitate the guillotine.
“Those of us in distant colonies at the time had to decide how best we could serve our country. We had three choices. We could become refugees and get to England or a British colony. We could withdraw from public life (and risk being arrested, accused of being traitors to the republican cause and then executed). Or we could appear to be prepared to serve the republican cause in the hope of safeguarding our own countrymen, because if we did not serve them the French would put in their own men.
“Rightly or wrongly I allowed myself to continue as Governor in this last category, and until recently I have been able to spare my people the worst excesses for which the Revolution in France has become famous—infamous, rather.”
He paused and poured water into a glass from a carafe in front of him. He drank and then continued. “But recently—in the past few months—some of our wilder young men have come out violently in support of the French Revolution, or its revolutionary principles, rather. They gathered in the western end of the island, freed slaves, and began threatening to overthrow my government, which they claim is not truly revolutionary—although, ironically, it is approved by Paris.”
“Do they have a leader?”
“To begin with they had their own committee. The Committee of Liberation they called it. Now their new leader is one of the French privateer captains, who has taken all the men from the ships to reinforce these—these revolutionaries. It seems an odd word for the Governor of an island belonging to the Batavian Republic to use, but these rebels want to destroy all that most of us in the island consider justifies Curaçao’s existence.”
“The smoke … ?” Ramage prompted.
“Villages and plantation houses being burned by these rebels.”
“Why?” Ramage was curious at what seemed a self-defeating activity.
“In some cases because the people would not join the rebels; in others my troops were using them as defences. But mainly because this privateer captain, their leader, is a murderer who enjoys killing and destroying—and robbing and raping. They say he is mad …”
“Where are your troops now?”
“I have withdrawn them here to defend the port.”
“Are they loyal?”
“To me, yes. There are only one hundred of them, plus the gunners from the forts and a score or so infantrymen.”
“And the ordinary people here in Amsterdam and the island—what are their sympathies?”
“Against these rebels: they are mostly tradesmen who want to be left in peace to carry on their business. They want no part of the present war—as you know, Curaçao was one of the great trading centres on this side of the Atlantic. This war has brought business to a standstill. Trade with Britain is cut off, France has no money to buy, and nor has Spain. We are reduced to a precarious trade with the Main. Our warehouses are full—with goods that have been there for years.”
“Your Excellency,” Ramage said deliberately, making it clear that he was about to speak as the official British representative, “you realize that to my government you and your—is it a legislative council?—are rebels: men in arms against the House of Nassau, which my government regards as the rightful rulers of the United Netherlands? Now you are in turn attacked by men you call rebels. Your problem is, in effect, a revolution within a revolution.”
For several moments van Someren was silent. His eyes had narrowed, giving him a slightly Oriental appearance; his hands clasped on the table in front of him, showed the knuckles white. “You speak like a diplomatist, my Lord,” he said without animosity, but choosing his words with precision, “and like a diplomatist, you want to drive a hard bargain. For myself, though, I am concerned only with saving lives. There are many hundreds of innocent men, women and children living here in Amsterdam. We have reason to believe the rebels intend to loot the city and then burn it down.”
“Why do they want to do that?” Ramage asked bluntly.
Van Someren gestured to Major Lausser, who sorted through papers in front of him and handed the Governor a letter.
“You read French, my Lord?”
“I do, Your Excellency.”
Ramage took the proffered letter, hard put not to smile at the way each of them observed the courtesies with their titles and reflecting how inappropriate was a naval uniform at a negotiating table. The letter, comprising only a few lines, was from some group that called itself “The Revolutionary Committee of the Batavian Republic in the Antilles,” and was addressed to the Governor by name. It said, without any preliminaries, that unless he surrendered Amsterdam by noon on a given date—it used the new revolutionary method of dating which Ramage could never remember—it would be burned down, and the Committee took no responsibility for the safety of the women and children while the men would be treated as traitors.
Ramage folded the letter and went to give it back to the Governor; then he unfolded it again, read the signature, and said to Aitken: “Make a note of the name ‘Adolphe Brune, chief of the privateers.’” He spelled out the names and then returned the letter to van Someren.
“I trust that decides you,” the Governor said.
“You have about a hundred men, trained troops?”
“Yes, mostly artillerymen.”
“A
nd there are a thousand republicans?” Ramage guessed the figure, curious to see van Someren’s reaction.
“Not as many as that. We estimate about five hundred at the most. The privateers were all short of men—we guess at a total of three hundred and fifty. There were about one hundred republicans when all this began, but they may have been joined by others, the inevitable—how do you call them?—opportunists. About fifty, we think.”
“All short of weapons and powder, though?”
Van Someren shook his head. “Unfortunately they have plenty, because each privateer has weapons—muskets, pistols, cutlasses—for at least fifty men, so they can arm five hundred. Before I brought my troops in, patrols were reporting capturing men holding positions with three loaded muskets in reserve beside each of them.”
“How many men are left in the privateers?”
Even as he asked the question Ramage realized that he had made a bad mistake: he had taken no steps to prevent someone from the privateers getting on shore to ride off into the hills and report to Brune that a British frigate had just come into the harbour and her Captain was at Government House.
“One or two men in each vessel,” and then, perhaps reading Ramage’s thoughts, van Someren added: “I left sentries concealed who will seize anyone landing to carry the news of your arrival to the rebels.”
Ramage wished he had a pen or pencil to twiddle. Sitting here with his elbows on the table and one hand resting on the other was comfortable but it seemed to stifle coherent thought. Ideas must come through active hands. Clasped hands reminded him of contented parsons and portly priests mumbling things by rote or making embarrassingly obvious remarks in portentous voices. The true artists in this form of activity, he thought sourly, became bishops, and the lords spiritual never found themselves sitting in the residences of governors of enemy islands trying to think what to do next.
“You are satisfied?” van Someren demanded, his voice slowly becoming almost querulous from anxiety as he realized that this English officer seemed far from delighted at the prospect of having the richest Dutch island in the Caribbean surrendered to him.
The Dutchman watched carefully. This Lord Ramage sat quite still, like a cat waiting for a mouse. He did not move his hands—nor crack the joints of his knuckles like Lausser. It was impossible to guess what he was thinking: his eyes gave nothing away, sunk beneath bushy eyebrows. He had tapped the table with his left hand when he wanted his Lieutenant to make a written note of something but van Someren saw it was always a figure or a name, never a phrase. Obviously he was not a diplomatist because he was concerned only with facts, not phrases.
Whether or not this Lord Ramage eventually accepted the surrender—and it seemed far from sure at the moment—van Someren knew that it was fortunate for Curaçao that he was commanding the frigate that suddenly appeared off the port. Had that French frigate come in, she would have provided more than enough men for the rebels to swing the balance: she would have made sure the rebels were left in control of Amsterdam. Which would in turn mean his own arrest and execution. By a miracle, this Ramage had captured her. In fact, having the Calypso anchored in the port almost made up for the fact that the Delft was so long overdue. Thank goodness he was not bothered daily by demands from Maria for news about the Delft. The frigate was due almost exactly six weeks ago, and that was all he knew. Either she is delayed in the Netherlands or she is delayed by storms or calms. Or she has been captured or sunk.
Now Lord Ramage is watching me. Those brown eyes do not miss much. And he is rubbing one of two scars on his forehead, as though a mosquito bite has started itching. The Lieutenant suddenly glances sideways at him, van Someren noticed, as though this rubbing of the scar is significant.
“Would you just repeat briefly, Your Excellency, exactly what you are proposing. Slowly, because I want Mr Aitken to write it down, so that we have a record for my Admiral.”
Van Someren was almost thankful because for the Captain’s own sake he ought to have something in writing to show his senior officer—indeed, he would have been much wiser to have demanded a document from the Dutch. Yet, van Someren realized, if surrender terms are agreed and signed, Ramage will have no use for such a document. He thought how satisfying that his English was coming back to him. Talking English and French to Maria when she was a young girl had done wonders for her command of both languages, and he had to admit it had been good for him, too. Now, to choose the words, words for naval officers, not diplomatists …
“As Governor of Curaçao, I wish to surrender this island, with all its people, fortifications, troops, stores, vessels and armaments, to His Britannic Majesty—” he paused when Aitken raised a hand for him to go more slowly—”in return for His Britannic Majesty’s guarantee of protection of the island and its people.”
“A straight exchange,” Ramage said. “We get the island, you get defended against these republicans. These rebels, rather.”
One has to smile at such bluntness. A diplomatist would have taken five minutes to say the same thing. “Yes, reduced to its simplest terms, that is so.”
“And, Your Excellency, you give your word of honour that the situation in the island is as you have described it?”
“You ask a great deal! I cannot possibly give you my word of honour about that because I have had to rely on the reports of patrols, and they have now been called in. In all honesty I cannot say what the island’s position is at this moment. I can give you my word—and I do—that what I have told you is truly the position as I understand it.”
One had to be honest with this young man. He was not guileless; far from it. But obviously he had no time for all the tact, vagaries and deceptions normally used by diplomatists: if he accepted the surrender of the island, clearly he wanted to know exactly what obligations it brought him.
“You want a guarantee that the island and its people will be defended by the British?”
“Yes.”
In face of such a simple question one could give only a simple answer and the question and the answer were critical: this Lord Ramage might lack (or spurn) the approach of the diplomatist, but he had a sharp enough mind to distil what really mattered.
And now he is shaking his head. His Lieutenant has put down his pen and Lausser gives a muffled sigh which is quite unnecessary and tactless: there is no point in revealing disappointment to this young man. Disappointment! Hardly the word to use when a man shaking his head means your eventual execution, and God knows what treatment of your wife and daughter
… But one must smile. One must remain cheerful. One must bluff, too.
“The prospect of reporting to your commander-in-chief that you have captured the island of Curaçao does not appeal to you,
my Lord? I would have thought that it would be—how do you say, ‘a feather in your cap.’”
“The idea appeals to me, Your Excellency, but you ask for a guarantee that the British defend the island. I am the person who—for the time being, and that is the only time that really matters—has to give that guarantee.”
“But I can see no difficulty …”
“Your Excellency—” the voice was crisp now, van Someren noted—”I have about two hundred seamen and forty Marines. How can I possibly guarantee to defend you with such a small force?”
“There are my own troops as well! Together they make a strong force.”
Again he shook his head. “You assume that because I have two hundred and forty men I can land them all like a few companies of infantry. But only the Marines have any training as soldiers. The seamen have been barefooted for months, and if they put on boots or shoes I’m afraid their feet would be blistered within an hour. And I need to keep fifty men on board.”
“Very well, if you don’t want to fight …”
Again those eyes. It was an insulting thing to say, and not really meant: the words were only a measure of the disappointment at realizing that the Calypso would be sailing out of Amsterdam within—well, a few hours.
&
nbsp; “Your Excellency, you should not assume that because we captured a French frigate yesterday without firing a shot we did not want to fight.”
“Accept my apologies, please.” It was the only way, and one wanted this young man’s respect. “But is there no way you can help us? Have I not shown you that the French are now as much our enemies as yours?”
“I may be able to help Your Excellency, but not on your terms.”
What is he offering? Is he a sly fellow after all? Have I misjudged him? No, it is not possible. Anyway, words cost nothing except time. They can always be denied or twisted.
“But I have not insisted on any terms!”
“You offer to surrender, Your Excellency, on one condition. Perhaps I should have said ‘condition,’ not ‘terms.’”
“Please explain more fully.” There might be some hope yet.
“I cannot guarantee to defend the island. I can accept the island’s surrender and hope that my commander-in-chief will agree to send troops and ships for its defence. But four weeks or more would pass before they arrive, even if my Admiral agrees, and that would be much too late. The next four days are the critical ones for you. If you can survive the next four days you will be safe for more than four weeks.”
“But we can’t.”
“No, I don’t think you can, Your Excellency.”
“And you refuse to help us?”
“As things stand, I can’t. At the moment you are our enemy—you forget we are here under a flag of truce. If I helped you, I would be guilty of treason, of helping the enemy.”
And of course he is quite right; this Ramage has not let himself be dazzled by the idea of taking the surrender of an island. “So, my Lord, we reach stalemate?”