Governor Ramage RN r-4

by Dudley Pope

  "Aye, it looks parched, and no streams on the chart. Not the place for them," Southwick said. "Probably a fresh-water well for the village, but -"

  "If there's a garrison, they aren't going to offer to fill our casks..."

  The Bosun was able to manoeuvre his raft in to the beach close to the big raft, and Ramage was thankful that there seemed to be a regular current crossing the outer reef on which the two wrecks were perched and which came to within fifty yards of this beach, so all that was needed was some vigorous rowing at the last moment.

  Within fifteen minutes Appleby and the Bosun were heading back for the Triton, and with them was the mate of the Topaz: Yorke had given him instructions to collect some particular provisions.

  Finally, with the last raft unloaded and the men carefully stacking muskets, shot and powder well back from the beach, Ramage had time to sit down on a rock and take stock.

  Even though it was not yet eight o'clock, it was obvious that everyone's attitude towards tropical heat was about to change radically. The land was hot and humid; it was the kind of heat which had been there for centuries, as if during every moment of daylight the rock and earth soaked up and stored the sun's scorching heat like a vast oven. At sea there was no heated land; they had the full advantage of the cooling Trade winds.

  For Ramage it was a welcome change after months at sea; there were compensations, like the mixed-herbs smell of the land, rich and intimate, and from where he sat he could see several frangipani bushes covered in white flowers. The rich perfume contained memories of all the erotic sensations he would ever know, but he did not go over to smell it. The memories were strong enough without any reminders.

  The birds sang in clear tones, never shrill, always joyful and always a delight. At sea one forgot the sheer pleasure of watching the birds - he stared at a little dark green velvet hummingbird by a shrub, its wings working so fast they were almost invisible, and the bird motionless as it hovered. Then a sudden jink as it moved to investigate another part of the bush. Above it there was a golden-yellow flash as a troupial found all the human beings too alarming and fled along the beach.

  He was torn between getting more stores on shore from the ship and setting up a base which he could probably defend, and going off for a reconnaissance of the island. He couldn't be in two places at once, but he did not want to trust anyone else with either job.

  Jackson! He suddenly remembered a remark his cox'n had made a year or two ago in Italy when they were struggling over the Tuscan countryside, trying to avoid Bonaparte's cavalry who were busy invading.

  "I was with Colonel Pickens at Cowpens, sir," the American had said, thinking that sufficient explanation as to why he knew a lot about soldiering. Well, the devil knew who Colonel Pickens was and what he was doing at Cowpens, but Jackson had obviously been a useful rebel during the American War. Ramage called him over.

  "Jackson, there's one village - maybe a small town - on this island, San Ildefonso. It's two or three miles from here, over these hills."

  Ramage gestured to the north-west and bent down, drawing in the sand with his finger.

  "There's an almost landlocked bay - entrance just beyond that headland - which forms the middle of the island. The village is on the east side, like so." He drew a small circle. "I want to know more about the village: if there's a garrison; if there's a quay, and any ships in; if there's a fresh-water well - and so on. How long -"

  "Three hours, sir, if I can have a couple of hands," he said even before Ramage had time to frame the question. "Three hands, sir."

  "As many as you want."

  "I'd like Stafford, Rossi and Maxton," he said promptly, "and, sir, can I suggest something?"

  When Ramage nodded, he said: "The Marines, sir, an' those red coats ... Can't they just wear shirts and trousers? You can see the red two miles off, and in this heat..."

  "You're speaking from experience about the red?"

  Jackson grinned sheepishly. "Yes, sir. Many's the time I've sighted a musket on a Redcoat..."

  Such is the absurdity of war, Ramage thought: now he's fighting for us and warning me about the red cloth.

  "Very well, I'll deal with that. Take what weapons you want and be back as soon as -"

  He thought a moment. There was no hurry. Better Jackson made a good job of it. "No, don't rush. Be back by sunset. Draw some rations and water from Mr Southwick."

  Twenty minutes later Ramage saw the four men vanish into the low scrub at the back of the beach. Only two of them had muskets; the other two carried cutlasses, with pistols in their belts. It made sense: their task was to look and quit, not stand and fight.

  He walked to the frangipani, pulled off several blooms, and went over to the palm-frond shelter in which the St Brieucs and St Cast were sitting.

  "From the gardens of the Governor's Palace," he said to Maxine, giving a deep bow as he presented the flowers with an elaborate flourish.

  "Please congratulate the gardener en chef," she said. "Oh - the parfum - smell it, Mother!"

  St Brieuc said, "Thank you for our palace, too. No palace of stone and marble could be more welcome than this palace of palms!"

  "We'll have something better ready for you by this afternoon," Ramage said.

  "Believe me, its permanency is not important," St Brieuc said, "since we certainly never even expected to see land again. My wife was just commenting that she has never experienced such a fascinating twenty-four hours as those just past."

  Ramage turned to her. "I'm sorry we've had you climbing in and out of wrecks like that, Madame, but it was unavoidable."

  "Please do not apologize," she said, "I have enjoyed myself so much. And so has Maxine! This life we do not understand, but that does not mean we are not interested!"

  Ramage bowed. "Unfortunately I can't make any promises for the future ..."

  "Mr Yorke told me about you deciding against burning the wrecks - I understand completely," St Brieuc said. There was a slight emphasis on the last word; a slight but significant inclination of the head.

  Ramage found Southwick keeping the men busy rolling casks up the slope of the beach to the line of bushes, where there was both shade and concealment.

  Suddenly a seaman yelled and sat down, clutching his foot. The devil take it, Ramage thought, not more sea urchins! He walked over to the man, looked at the foot and realized Snake Island had prickly pear cactus. Sticking in the man's foot was the land version of the sea urchin: a small green disc with spines radiating from it, like a flattened dandelion clock.

  "Just give it a tug," Ramage said. "Mind you don't get the spines in your fingers."

  "Aye aye, sir," the seaman said patiently, and Ramage felt he was being reproached for not including the prickly pear in his earlier warning.

  By now Appleby was halfway back to the Triton with the raft. The sun was lifting high over the horizon but the breeze had not come up, and Ramage saw there was a chance they would reach the brig before it arrived. If only he could get a raft-load of provisions from the ship early each morning before the wind came up, he could last out here almost indefinitely.

  Suddenly a thought struck him. He was loading casks on to a raft, whereas most of them, if they were pitched over the side, would float and eventually end up on the beach by themselves. Fishermen on Snake Island - if there were any - might find them but they would soon spot the wrecks anyway, so there was nothing to lose by pitching at least some of them over the side and letting the waves and current do the work. It was too late today, but as soon as the carpenter's crew had made a proper shelter for the St Brieucs, and a galley, they could make a rough boat which half a dozen men could use to get out to the wrecks each day.

  A few minutes before noon, when the heat of the sun made men find shade before they stopped to talk, Southwick reported that the casks of provisions and water had been landed safely and stored at the back of the beach, covered with a topsail to serve as a tarpaulin, and the sail in turn covered with palm fronds to conceal it from pry
ing eyes.

  For the spare muskets, powder and shot, the seamen had collected small, flat rocks - there were plenty of them littering the ground - and built what looked like a large oven, between the provision store and the beach, for use as a magazine. It reminded Ramage of the donkey shelters so familiar in Italy. Branches served as roof beams, with canvas over the top, to weatherproof it. The men were now lining the walls and floor with canvas to keep out the damp.

  Southwick was particularly pleased with its position; he had chosen it, Ramage was glad to note, midway between the provision store and the beach, so the Marine sentries guarding the store and the beach - which Ramage had decided was to be the place where everyone would live - did not have to march out of their way, and would pass it twice for every once they passed the store.

  By designating a flat area at the back of the beach as the living quarters, Ramage was choosing one of the coolest spots around - it faced eastwards, wide open to the Trade winds - and a sudden outcrop of high rock on the west side protected them from the afternoon sun. Both wrecks were in sight and so was the entrance to the main bay, so that no boat or ship could leave or enter without being spotted.

  The sun was still almost directly overhead when a Marine sentry came running up to him with a message from his corporal: five men were approaching from the west.

  "Five?" demanded Ramage.

  "Aye, sir, corporal was most definite that I told you five. Not four like left."

  "But is it Jackson and his party?"

  "Corporal didn't say, sir," the Marine said woodenly. "But they was a long way off."

  "Take me to the corporal."

  After calling to tell Southwick what he was doing and to stand-to with the seamen, Ramage hurried after the man, striding inland past the new magazine and provision store and then bending to keep below the tops of the bushes. They reached a small hill and the Marine gave a low whistle before scrambling up it. A few moments later Ramage found himself kneeling on the north side looking out over a narrow track that led away to the left and snaked down to enter a valley. Some five hundred yards away five men were walking along the track, making no attempt to conceal themselves. Quickly Ramage searched the ground on either side then, cursing himself for having forgotten to bring a telescope, settled down on his haunches to wait until the men got closer.

  "Where are your men?" he asked the corporal.

  "Six of them are just there, sir" - he pointed to a spot by the track in front of the hill - "an' we spotted those men some minutes ago, sir. Straightaway I sent the six men to prepare an ambush. They have their orders, sir," he said ponderously. "All good men."

  Ramage nodded, but even at this distance the gait of one of the five men seemed familiar: he had the loping walk of Jackson. But five men?

  After a couple of minutes the corporal took a deep breath and said, in what he obviously regarded as his official voice: "In my h'opinion, sir, 'tis Jackson returning with his party with another man h'identity h'at present h'unknown."

  "I agree," Ramage said mildly. "I hope your men won't ambush him."

  But the corporal's sense of humour had vanished years before, probably beaten out of him by the stamping of boots and the slamming of musket butts.

  "They will ha'make the challenge, sir, h'and h'upon receiving the ker-rect reply, will h'allow the party to proceed, sir."

  "Very well," Ramage said, and felt he had made the sort of reply that would never pass muster on a Marine parade ground.

  Jackson's party had a prisoner with them, an old Negro.

  "Leastways, not exactly a prisoner," Jackson was careful to explain as they walked back to the camp. "A sort of voluntary prisoner."

  "They're common enough in the Caribbean," Ramage said sourly. "But first, is there any sign of a garrison?"

  "No, sir. That San Ildefonso is just a small village - twenty-two houses, several collapsed - and almost deserted. Probably a dozen local people. Then there are about a dozen soldiers and twenty Negro slaves. The slaves dig trenches while the soldiers guard them."

  "And then?"

  "Then they fill the trenches in again, sir."

  "Start again from the beginning," Ramage said, in despair.

  The patrol, Jackson explained, had found the track almost as soon as it started out, and had followed it - not by walking along it, but keeping to the bushes about fifty yards away. It trended south and then one branch went between two high, cone-shaped hills and obviously led to the next bay to the west. The other continued along the valley towards the village.

  They'd only just reached the fork - not quite a mile from the beach - when they heard men singing; Negro voices coming from high up, from a saddle between two hills.

  Leaving Rossi and Stafford on guard at the fork, Jackson had taken Maxton with him to investigate.

  "I found a trail where several men had gone up - several times. Leaves and branches broken off on different occasions. Maxie and I followed this track, sir. About a quarter of the way up the saddle, just off to one side, we found a trench on a flat bit under a calabash tree. Leastways, someone had dug a trench, and filled it in again."

  "How big?"

  "Big enough for a grave, sir."

  "No marker - no stone to mark the head, or cross or anything?"

  "No, sir. Anyway we went on up towards the singing. A sort of chanting, like you get when slaves sing as they work. Not very cheerful but musical.

  "After another forty yards, on another little flat bit, we found a second trench. Same size, like a grave. This was on the right of the track - the other was to the left. Underneath another calabash tree, too, in the shade.

  "Found two more trenches, same size, before we got up very close to the singing. This was actually right on the saddle, where there was a large flat bit and big rocks - twenty feet high, some of them, and plenty of bushes.

  "Maxie and I managed to get close. Then I crawled up on a flat-topped rock that stood to one side so's I could look down on them. Two slaves were down in a deep trench digging away with pickaxes, two waited to take a turn, and four more waited with shovels - those long-handled ones.

  "An officer stood right over them with three soldiers, and eight more soldiers stood round, and there were a dozen more slaves just standing about waiting.

  "The guards weren't very strict. They seemed interested only in the grave. Especially the officer. Not the slaves with the pickaxes; just the hole they were digging; looking down into it."

  "Your prisoner," Ramage prompted.

  "Oh yes, sir. I saw one of the Negroes walk past the group of guards and - er, relieve himself - by a tree. Then another one used the same place.

  "The guards didn't bother to move or watch him, so Maxie and I went round and waited until another came out. Maxie spoke to him quietly from behind a bush - they have a sort of patois. Next thing is the fellow wants to come with us. I guessed the Spanish guards would reckon he'd escaped, and it seemed to me you'd find out more from him than we could ever find out, sir. I had to make my mind up quickly, because it wasn't a chance we'd get again, so I hope I did right, sir."

  "You did," Ramage assured him.

  "The guards had six muskets between them. The rest had pikes and whips. Muskets not oiled - rust showing. Uniforms torn and dirty and old. Very long whips. The officer a dandy, sir; kept putting a lace handkerchief to his nose. Either got a cold or sniffing perfume."

  By now they were approaching the camp and Ramage turned to Maxton.

  "What language does this fellow speak?"

  "Spanish, sir, and patois."

  "Very well, we'll stop here before he sees the camp: I've some questions to ask him."

  "He'll help, sir," Maxton said eagerly; an eagerness which Ramage realized was due to the fact the man was coloured, like Maxton. "His name is Roberto, sir."

  Ramage motioned to the man.

  "You are called Roberto?" he asked in Spanish.

  The man gave a wide grin, nodding his head eagerly.

  "Who
se slave are you?"

  "Of the Army, comandante," he said.

  "What are you doing in the hills?"

  "Digging trenches, comandante."

  "That I know. Do you know why? You dig and then you fill them in again."

  "Yes, we dig deep, as deep as a man is tall, and as soon as we get to that depth, the teniente orders us to fill it up again. 'Stop!' he says. 'Now fill it up.'"

  "And then?"

  "Then we go somewhere else and start digging again."

  "What are you burying?"

  "Burying?" the man repeated in surprise. "Why, nothing, comandante!"

  "What are you looking for, then?"

  Roberto shrugged his shoulders. "No one knows."

  "Someone must!"

  "Si, comandante! But not the soldiers or the slaves; only the teniente."

  "How many soldiers are there on the island?"

  "Those guarding us. I cannot count."

  "No more? No garrison?"

  The Negro shook his head.

  "Where do the soldiers sleep?"

  "In the village. Some empty houses. They have three. We slaves live in another one. They lock us in."

  "And the teniente?"

  "Yes, he has a house. His own."

  "With sentries?"

  "No, just his two servants. They are soldiers but they are servants, too."

  Ramage began to get an idea, but for the moment Roberto could help no more. He stood up and signalled to Maxton.

  "Look after him: is he likely to escape?"

  "No, sir, he wants to stay with us. He reckons he's escaped from the Spaniards. He's grateful to us."

  "Well, keep an eye on him. He could go back and tell the Spanish all he's seen. But don't say anything to him," Ramage added hastily. "Don't put the idea in his head!"

  By the time they reached the camp the cooks had prepared a meal, and Yorke suggested they join the St Brieucs. Ramage accepted since he could tell them what little he had just learned. Before going over to the palm-frond shelter he told Southwick, whose relief was limited to having the seamen put away their muskets and start work again.