by Dudley Pope
‘More French than France.’
‘And the ladies – they’re very chic.’
Teasing, bantering, and her voice fascinating.
‘So I’m told; but I was there only a few hours and met none.’
‘Shame! Fort Royal is something to linger over – like a good brandy.’
One of the men in the boats suddenly lunged with his trident and a moment later held a large fish aloft, the red light of the torch reflecting on the wriggling body.
‘I’m afraid sailors can rarely linger…’
‘A wife in every port?’
‘A deliberate falsehood spread by jealous soldiers!’
She laughed. ‘Another illusion shattered… But an attractive notion, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Yes – though I hardly think a wife would want to share a husband,’ Ramage said dryly.
‘Oh, I don’t know: a woman would be more likely to share a husband with another woman – if she loved him – than a man to share his wife.’
‘Indeed? This is most instructive – do go on,’ Ramage teased. ‘Is this an old Carib custom?’
Again that natural laugh and as if by accident her arm moved so the back of his hand rested under her breast. The material of the dress was thin, and even as she laughed he sensed she wore nothing beneath. He turned his head to look at her: the front of the dress was cut low and square; the valley between her breasts –
‘Ah there you are!’
Cursing to himself Ramage turned to find Colonel Wilson beaming at them.
‘Excuse me m’ dear fellow, but the Governor wants to talk to you. Rather urgent, I’m afraid – they’re here, Your Excellency!’
Sir Jason followed Wilson on to the balcony.
‘Sorry – excuse us, Miss de Giraud – but Ramage, these blessed ship-owners have just been talking to me: fancy interrupting the ball like that. Want to sail their schooners: they say the cargoes are spoiling and they’ll miss the next English convoy from Jamaica unless the schooners reach Martinique in a few days.’
‘If they sail them now,’ Ramage said grimly, ‘they probably won’t even reach Martinique, let alone ship the cargoes in the next Jamaica convoy.’
‘We’ve told ’em that,’ Wilson said, ‘but they say they’d sooner risk that than let the cargoes rot.’
‘They lose the schooners too,’ Ramage pointed out. ‘Soon they won’t have any ships left.’
‘They collect their insurance though,’ Wilson said bitterly.
Ramage sensed the Governor’s attitude had definitely changed: he was trying to persuade him to let them sail, not blustering and vowing they could go. A sudden idea crossed his mind but he dismissed it.
‘Is any one owner more anxious than the rest?’
‘Two are making the fuss.’
‘But three are loaded. What about the third owner?’
‘That’s Rondin. Didn’t say much – seemed more inclined to go by what you said. At least, that was my impression – agree, Wilson?’
The Colonel nodded. ‘Has more sense than the rest of ’em put together.’
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s madness to sail now.’ He asked Wilson: ‘Have you mentioned our suspicions to the Governor?’
Again the Colonel nodded.
‘Very interesting they are, too,’ Sir Jason said in a flat voice belying his words, ‘but it doesn’t help the present situation.’
‘If you’ll pardon me, Your Excellency, I should have thought it provided a very definite answer.’
‘Well, it doesn’t, I’m afraid. At least two of these gentlemen insist their schooners sail tonight.’
Tonight! Ramage tried to keep his temper. It seemed comical that you had to order men to keep their ships in port for their own safety. It’d make more sense if they were protesting because Ramage was ordering them to sail.
Wilson coughed to attract Ramage’s attention. ‘Lieutenant – I don’t think His Excellency will mind me telling you that one owner proposes to sail his schooner tonight whatever Sir Jason or you say–’
‘That’s so,’ Sir Jason interrupted.
‘Very well,’ Ramage snapped, as the idea came back more forcefully, ‘just to maintain some semblance of authority – I don’t imagine anyone wants me to put men on board to prevent it – I’ll give permission for that one schooner to sail, though it’s making a virtue out of a necessity.’
‘Ah, splendid,’ purred the Governor. ‘Splendid, I knew you’d be reasonable.’
‘But on two conditions,’ Ramage said, thinking quickly and looking at his watch – eight o’clock.
Sir Jason sighed like a child impatient with its parents.
‘One is that she’s under way by ten o’clock and no one but the owner and the master are told after being sworn to secrecy – not even the crew must know until they’re ordered to cast off the lines; second, the owner must sign a document in front of you, Sir Jason, declaring that he’s sailing at his own request, at his own risk and very much against my wishes and advice.’
‘And mine too, if that helps,’ Wilson added.
‘Very well,’ the Governor agreed. ‘I’ll speak to him now and he’ll sign the document in my study.’
‘And one more thing, Sir Jason, on which I’m afraid I must insist…’
Suddenly he realized Miss de Giraud had several minutes earlier tactfully walked a few yards along the balcony.
‘…I must insist on absolute secrecy. None of the other owners must know; nor any of your staff or Colonel Wilson’s. Just the owner and the master of the schooner.’
‘But my dear fellow,’ grumbled Sir Jason, ‘are you implying–’
‘Otherwise the schooner doesn’t sail, sir; I’ll put some of my men on board all three. And the other two owners must be told nothing – except they can’t sail for the time being. They can have explanations tomorrow why one vessel left.’
‘It’s most irregular,’ Sir Jason expostulated, ‘why, they’ll probably think this owner’s bribed me.’
‘Bribed me,’ Ramage corrected. ‘I’m permitting it to sail, Your Excellency; you can make that quite clear.’
‘Very well. Come along Wilson, we’ll get this fellow down to my study. I’ll see you later, Ramage.’
For a moment Ramage stood thinking. Had he let himself be rushed into a silly decision? There was no denying he was angry; but then he smiled. It wasn’t a handsome smile; it was coldly cynical. All this could be a blessing in disguise – oh yes, he thought, very much a blessing! A spy could be caught only when he passed information; so first he had to have information. And probably the only information this particular spy sought was the time a schooner sailed.
Eventually, Ramage reflected, he would have been forced to sail a schooner as bait, knowing it would almost certainly be captured. That would be the price for just one attempt at trapping the spy, and it’d be a high price because if the owner ever discovered his schooner had been used as bait he would create the devil of a fuss. Ramage could imagine the angry letters – from the Committee of Underwriters at Lloyds, from the West India Committee and from anyone else moved to put pen to paper – streaming into the Admiralty, all blaming Lieutenant Ramage of His Majesty’s brig Triton!
But here, by an unexpected piece of luck, was an owner actually insisting this schooner sailed – insisting to the Governor. And presumably prepared to put his signature to a document drawn up by the Governor that the vessel sailed at the owner’s risk…
Ramage gave a short and bitter laugh and then turned to Miss de Giraud, but the balcony was empty. She had probably gone to – well, women did, and with much more discretion than men.
He stood a foot up on the chair and, leaning forward, stared across the lagoon. The bonfires in front of the huts were dying out. With their meals cooked and eaten, the people would be going to bed ready to rise at first light and begin their work. Only one of the boats was still fishing with a burning torch.
There was no sign of movement along
the Careenage – just the dark outline of the three laden schooners secured alongside. Was the spy watching even now?
Mosquitoes hummed in his ears and absent-mindedly he waved a hand to brush them away. Itching round his wrists told him they’d already had a good meal.
St George must be one of the most beautiful small harbours in the world. Out here the breeze was cool and behind the orchestra was muted; the guests’ idle chatter too was masked by the clicking of the frogs.
Yet to him the night in the Tropics was always faintly menacing; always an air of mystery. Strange, almost human, animal noises from the jungle and the hysterical whine of flying insects. Scorpions moving crabwise, centipedes crawling with deceptive speed, and the sudden scurry of a lizard across your shoe. The tap, tap, tap – in the Governor’s House at least – of death watch beetles steadily chewing their way through the roof timbers. Beneath the lushness he always sensed the death and decay.
And what was Gianna doing? He added four hours to the present time to allow for Grenada’s distance west of Greenwich. Wherever she was she’d be in bed and asleep. But at the moment he could not remember her as clearly as he did last night. Curious, the picture was fainter, and he found it hard to recall even her voice. He must write, though God knew when any ship would leave with mail. And her letters – was she writing letters in the form of a diary and posted in time to catch the West India Packet sailing regularly from Falmouth? Would she write regularly even when she received his letters only intermittently? That was –
A rustle of silk behind him interrupted his thoughts and without looking round he knew Miss de Giraud had returned and was standing right behind him. Touching him lightly on the shoulder she whispered: ‘Surely not homesick? You look so sad standing there alone and looking out to sea!’
‘No, not homesick – just thinking about this and that; the view, the bonfires dying out in front of those huts…’
‘Yes, it’s very beautiful: I never get tired of it.’
‘But you’ve seen it – for a year?’
‘From here for a year; from other places round the lagoon for much longer.’
‘But you aren’t a Grenadan?’
‘No, not a Grenadan.’
It was neither a rebuff nor an evasion. Nor for that matter, an answer.
‘I shall be sorry to leave Gr—’
High in the hills behind Government House a tom-tom suddenly began a rhythmic beat. No, not rhythmic: it began with a rhythm, then changed to equally spaced beats. Then stopped for a few moments, began more beats, and broke into a rhythm again.
Tum-dee-dee-tum-tum…tum-dee-dee-tum…tum…tum…
‘That’s the first time I’ve heard tom-toms here.’
‘Oh? They’re often beating.’
It stopped but Ramage continued listening and suddenly walked to the edge of the balcony, leaning over so his head was clear of the building. Faintly in the distance, away to the north, another drum had taken up the beat, very faintly, barely distinguishable above the croaking frogs.
‘What are they doing, passing messages?’
‘No – at least, I don’t think so. Usually it’s some voodoo rite – you know, black magic.’
‘A sort of ceremony?’
‘Yes – perhaps someone in a family is ill. They send for a witch doctor – though officially they don’t exist – and a drummer. They have some ritual to cure the people.’
‘Does it cure them?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. At least it can’t make them any worse.’
Ramage realized several people were coming out from the doors farther along the balcony.
‘We’ve been out here rather a long time – would you like to dance?’
‘For fear my reputation would otherwise be compromised?’ she whispered, laughing quietly at Ramage’s discomfiture. ‘Don’t worry my Lord, we’ve been standing in front of a door all the time!’
‘Nicholas, not “my Lord”.’
She curtsied, again with that mocking look in her eyes. Or was it mocking? Ramage wished he could be sure.
‘And I – my Lord – am Claire.’
‘And may I have the pleasure of the next dance, Claire?’
‘I must look at my programme.’ She pretended to read it. ‘By chance I am not engaged for the next dance, Lieutenant.’
They danced, paused for refreshments and danced again for nearly two hours. By then Ramage had given up trying to conceal that she was making him tremble: the silk of her dress moved so smoothly under his right hand that she might well have been naked. She knew it, she accepted it, and she responded. Time was forgotten – until a planter dancing with his plump and drab wife growled, ‘It’s past ten o’clock – I want a drink!’
With that Ramage jerked himself out of the sensuous little world he’d been briefly sharing with Claire. Damnation! Had the schooner sailed?
Suddenly he realized that the rest of the dancers were swirling past while he stood in front of Claire, who was watching him anxiously.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘The heat – I’d like some fresh air. Would – do you think we can risk gossip and go on to the balcony?’
She laughed gaily, relieved at his explanation. ‘There’s no risk attached to gossip; one either accepts or rejects it.’
‘Or ignores it.’
‘Or ignores it,’ she repeated as they walked to the door.
‘Which do you do?’
‘I’ve never been thought important enough to be gossiped about!’
‘The Governor’s “Lord Chamberlain” is too modest. But–’
‘But if I was? I’d ignore or reject: it’s the same either way.’
As they reached the balcony he saw the schooner had sailed. The last bonfire was nearly out; the last torch fisherman had gone home. The lagoon and the harbour looked like glass; just a breath of wind rippled the surface and there was only an occasional tiny green splash as a fish jumped and stirred up phosphorescence. His watch showed it was eleven minutes past ten.
And a tom-tom, which had been beating as they came out on to the balcony, gave a few more desultory beats and stopped.
‘There’s more music in a tom-tom than in the Governor’s orchestra,’ he commented.
She shivered unexpectedly. ‘It’s cold out here!’
‘But wait a few moments – you enjoy this view year after year. In a couple of months’ time I might be in a snow storm off Newfoundland!’
There was no one else on the balcony and he kissed her, and what seemed hours later, when she’d whispered ‘Will you remember me when the snow is falling?’ the distant tom-tom had long finished beating out its message to whichever heathen god was listening.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The shout of a sentry roused Ramage before daylight. A few moments later, with more shouted challenges – apparently to an approaching boat – and the sound of men running along the deck, he was wide awake, leaping out of his cot and grabbing a pair of pistols. He flung open the cabin door just as the Marine sentry outside shouted ‘Captain, sir!’ and reached the quarterdeck in time to meet Jackson running aft to report.
‘It’s Mr Appleby, sir: he’s just arrived from Carriacou!’
A few minutes later the boat, a half-decked fishing drogher, was anchored to leeward of the Triton and Appleby was coming up the side. Then Southwick appeared, still half asleep, and the Corporal of Marines with four of his men stood round with lanterns, uncertain what to do.
Appleby reached the deck, saw Ramage in the lantern light and saluted.
‘Good morning, Appleby! What brings you back? Something interesting to report?’
Appleby grinned uncertainly, as if he was having second thoughts.
‘Good morning, sir: yes – at least, I hope you’ll think so.’
‘Very well – you haven’t eaten, I suppose? No? Steward – tea at once, and breakfast in ten minutes!’
In the cabin Ramage paced up and down, shoulders hunch
ed to avoid bumping his head on the low beams, while Appleby sat nervously at the table. It had taken Ramage two or three minutes to get him started off on his story – he’d suddenly become nervous, apparently afraid at the last minute that Ramage would think his report ridiculous and blame him for leaving Carriacou.
‘We were keeping a sharp watch on the islands and the north end of Grenada, just as you told us, sir. Then last night at 8.42 exactly we saw a bonfire suddenly light up on a hill above Levera – that’s on the north-east side of Grenada.’
‘I know it,’ Ramage said. ‘Could you make out how big?’
‘Through the “bring ’em near” it looked much more than a bonfire: as if several big trees were burning.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought much about it – after all, sir, it could have started accidentally – but about ten minutes later another bonfire started on the north side of Kick ’em Jenny. That wasn’t so big but easy to see because it was much nearer.’
‘The Levera bonfire – could you have seen that easily from Carriacou without a telescope?’
‘It’d have been chancy, sir. Probably missed it if there’d been a bit of haze, rain squall – even a bright moonlit night.’
‘But the one on Kick ’em Jenny?’
‘Could see that plain as anything, sir, without the glass.’
Ramage nodded as he tried to recall some of the events of the previous evening at Government House.
‘Then the drum started, sir,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.
‘The what?’ Ramage almost shouted.
‘The drum sir – tom-tom, I mean. At the south end of Carriacou. It was about five minutes after the bonfire started at Kick ’em Jenny that this tom-tom started – well tom-tomming. As soon as it stopped another one started about six miles away – I reckon it was somewhere in the middle of the island. Seemed to beat the same sort of tune. When that one finished we thought we heard a third one at the north end, but none of us was sure.’
‘No bonfires to the north?’
‘Well, sir, that’s what bothered me. It was the first thing I thought of when I realized these tom-toms might be passing a message across the island, so we dashed up the hill and looked. We saw a red glow – just a reflection really at the north end of Carriacou, that’s for sure.