by Dudley Pope
“The Spanish sailors weren’t taking much notice, of course, and the Captain was still screaming at the helmsman. I couldn’t help thinking that if I didn’t do something we’d be there for hours. So I stood to attention and just as I was going to say ‘Tritons, take possession of the ship,’ both Staff and Rosey started laughing—seems I was puffing out my chest like a Spanish customs agent.
“With that we took the ship and then I heard you calling me, sir.”
La Perla’s regular task was delivering provisions to Spanish garrisons, the majority of them in Puerto Rico itself. There were no troops on the island of Vieques, Ramage was surprised to learn. The skipper of La Perla was indignant that Snake Island, or Culebra as he called it, had a garrison since it gave him another forty miles to beat to windward. Otherwise he left San Juan and went round to Ponce on the south coast and then on to Mayaguez at the western end of the island.
Refloating La Perla took four hours. At first Ramage thought they would have to use her small boat, take out an anchor astern and haul her off. Fortunately, just before he gave the order the wind freshened. As usual, it was easterly and the schooner’s bow, at right angles to the beach, headed east.
The Tritons went on board, clambering up over the bow. Meanwhile the Topazes guarded La Perla’s former crew. Soon Southwick and Ramage were standing on her quarterdeck looking over each side.
Ramage nodded his head to the southward, where some seamen were taking soundings from La Perla’s only boat.
“Looks clear. We’ve got plenty of room. Then wear round and come alongside.”
If La Perla had run up on mud, it would have gripped her hull with all the suction of an octopus. The thicker the mud, the harder the schooner would be held. Luckily it seemed to be a sandy bottom.
Ramage walked the length of the schooner, noting her general shape, the point of maximum beam and, without realizing it, working out her probable underwater shape and the exact point the hull would pivot under the pressure of various combinations of sail.
The seamen reported the depths they had found to Southwick.
“Straightforward, sir,” he said. “I reckon we’re only short of six inches of water forward …”
Which meant, Ramage noted thankfully, that with the angle La Perla made to the beach, and the direction of the wind, hoisting the headsails and sheeting them aback would give the schooner’s bow a hearty shove to starboard, pivoting her so she was pushed off the beach. Then the big foresail and mainsail—already hoisted and just flapping—would be sheeted in and La Perla would be under way again.
It was a straightforward operation, though not a routine one, and the schooner refloated at the first attempt. He sailed her across the bay and back to get the feeling of how she handled, and then brought her alongside the jetty without any fuss.
The men worked in shifts for the rest of the day unloading surplus provisions and making room for the large number of people La Perla would now be carrying to Jamaica.
Most of the provisions were familiar to the British seamen, but there was much more rice than they expected, and many sacks of a kind of bean they had never seen before. One of the men was incautious enough to take a bite from one of a string of onions and let out a yell as he began gasping for breath, his eyes watering.
“Don’t steal the grub,” Jackson told him unsympathetically, “but if you do, keep your thieving hands off the garlic.”
With everything prepared for the voyage to Jamaica, Ramage began to have misgivings. The risks were ones he accepted for himself and his men without a moment’s thought; but with La Perla ready to sail, he found himself worrying more and more about the St Brieucs. Was he justified in taking chances with their lives, particularly since St Brieuc was a man valued by the British Government? The least he could do was warn them.
That evening he invited St Brieuc, St Cast and Yorke to his room for a talk, but when they arrived and sat down, looking at him expectantly, he found it hard to explain.
“The voyage we start tomorrow …” he began lamely.
The three men waited, all attention.
“There are risks …”
St Brieuc sensed his discomfort and said lightly, “We are becoming accustomed to them. They add a zest to life!”
Yorke came to Ramage’s help. “These are different. I think our ‘Governor’ has privateers in mind.”
St Cast turned to St Brieuc and smiled. “I suspect he is more worried about us than the treasure—a flattering thought!”
“He is constantly preoccupied with our safety,” St Brieuc said, as though Ramage was not there. “I think he should worry more about the treasure—I’m sure that would be the Admiralty’s view.”
Ramage wondered if St Brieuc had guessed his thoughts and given a subtle hint.
“Either way, the privateers concern me,” Ramage said. “I want to be sure you understand the risks.”
“I assume it is considerable,” St Brieuc said, “since all the islands from here to Jamaica are held by the Spanish or French.”
Ramage nodded. “It is considerable, but I’m damned if I know how to describe it. If I told you there were probably six privateers between here and Jamaica, you’d conclude it was dangerous. If I said a dozen, a score or a hundred, you’d reach the same conclusion …”
“The figures mean nothing,” St Brieuc said, “since we have no standards to apply. Surely the point is, would you risk making the voyage with the treasure if we weren’t here?”
“Yes, but that’s not—”
“Yes, it is the point,” St Brieuc interrupted quietly. “You worry unnecessarily about us. If we stayed here, I think it would be only a matter of time before Spanish soldiers arrived to hunt us down—don’t you agree?”
Ramage nodded.
“So if we stay here, we are certain of ending up in a Spanish prison—or worse.”
“Fairly certain.” Ramage thought a moment, and corrected himself. “Absolutely certain.”
“What are the chances of La Perla being captured by a privateer?”
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “What was the chance of us being caught in a hurricane? One in a hundred, one in five … hard to say.”
“As far as privateers are concerned,” Yorke commented, “I’d put my money on not more than one in ten.”
St Brieuc smiled at Ramage, a friendly but worldly smile. “You think of yourself as a gambler, young man?”
“I suppose so. Not with money, but in action one has to …”
“Take an old man’s advice, then—confine yourself to the odds in battle. Never go near the gambling tables!”
Ramage grinned. “You seem very certain I’d lose.”
“I am, and you’ve just proved it. You say that if we stay on the island we will be captured. We are one hundred per cent certain of losing, in fact. But if we sail with you in La Perla, we face only a one in five chance of capture. Although I’m the most timid of gamblers, I know which I choose!”
“Although mathematics aren’t the ‘Governor’s’ strongest subject,” Yorke said dryly, “I think he is being unfair to himself!”
“Yes,” Ramage said ruefully. “I had in mind that if you stayed here and La Perla reached Jamaica safely, a frigate would come back and rescue you. I’d leave enough men to guard the Spaniards.”
St Brieuc’s eyes twinkled. “Your heart is ruling your head. Doing that increases the odds against us. If we stay here, and La Perla is captured by a privateer, we still end up in a Spanish prison. If she reaches Jamaica, we have to wait for the frigate to get back. Head winds all the way, and perhaps another hurricane
… What might the Spanish have done in the meantime? No, please take us in La Perla. I understand your concern, but quite apart from the mathematical aspect which shows the odds are in favour of making such a voyage, we have complete confidence in you.”
Yorke nodded in agreement.
“Now that’s been decided,” St Cast said conversationally, “how long do you think
it will take for the Spanish in San Juan to do something about Snake Island?”
“Three weeks at the outside,” Ramage said. “Once a passing ship sights the wrecks on the reef and reports them in San Juan, the naval commander will send a frigate … Apart from that, La Perla will be reported overdue at Ponce within a week. Since Snake Island was her first port, they’ll start investigating here. Because of Lieutenant Colon’s mission, they’re probably sensitive about Snake Island anyway.”
“The minute we leave,” Yorke said, “Colon will try to raise the alarm. Some men could reach Puerto Rico in a fishing boat—it’s not that far.”
“Southwick has collected the boats and they are being burned in the morning, but if Colon has any sense, he’ll set fire to the grass and bushes on the hills, and hope someone in Puerto Rico takes notice of the smoke.”
“We’re lucky to have La Perla,” St Brieuc commented.
“Yes, we stand more chance of reaching Jamaica with her than if we had the Topaz,” Ramage said. “Not so comfortable, admittedly, but safer.”
St Brieuc looked puzzled.
“Ships,” Ramage explained, “are rather like human beings: you can learn a lot about them from their appearance. La Perla’s hull and rig is clearly Spanish. She could never have been built in England.”
Yorke nodded in agreement as Ramage continued: “At first our main danger will be of capture by Spanish privateers or ships of war between Puerto Rico and Santo Domingo. Later there’s a danger of French ships from the western end of Hispaniola and finally a slight risk of Spaniards from Cuba.
“A Spaniard seeing La Perla sailing close to his own coast and flying a Spanish ensign would assume she was Spanish. And so would a Frenchman. They’d have no reason to think anything else.”
Yorke looked keenly at Ramage. “A few miles off the coast past Puerto Rico and all the way to the western end of Hispaniola, then a dash down to Jamaica?”
Ramage nodded. “As close to the coast as we dare.”
“Supposing the French want to board us to check up?” Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “Let them. We have all the ship’s papers and unless the Frenchman commanding the boarding party spoke fluent Spanish, which is unlikely, I think I could pass myself off as a Spaniard. I might even do it with a Spanish privateer—the accents vary enormously from province to province.”
St Brieuc nodded. “You could, I am sure. When you were talking to that wretched man Colon I remember thinking I would not have thought you were English.”
“The point is,” Ramage said with a grin, “would you have thought I was Spanish? Anyway, have either of you gentlemen any suggestions for improving my plan?”
All of them shook their heads.
“Right,” Ramage said, standing up, “then we sail for Jamaica tomorrow morning as soon as the breeze starts.”
After dinner Ramage felt Maxine’s foot touching his under the table, and a moment later she said casually to her father, “Nicholas and I are going to have a last walk along the edge of the bay.”
“Don’t make yourselves sad,” he said. “When your mother and I went along there this afternoon we felt quite doleful.”
“We always seem to be leaving places we love,” Maxine said bitterly as she stood and took Ramage’s arm. “We won’t be long.”
She knew now that she loved him, and she was on the verge of accepting that it was hopeless. Obviously he loved someone else; only that could account for his stiffness. She still wanted him to herself for half an hour tonight, for half an hour when he would not be preoccupied with privateers and hurricanes and hunting for treasure.
By now they were picking their way along the short stretch of sandy beach beside the jetty. The schooner was a dark shape against the stars, and the air was alive with the high-pitched, rapid croaking of tree frogs.
She held her skirt clear of the ground with her left hand and clutched his arm tightly with her right, and pictured in her mind the way he would be frowning as he looked at the ground to make sure she did not trip. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw his right hand move up to his brow. He was rubbing those scars!
It took another ten minutes before they reached the spot she had chosen. It was another small beach with several boulders on it, one of which made a natural seat.
“Here,” she said, “let us sit for a few minutes and thank Culebra and say goodbye.”
He sat and she realized there was no energy in him. It was as though he was suddenly completely exhausted.
She turned and looked at him.
“You are tired,” she said. “It has been a terrible month.” He shook his head. “Not terrible. Exciting, yes.”
“The hurricane, the treasure hunt … yes, exciting enough,” she said.
“And you,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I wish I had met you a long time ago.”
“Why ‘a long time ago?’”
“Before you were married,” he said shyly.
Suddenly she shivered and knew an instant later that he had noticed it.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “that was a tactless thing to say.” She reached up and held his face with both hands.
“Yes, a tactless thing to say … what do you know of my husband?”
“Nothing, apart from his name and the fact that you obviously love him.” He said it gently, almost sadly.
“Do you know how much I love him?” she whispered. “You never talk about him—as though remembering him makes you unhappy.”
“It does, very unhappy. But Nicholas, not for the reason you think.” She was still whispering, and her hands moved back so her fingers were twined in his hair, gently pulling him towards her.
“Not for the reason you think,” she repeated. “No—the memory of him makes me unhappy because I hate him. I wish he was dead!”
From the way he suddenly gripped her shoulders she knew he had not understood, and she startled herself with the harshness of her voice and her words as she continued. “You are afraid of making a cuckold of the man who betrayed me, my mother and my father to the agents of the Directory?”
“Here!” she said, and took one of his hands. She pulled at the front of her dress and guided his hand down over her breast. “There—and there—and there: you feel the scars? My husband caused them. The torturers of the Directory actually used a redhot poker. They wanted to know where my father was.”
“And you said nothing,” he said, bemused both by what she said and the fact his hand was not only still on her breast but that she was pressing it to her, and he could feel the nipple stiffening under his palm.
“They let me go and then followed me secretly because they thought I would lead the way to my father. It was in Paris,” she said, “but I was looking for my husband, because I wanted to kill him. My parents were in Brittany and escaped to London, and I managed to follow them. And now,” she added simply, “I am here.”
“I was so jealous,” Ramage said. “And I—”
He was going to say that although he was in love with her he did not even know her real name, but managed to smother the sentence by kissing her.
By nine o’clock next morning the light breeze that had been blowing from the north most of the night veered to the east and freshened, and Ramage waited impatiently as La Perla’s boat was hoisted in after returning from across the bay.
Jackson left the group of seamen and came over to Ramage to report.
“Where did you leave them?”
“The headland you pointed out, sir; Punta Colorada. Over there, on the western side of the entrance.”
“Any tracks or paths there?”
“Didn’t see any, sir. Plenty of trees and bushes. Not hard to get through. Maybe three hours or so back to here.”
“They gave no trouble?”
“No, sir. The Lieutenant complained about the long walk back.”
Ramage grunted sourly. “He’s lucky!”
“We told him that, sir.”
The problem of wha
t to do with Teniente Colon and his troops, and La Perla’s Master and crew, had been solved by locking the soldiers and sailors in the large house with the bricked-up windows used as the slaves’ barracks, and taking Colon and the master to the other side of the bay with the one key that would open the enormous padlock on the door. The prisoners were crowded, but Ramage had little sympathy for the soldiers.
The slaves had been given the choice of joining the Royal Navy or staying on Snake Island. Five, including Roberto, had volunteered. The remainder preferred the known life of slavery to the unknown perils of the Navy.
As soon as the boat was secured, Ramage gave a swift series of orders that saw La Perla’s lines taken in, headsails hoisted, the big foresail and even larger mainsail set and the schooner reaching smoothly down the bay towards the narrow entrance. The wind funnelling round the hills was freshening every minute, but inside the bay the water was flat, its surface only pewtered.
Southwick turned to Ramage and nodded: “She goes well.”
“We’ve trimmed her too much by the bow!”
The Master walked to the bow and peered over the lee side; then came aft and looked over the taffrail at the wake. He waved the two men away from the big tiller and took it himself, holding it firmly but with hands sensing the feel of the rudder in the water.
He told the two helmsmen to take over the tiller again, and said to Ramage: “Two tons. Sorry, sir.”
Ramage laughed cheerfully. “You’re allowed ten tons of leeway with a new ship!”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Southwick said, mollified as soon as he realized that Ramage’s original remark was intended as a comment, not a criticism, “I’ll have her trimmed as soon as we get round the point. I made allowances for doing that.”
Ramage slapped Southwick on the back—the first time the Master had ever known him do that to anyone—and exclaimed: “Mr Southwick, do you realize the significance of what you’ve just said?”
The Master looked startled. “No, sir! I made allowances for trimming her. I mean,” he added hastily, “I had the holds loaded so I could shift—why, of course, the treasure, sir! The coins are the easiest to move.”