Ramage's Mutiny

by Dudley Pope

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  RAMAGE rolled up the chart and told the three men standing round the desk to sit down. All of them were physically weary, worn out by the mental strain of the past few hours and the lack of sleep, but the news that Ramage had just given them had brought a gleam to their eyes.

  “I wonder what ‘particular cargo’ means,” Southwick said. “It could be anything.”

  “The Captain-General refers to it later as ‘valuable,’” Ramage commented. “And I can’t believe the Viceroy of the Indies would concern himself personally with something unimportant.”

  “Ah, you know what these Spaniards are like, sir. It’s probably some gift to a minister; a bribe to get something. Or a present for the King.”

  Aitken looked up: “It’s valuable enough for the Viceroy to want a frigate to escort it.”

  “Bulky, though,” Southwick said. “The letter says ‘coasting vessels’ were bringing it round from Cartagena. Not one vessel, but several.”

  “He might have wanted to spread the risk,” Aitken pointed out. “A small amount in several vessels.”

  Ramage laughed dryly. “The three of you are dreaming of gold bars and pieces of eight!”

  “Why not, sir?” Wagstaffe asked. “The Dons mine enough gold and silver!”

  “Not along the Main. That comes from Peru and they send it up to Panama. And from Mexico, of course, and that is sent out through Vera Cruz.”

  Wagstaffe looked puzzled. “The Spanish Main, sir—I thought this was where Sir Harry Morgan and the buccaneers were always raiding. Along this coast and beyond Cartagena.”

  “They raided it, true enough, but as far as I know they usually made their money by ransoming a town’s leading citizens. The only time Morgan found a lot of gold was when he marched across the Isthmus to Panama.”

  “If the Viceroy is so worried about this cargo, sir,” Aitken said cautiously, “why didn’t he send it direct to Havana from Cartagena? Sending it round to La Guaira means an extra six or seven hundred miles …”

  “That puzzled me,” Ramage admitted, “but the obvious explanation is probably correct: they just don’t have the ships. Probably there was one merchant ship in La Guaira and none in Cartagena. There were coasting vessels in Cartagena capable of the voyage round to La Guaira, but none that could be relied upon—or spared—to get to Havana. It was easier to have the one particular cargo from La Guaira loaded on board in La Guaira itself, with the other one from Cartagena being sent round.

  “The Jocasta’s arrival a couple of years ago must have seemed like a miracle: she’s the only frigate on the whole coast. Apart from her, the Santa Barbara is probably the only ship o’ war they have along the Main.”

  “I can believe that,” Southwick said. “We certainly never hear of anything being sighted, or captured.”

  “That was why their Lordships were anxious to get the Jocasta back,” Ramage pointed out. “They didn’t want the Dons to have her.”

  “But the Dons never used her,” Southwick protested.

  “Blame that on the quill-pushers in Caracas. The Captain-General has been arguing with the man who holds the purse-strings, and they have no money anyway. But make no mistake, they want her desperately.”

  “What was she going to do, sir?” Wagstaffe asked. “I mean, before she was ordered to Spain.”

  “They were going to send her to sea as a privateer—I think the Captain-General hoped she’d pay for herself with prize-money. They couldn’t afford to pay enough seamen; that’s why they were using soldiers: they are paid by Madrid.”

  “So just as she’s ready to sail as a privateer, they get orders to send her to Spain,” Southwick commented. “They must be hard up for ships over there; I’d have thought she’d have done more good out here.”

  Ramage nodded; he had given that a lot of thought while reading the letters. “I think Madrid has always regarded the Indies simply as a gold mine. As soon as there’s enough bullion ready, they send a small fleet to escort it to Cadiz. In between times the Indies have to look after themselves.”

  “Pity we don’t have gold mines,” Aitken said. “When you want to build another dozen ships of the line you just send to the Indies for some more gold.”

  “Hasn’t done ‘em much good in the past,” Southwick said contemptuously. “They’ve been digging out gold for nearly 250 years, and neither their fleet nor their army is worth a tinker’s cuss.”

  There was a knock on the door and Ramage’s clerk came in holding several sheets of paper: “The orders, sir, for your signature.”

  Ramage took them and sat at the desk. He glanced through the top page, signed it and gave it to Wagstaffe.

  “There you are. Now you are in command of Calypso, and you send fifty men back to the Jocasta. You’re sure you can handle her with the rest?”

  “Quite sure, sir. Sixty men are more than enough.”

  “Very well. The rendezvous is given: wait three days and if we don’t meet you before then, make your way to English Harbour and give the report to Admiral Davis.”

  Ramage signed the report addressed to the Admiral, and gave it to the clerk to take away and seal.

  “I’m sorry to bring you back from the Calypso,” Ramage told Aitken.

  The young Scot grinned cheerfully. “I’m glad to be back in the Jocasta, sir. It’s not often we get a chance of cutting out ships. I’m getting a taste for it!”

  Ramage turned back to Wagstaffe. “You are satisfied with Baker and Kenton? It looks as though it’s going to be watch-and-watch-about for you for a week or two.”

  “We’ll be all right, sir, although I think they were looking forward to taking the Santa Barbara back to English Harbour.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint them, but if you take a prize on the way back they can toss up for the honour of commanding her.”

  The clerk brought back the report for Admiral Davis, and Ramage, after inspecting the seal, gave it to Wagstaffe. He listened to the movement on deck for a few moments. “I think the last of the prisoners are ready to be taken over to the Santa Barbara. Southwick, you’d better send Velasquez to see me.”

  With that the three men left. Ramage rubbed his face with a towel and was thankful it was not a humid night. He tugged his stock straight, ran a comb through his hair, and put the rolled-up chart back in the rack. He glanced round the cabin—it looked exactly as Velasquez had left it when the Calypso came alongside.

  A stamping of feet down the companion-way warned him that Velasquez was being brought down with an escort of at least two Marines.

  “Spanish officer, h’under h’escort, sir,” the sentry announced. “Send him in, but the escort can stay outside.”

  Velasquez came into the cabin warily, as though expecting a wild animal to leap at him out of the shadows.

  “Good morning,” Ramage said in Spanish.

  Velasquez had not seen him sitting at the desk and he took a step back.

  “Come in,” Ramage said. “Sit on the settee.”

  “You speak Spanish!” Velasquez exclaimed. “Why—you are the leader of the mutineers! But that uniform! Why do you wear it?”

  “It fits me rather well, doesn’t it?” Ramage remarked conversationally.

  “Yes, but—”

  “It should, of course; it was made for me by one of the best tailors in London.”

  “But you are a mutineer!”

  “No,” Ramage said quietly, “you just thought I was.”

  “The rest of the men,” Velasquez said lamely. “I just saw some of them in Army uniform …”

  “Marine uniform,” Ramage corrected him.

  Velasquez flopped down on the settee. “I do not understand. They sent me a warning from El Pilar that the Santa Barbara was bringing in another English frigate with a mutinous crew. I assumed all the details had been arranged by that fool Lopez, and that she was just to berth alongside me.”

  “Lopez was a prisoner; the Santa Barbara was an English prize by the
n.”

  “Yes, I realize that now. But you, señor?”

  “Nicholas Ramage, at your service; a captain in the Royal Navy.”

  Velasquez was about to rise and bow, but Ramage gestured for him to remain seated: time was getting short, with all the prisoners out of the Jocasta.

  “Captain Velasquez, all your men will soon be on board the Santa Barbara, along with the brig’s original crew and Captain Lopez—oh yes, and the nephew of the Captain-General. There are 41 of your men, wounded in the fighting. And here—” he took a piece of folded paper from his pocket “—are the names of the 23 killed. One of the wounded identified them. The garrisons of the two forts are also on board.”

  “You mean Castillo San Antonio and El Pilar?” Velasquez asked incredulously.

  “Yes. You heard two explosions?”

  “My God, yes!”

  “You’ll see what caused them when you sail back.”

  “Sail back?” Velasquez asked suspiciously.

  “Back into Santa Cruz. You will be taken over to the Santa Barbara in a few minutes and you will allow the remaining English Marines on board to depart in the boat that takes you over. Then you will sail the Santa Barbara back into port.”

  “You mean I will be free?”

  “Yes—you and all the prisoners I have taken, providing you give your word that you will not prevent my Marines leaving. I should warn you that the Calypso—she was the frigate that came alongside you in Santa Cruz—is close by, so that between us we can sink the Santa Barbara in a matter of moments.”

  “You have my word,” Velasquez said, and Ramage knew he meant it. “You have my word,” he repeated bitterly, “although God knows that from now on my own people will place little value on it.”

  Ramage looked puzzled, and Velasquez held his hands out, palms upwards. “As soon as the Captain-General hears of this, I shall be put under arrest. There was not even a pistol loaded when you boarded us.”

  “At least you are still alive!” Ramage exclaimed, surprised and vaguely irritated by the sympathy he was beginning to feel for the Spaniard.

  “I may live to regret that,” Velasquez said bitterly. Then he glanced up at Ramage. “Have you captured any of the English mutineers who originally brought in this ship? Many have sailed in neutral ships.”

  “Some. In time we’ll capture most of them.”

  “There was one man, one of their leaders. He could handle the ship well. He brought her round from La Guaira—with a Spanish guard, of course. I remember him well. His name—for the moment I cannot remember it.”

  “Summers?”

  “Ah, that was it. You know him?”

  “He was captured a few weeks ago and court-martialled.”

  “And?”

  “And he was hanged.”

  “He deserved it,” Velasquez said quietly. “He brought us a frigate, but he was evil. He boasted that he planned the entire mutiny and was responsible for killing all the officers. I think he was the most evil man I ever met. It was wrong for Spain to benefit from the activities of such men. We needed the ship, but mutiny knows no frontiers.”

  Ramage suddenly felt a kinship with Velasquez; the kinship of men who faced the responsibilities of command. He stood up and held out his hand.

  “I have your word about my Marines?”

  “You have.” Velasquez shook hands. “And thank you for freeing us. I am in your debt. Now you return to report to your Admiral?”

  “Yes,” Ramage said, thinking of the letters in the drawer. “What about the other English frigate, the one which came a month ago?”

  “Her Captain was making a reconnaissance,” Ramage said. “We needed to know if we could cut out La Perla.”

  “And he reported that you could?” Velasquez asked incredulously. “Caramba! He must be a brave man! And you, Captain Ramage, you have done the impossible.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BY SUNRISE the Jocasta was running westward under studding-sails with a stiff north-east wind. To the south a series of mountain peaks stretched into the distance along the coast of the Main, fading purple like old bruises, while ahead, fine on the starboard bow, was Isla de Margarita, its high mountains making it seem as if the island had been formed by a giant wrenching off a handful of the mainland and tossing it into the sea a dozen miles from the coast. There were two small islands in the channel between, Coche and Cabagua.

  Daylight had been a melancholy time on board the frigate because Ramage had to conduct a funeral service for the 23 Spaniards and then for the five men from the Calypso who had been killed while boarding the Jocasta. Yet the ship’s company had soon cheered up after the last body, sewn into a hammock and with a round shot at the feet, had disappeared over the side. Ramage sensed that the men had, like him, expected far heavier casualties, and most of them were too concerned with the wonder of being alive to mourn five lost shipmates for long.

  Ramage paused to look ahead at Isla de Margarita and then resumed his pacing of the starboard side of the quarterdeck. By now the Santa Barbara would be in Santa Cruz and Velasquez and Lopez—and the Captain-General’s nephew—would be telling their story. By now a messenger (two or three of them if the Mayor had any sense) would be galloping along the coast, carrying the warning to the Captain-General in Caracas that La Perla had been captured. Looking across the mountains, which swept on westwards like enormous petrified waves, Ramage did not envy the messengers.

  The last cast of the log showed that the Jocasta was making nine and a half knots. If they could keep up this speed they would arrive off La Guaira soon after dawn tomorrow. In fact it mattered little whether it was dawn or noon, providing they reached there in daylight and before the messengers.

  “A particular cargo.” The phrase nagged him. The word “particular” had a certain significance when used in the Royal Navy, usually meaning that something was both important and secret. When Admiral Nelson had been given the task of covering the English Channel against the threat of invasion, he had been given command of a squadron “to be employed upon a particular service.”

  Ramage cursed his deficient Spanish. Normally it was good enough to pass himself off as a Spaniard, but occasionally he was caught out by the deeper significance of a particular word. Southwick might be right; the “particular cargo” from Cartagena could be a present from the Viceroy, something intended to curry favour at Court.

  In steering for La Guaira he was now acting without orders. If anything went wrong Admiral Davis would be quite justified in accusing him of actually disobeying orders, since his instructions had been commendably brief: he was to sail to the Main, recapture the Jocasta and bring her back to English Harbour. There was not an inch of slack in the wording.

  If Ramage brought back a nice fat prize, the Admiral would not throw up his hands in horror and refuse his share, but if Ramage lost the Jocasta or the Calypso while going after a prize of unknown value, it would be a different story. Captain Ramage would probably spend the rest of his life on the beach on half-pay, being used as an object lesson to other young captains, like a carrion crow strung up on a piece of string beside a gamekeeper’s lodge.

  Should he forget about that damned merchant ship?

  Supposing he managed to cut her out and found that the “particular cargo” was an elaborate suite of furniture made of some exotic tropical wood, or even cages of parrots or rare birds intended to amuse the vapid ladies of the Spanish Court? It could be something like that, because the normal exports to Spain from the Main were items like indigo, tobacco, hides and sometimes cotton.

  From Admiral Davis’s point of view, he could have had the Jocasta back, with the destruction of the two fortresses guarding Santa Cruz as a bonus. His orders would have been obeyed. He could report to the Admiralty that their instructions were carried out. If Ramage brought back a merchant ship full of birds and furniture as a prize it would be doubtful if the Admiral’s despatch to London would even mention it.

  He picked up the teles
cope and looked to the north. There was no sign of the Calypso. The lookouts aloft could probably still see her sails, but from down here at deck level she had disappeared below the curvature of the earth. She was fast—faster than the Jocasta—and Wagstaffe would waste no time. Would he go along the north side of the chain of islands, or stay south? Either way there was no chance of the Jocasta catching up with her before she reached the rendezvous.

  Southwick, the officer of the deck, caught his eye, obviously wanting to chat.

  “The chart doesn’t help us much, sir.”

  “It rarely does along this coast,” Ramage commented sourly. “But surely the Spanish ones I gave you are better than ours?”

  “They give a few more soundings, but the current is marked ‘strong and variable.’ This Margarita Channel—I just hope there are no shoals the chartmakers missed.”

  “We’ll soon know. I hadn’t realized that Isla de Margarita was so mountainous.”

  “Aye, that peak, San Juan they call it, is more than three thousand feet high. They reckon you can see it seventy-five miles away in clear weather.”

  Ramage nodded. “There are more mountain peaks along this coast than I thought existed!”

  “It’s an iron-bound coast for sure,” Southwick said soberly. “This ahead might be called the Pearl Island but it’s a rare old pile of rock! I wonder if they still find pearls?”

  Ramage shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see why not. It depends on the oysters!”