by Dudley Pope
“Are the Spaniards short of drinking-water?” Ramage had asked.
“Oh no!” Roberto had been surprised. “No, comandante, they have plenty. The well at the village is big and deep and the water is sweet. The teniente, they say, washes all over twice a day.”
If they weren’t short of water in the village, they wouldn’t be trying to sink wells elsewhere … Yet the village was some three miles from where Jackson had found the graves.
Graves: he must think of them as trenches—graves summoned up a particular picture that might influence his thoughts and prevent a possible explanation coming to mind.
To start from the beginning again: why would a man dig a big hole?
To bury something; to look for water; to look for something that someone had previously buried. Hmm, Ramage thought to himself, I’ll soon have myself convinced they’re looking for Captain Kidd’s hidden treasure; gold looted a couple of hundred years ago from the Spanish Main.
Looking for water seemed the most likely, once you agree that three miles is a long way to carry water—it would have to be in small barrels on the backs of mules or donkeys. Barrels leaked; water evaporated in the heat. Donkeys were probably scarce.
Yet would the Spanish really put a battery on this side of the island?
Extra water made sense if the Spanish were really interested in Snake Island, and they ought to be. If an enemy held Snake Island, with its enclosed bay large enough for a fleet to anchor even in a hurricane, it could dominate Puerto Rico. There was no port on the east coast of Puerto Rico. San Juan was far off along the exposed north coast, with a 75 mile beat to windward from there to the eastern end of the island. Snake Island was to Puerto Rico what Plymouth was to England, a good safe anchorage for the fleet and well to windward of what it was trying to protect. Perhaps the Spanish had finally woken up to this and the party of Spanish soldiers was making a preliminary survey.
He sat up and slapped off several ants in the darkness, and wondered if there was any point in moving somewhere else to sleep. The Spanish soldiers were far enough away and busy enough to be left for the moment, but he dare not risk leaving them for another day. If fishermen spotted the camp, rafts or wrecks, the alarm would be raised. He felt secure enough, however, now he knew exactly how many Spanish soldiers there were: his own camp was guarded by twice as many better-armed seamen and Marines.
But a ship with provisions or reinforcements might arrive any day. And a ship would certainly spot the wrecks and probably the camp. Could he surround the Spaniards and make them surrender? Could seamen get through these bushes quietly and up that hill in broad daylight? Prickly pear cactus digging into the soles of their feet … No! Good seamen, every one of them; but apart from the Marines, Jackson was the only one trained for fighting on land. He must ambush them on the track leading to the hill.
The slaves would probably start digging early. Damn, he had to find out now, and organize the men. He scrambled up, not sorry to leave the hard earth and the hungry ants.
One of the Marine sentries patrolling the camp knew where Jackson was sleeping, and a minute or two later Ramage was kneeling beside the American and whispering: “Where’s Maxton and that slave?”
Jackson gestured to his right. “Just there, sir, by that bush.”
“Come on!”
Jackson was on his feet in a moment, slipping a cutlass belt over his head.
“You won’t need that!”
They found Maxton, who was sleeping beside Roberto. “Roberto,” hissed Ramage, “what time do the soldiers leave the village with you in the morning?”
“Just before daylight, comandante.”
Damn, Ramage thought, how long is “just before?” Try another tack.
“How far had you gone yesterday before the sun came up?”
“We reached the place where we were digging just before the sun came up, comandante!”
Ramage gave up: neither a Spaniard nor a Negro paid much attention to time; for a Spanish slave, time had no relevance at all. Early, anyway.
“Where do you think they will be digging tomorrow—at daylight?”
“That same hill, comandante. We’ve been digging there for many days. Many trenches.”
“So I can be sure of finding them there at daylight?”
Ramage sensed, rather than saw, even though it was not a very dark night, that Roberto stiffened. Ramage thought he sensed fear and wariness.
“You’re not taking me back, comandante?”
Ramage chuckled softly and touched the man on the shoulder reassuringly. “No, Roberto; you have been freed. Would your friends like to be freed?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Then they kill the teniente!”
“Why kill him?”
“A bad man, sir; every night he likes to have a slave tied to a tree and whipped.”
“Punishment for thieving?” Ramage asked curiously.
“Sometimes, sir; but if no one has done anything wrong, he tells the guard to lash anyone to the tree!”
Ramage nodded his head slowly in the darkness. He could almost picture that lieutenant. Yet he was the only man on the island who knew about the trenches, and who might know when a ship was due with provisions.
“Jackson!”
“Here, sir.”
“How many men will we need to ambush that party on the track before they get to the hill?”
“Twenty if you want to avoid bloodshed, sir; ten if it doesn’t matter.”
“Did you notice any good spots for an ambush? We don’t have time to make much of a reconnaissance in the dark.”
“No need, sir; I know just the spot. Made a note of it as we left. Just beyond the fork, sir. It’s ideal.”
“Very well; let’s find the corporal.”
Jackson gave a stifled groan. It was a masterpiece in its way. If Ramage had been liverish and reacted angrily, Jackson could have blamed the groan on an aching back. If Ramage was in a good humour he might well accept it as showing Jackson’s contempt for Marines as land soldiers and choose seamen instead.
Ramage decided he was in a middling temper. He ignored the protest and decided to take eight Marines with twelve seamen to make up the rest of the party. The price Jackson must pay for his groan was to choose the seamen, tell them off for the duty, and have them mustered outside the camp at 4:30, armed and equipped.
After finding the Marine corporal, giving him his orders and warning the sentries to call him at four o’clock, Ramage went back to the hard patch of ground by a large boulder where everyone in the camp knew they could find the Captain in the dark, and flopped down. He’d never get any sleep tonight.
It seemed the very next moment that he was wakened by the sentry’s hoarse voice whispering, “Captain, sir!”
He’d hardly sat up as the sentry left, before two men materialized from the darkness, one on each side.
“Morning, Governor.”
One of them was Yorke, greeting him breezily and, as far as Ramage could make out as he rubbed the sleep from his eye, fully dressed with a cutlass belt over his shoulder and carrying a musket.
“Morning,” Ramage mumbled sleepily. “Bit early for social calls. Ah, Jackson?”
“Aye, sir. Glass o’ lemonade and some biscuit, sir. Best I can muster. Lemons nice and fresh, though; clean your mouth out nicely.”
“Thank you. Perhaps you can get a glass for Mr Yorke.”
“He’s already had one, sir.”
“You have, by Jove!” Ramage exclaimed. “What gets you up so early?”
“Early bird catches the culebra,” Yorke said airily. “Going out on a duck shooting party.”
“By God you’re not!” Ramage exclaimed. “The sound of a shot will …” he broke off and laughed. “All right, I’m not awake yet. Sorry you didn’t get a written invitation to my—”
Ramage drank the lemonade, using it to wash the dry biscuit down. The Navy Board’s biscuit was best eaten in darkness: then one had neither sight nor sound of the weevils which
, though perhaps nutritious, did not look appetizing.
“Well?” Ramage growled at Jackson.
“All the men ready, sir. The corporal’s mustered the Marines.”
“Come on,” Ramage said to Yorke. “We’ll inspect them. How did you know about all this?”
“The bustling before midnight. I had my spies make inquiries, and arranged to be called at the appropriate hour.”
“With lemonade,” Ramage said.
“Of course.”
The corporal had the Marines standing in a double file and Ramage hissed at him just in time to prevent a stentorian bellow bringing the men to attention.
Ramage took the corporal’s arm and steered him a few paces from the men.
“Corporal, this is going to be a completely silent operation. Any talking that’s necessary will be in a low whisper. If any man makes a noise—and that includes stumbling and swearing—I’ll have him flogged. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Now tell each man individually. Whisper it!”
While the corporal passed from one man to another, hissing like an infuriated snake, Ramage inspected the seamen.
Six carried muskets and six had pistols stuck in their belts. The musketeers also had tomahawks tucked in their belts, while those with pistols carried cutlasses.
Almost inevitably, Ramage noticed, Jackson had chosen Rossi, Stafford and Maxton. But there were thirteen men.
He stood back and counted again.
“Jackson! How many men have you?”
“Er—twelve, sir.”
“Count them!
“I know, sir, it looks like thirteen.”
“Looks? It damn well is. I mean, there damn well are!”
Bowen’s voice said apologetically out of the darkness: “I invited myself along, sir. I thought you might need a surgeon. Gunshot wounds and that sort of thing …”
His voice trailed off lamely as he sensed Ramage glaring at him.
Ramage realized that Yorke had already been quick to slip behind him, perhaps guessing there was going to be trouble, and he was irritated at the way Jackson, Yorke and Bowen seemed to be taking over the operation.
“Mr Bowen,” Ramage said sarcastically, “in planning this expedition I considered whether I would need coopers, caulkers, carpenters, cooks, topmen, fo’c’s’lemen or loblolly men. I decided we could do without them. I also considered whether we would be plagued with croup, canker, black vomit, malaria or clap. I decided we wouldn’t, so we do not need a surgeon.”
“Aye aye, sir. I apologize. I’ll go back to the camp.”
Bowen sounded so crestfallen that Ramage relented.
“Well, you’d better stay with us now you’re here,” he said huffily. “I don’t want you blundering round the camp in the dark waking everyone up.”
With that he went over to the Marines, inspected them closely, warned them again of the need for silence and then gathered Jackson, the corporal, Yorke and Bowen round him.
He was in a bad temper. He’d slept heavily and it always took him time to wake up properly, and almost invariably he became bad-tempered. To be honest, he was jumpy at the prospect of unaccustomed soldiering. But now was not the time for honesty. He could indulge in the only pleasure open to a leader—being bad-tempered.
“We’ll be in two parties, seamen and Marines. I shall command the seamen, and since Mr Yorke has graced us with his presence, he can command the Marines.
“That doesn’t mean, corporal, that you aren’t responsible for any clumsiness or stupidity on the part of your men. Mr Bowen will also go with the Marines,” he added as an afterthought: Yorke and Bowen were smart enough to make sure the Marines did the right thing.
“No muskets or pistols to be loaded until we are in the ambush position. No talking. I want to avoid any unnecessary killing so use common sense. The Spanish Lieutenant must be taken alive. Any questions? Carry on then.”
He went over to the group of seamen, followed by Jackson.
“Right, follow me. Walk in pairs. And if you trip up and break a leg, do it quietly!”
Jackson automatically went ahead as their guide, walking in a loping stride, not fast and not slow, just confident, the gait of a man who knew where he wanted to go and knew he could get there. From the way Jackson covered the ground he seemed to belong there, like a fox. Yet he also seemed to belong in a ship.
It was still dark—as dark as an ordinary tropical night ever was. The Southern Cross to the south, in this latitude, four quite undistinguished stars. The Plough ahead of them to the north, and the Pole Star, a bare eighteen degrees above the horizon. All the other familiar constellations were brighter than they were in northern latitudes, as though they were nearer.
A seaman stumbled behind; some small animal scurried away; a land crab scampered across the track. Soon Ramage thought he could see a little farther; the blackness had a hint of grey and his eyes seemed out of focus. From long experience he recognized the first hint of dawn. The track was curving to the left. Ramage hoped the Marines would do a good job, if only to show Jackson.
Now the muscles in the front of his shins were hurting—they were unused to walking far on land. He started thinking of blisters on his heels; a thought banished by the thought that a musket ball in the gizzard would be a more likely ailment before the sun set again.
Jackson had slowed down to let him catch up.
“The fork’s about thirty yards ahead, sir.”
Ramage waited while the two files of men caught up and stopped.
The land on the left of the track sloped gently upwards towards the saddle; on the right it was level.
He decided to put the Marines farther along the track, nearer the village, so that the Spaniards passed them on their way to the trenches and were captured by the seamen. The advantage was that if the Spaniards bolted from the seamen’s ambush, they’d run back along the track towards the village and be trapped by the Marines. Would the Marines have enough discipline to let the Spaniards pass the first time without opening fire? With Yorke and Bowen among them he knew he could depend on it. He explained it to Yorke and the corporal, and then they filed off into the deep greyness.
Ramage was pleasantly surprised at how quietly they moved: they were out of earshot almost as soon as they were lost to sight. The Marines, like the seamen, would stay on the left, or western side of the road. That way each would know roughly where the other force was and, more important, neither would fire—if shooting was necessary—towards the hill.
Quickly he and Jackson led the seamen into the bushes and positioned each of them two or three yards back from the track. Each was shown where the man on either side was stationed; each was warned what could happen if anyone forgot.
Finally Ramage walked along the track with Jackson to take up his position. He found a large, straggling divi-divi bush which would hide both him and Jackson and sat down, sore-footed and tired, with the American beside him. He took one of the two pistols from his belt and, after checking it was not loaded, squeezed the trigger to make sure the flint was sound. It made a good spark. From his coat pocket he brought a metal powder horn and shook a measure of coarse powder into the barrel, using the rammer to push down a wad on top of it. Then he took a lead ball from his pocket and turned it between finger and thumb to make sure it had no dents or bumps, that it was perfectly spherical and would fly true. He put the ball in the muzzle and rammed it home firmly with another wad on top. Finally, using the fine powder at the other end of the divided powder horn, he held the pistol tilted to the left and shook a small amount of powder into the pan. Carefully he made sure the touch hole running from the pan into the bore of the gun was full of priming powder, and then flipped the steel down to cover the pan. He blew gently to get rid of loose grains of powder, and put it on the ground beside him while he loaded the other pistol.
Finally, with both pistols loaded, he was able to relax. It needed only a slight movement of each thumb to cock the
hammers; it needed only a gentle pressure on the trigger to fire.
As they sat there, cautiously and silently fighting off attacks by the now only too familiar red ants, whose bites were like jabs from red-hot needles, Ramage and Jackson looked along the track, watching as approaching dawn extended the visibility. They could identify a particular bush five yards away, and then within minutes distinguish details of its leaves and branches. The overall grey of land and sky began to turn into pale but individual colours: the yellow blossoms of a shrub here, white blossom of a different shrub there. The green of odd blades of coarse grass, then the deeper green of bushes.
Jackson nudged Ramage’s knee, and then Ramage too heard a distant clink of metal and voices; faint but deep, a descant even, and musical like distant murmurings. He realized it was the sound of slaves quietly singing and chanting as they walked.
He felt no tension now, only relief that his decision to believe the slave Roberto was likely to prove a right one. Now the only risk was that they’d arrive at the ambush before there was enough light to see properly.
Jackson seemed to guess his thoughts, whispering: “The track slopes downhill for a mile, sir. That’s why we can hear them so well. They won’t be here for fifteen or twenty minutes.”
It seemed a long, long wait as it became gradually lighter. Ramage was surprised how noisily he breathed. On board the ship he had not noticed it, but out here, in the dawn silence, the air seemed to hiss and snort as it went up and down his nostrils. He tried breathing only through his mouth, but his throat began to dry and he was afraid of starting to cough. His heart seemed to be beating abnormally loudly. His stomach gurgled. The devil take it, was his body always as noisy as this?
The singing had faded for a few minutes and he worried in case the Spanish officer was taking the men to a new site, but Jackson explained that the silence was due to the road curving as it came up the hill, and masking the sound. Then Ramage could hear them again, suddenly louder.
Quickly he stood up with a pistol in each hand, and a moment later heard twigs breaking to his right: a careless seaman, but no matter; the singing of the Negroes should help drown any such noise.