Governor Ramage R. N.

by Dudley Pope

  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 prying 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 tow
ards 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.

  “Whose 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.

  He found the St Brieucs and St Cast sitting comfortably in canvas chairs which the bosun had brought from the Topaz, along with a small folding table.

  One of the merchantman’s stewards whispered to St Brieuc who, with all the aplomb of a host in a vast and elegant diningroom, said with a wave towards the table, “Luncheon is ready. If you will be seated….”

  Chairs were moved, St Brieuc said grace, stewards served a hot soup and they began eating. Ramage was just about to speak when the realization of the taste of the soup overcame his preoccupation with the riddle of the graves. He looked across at St Brieuc.

  “This is superb. We have the finest cook in the Caribbean, thanks to you!”

  “M’sieur le Gouverneur,” St Brieuc said with a smile, “I told you this morning how happy we are. That was before our furniture unexpectedly arrived, and before we realized what culinary arrangements had been made for us.”

  Ramage nodded cheerfully. “I shall be inclined to agree with the first person that says my colony is the best administered in the Empire—British or French!”

  “I say so!” Maxine exclaimed, and then blushed at her temerity.

  “And I second mam’selle,” Yorke said.

  “Then I will deliver my report to the Governor’s Council,” Ramage said, and told them of Jackson’s foray and his own interrogation of Roberto.

  “These graves,” Yorke said. “Are they burying something or looking? Hiding or seeking?”

  “Seeking, apparently.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The Negro doesn’t know what it’s all about. He would, if they were burying something.”

  “Not necessarily. The Spaniards could send the slaves away, put something in the grave, partly fill it, and then let the slaves do the rest.”

  Ramage shook his head. “No, I checked that. They finish excavating and start filling at once. The diggers don’t even get up out of the trench before the order’s given. If they were burying something, they’d keep whatever it was at the village with guards over it.”

  “Well, that’s conclusive,” Yorke commented.

  St Cast said, as if thinking aloud, “When they fill the grave, the earth would be soft unless they stamped on it. Are they preparing those holes for subsequent use and just filling them temporarily?”

  “There would be no point,” St Brieuc said. “Why fill? There is no risk of humans or animals falling in, and no need for secrecy …”

  “I’m sure they’re searching,” Ramage said. “And they know it’s hidden at a depth not more than a man’s height—say five foot nine inches.”

  “They’d fill if they wanted to conceal what they’d been doing,” St Cast said.

  “Water!” Yorke exclaimed triumphantly. “They want to sink new wells!”

  “Up a hill?” Ramage asked.

  “Why not? I’ve seen many springs emerging from a hillside.”

  Ramage felt vaguely disappointed. It was such an obvious explanation. He had failed to think
of it because, like a schoolboy, he had been making a mystery out of it …

  After the meal, when they had left the table and were sitting round talking of their immediate future, Ramage was pleasantly surprised to find none of them in any hurry to get away from the island. The St Brieucs really were enjoying themselves.

  Maxine’s main regret seemed to be that she had no horse with which to explore the island. To Ramage’s surprise, all three St Brieucs were emphatic in their relief that for an indefinite time they were free of what St Brieuc called “the overheated hypocrisy of the salon.” For a moment Ramage thought about establishing a new little world free of Goddards and Sir Pilcher Skinners and Directories and gossip-ridden society and shoddy politicians … He was surrounded by men he admired, ranging from humble seamen to Southwick, from St Brieuc to Yorke.

  Maxine seemed to be blooming. The delicate, drawing-room manner had gone, as though it had never been; in its place was growing confidence and assurance that was both startling and charming. She had not attempted to keep the sun off her hands and face while in the Tropics, and the result was she had a golden tan which added richness to her features.

  Ramage wished he could invite her to gallop with him over the hills until their horses were exhausted. If he did, he thought, she’d seize his hand and run with him to the stables. She was like a delicate young plant that had suddenly grown, strengthened, and was now in flower.

  As they all talked Ramage found himself catching her eye more frequently; talking to her secretly without words. Finally he excused himself to check on the work of the Topaz seamen, who were making a tent for the St Brieucs from one of the ship’s spare sails.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THAT night Ramage tried to sleep on the hard ground, fitfully slapping ants that crawled over him and mosquitoes that landed after flying round with an intimidating whine, and thought again of the graves.

  Another half an hour spent questioning Roberto had left him no wiser. The Negro had told him all he knew, and it was precious little. There had been one piece of information which could be significant or utterly irrelevant; vitally important or of no consequence.