Ramage and the drum beat r-2

by Dudley Pope

  'But with three men...'

  'Six - I have a Dane, a Genoese and a West Indian as well.'

  The Consul laughed. 'The world - in a microcosm - in arms against the Directory! These men are reliable? They won't disappear in an emergency? After all, not one of them owes you any loyalty as far as the Spanish authorities are concerned, although you personally are safe enough while you have that - that, ah, Protection. Without it you could be shot as an English spy - you realize that?'

  'Yes, but I think they are loyal. I hope so. The one real American, Jackson, certainly is.'

  'I trust you'll forgive this question,' the Consul said, looking into his glass. 'You were genuinely captured? I mean, it was an accident of war? Your Protection...?'

  'Or are the English deliberately planting spies in Cartagena?' Ramage said with a grin. 'No, I'm afraid it was all too much of an accident: we were caught by the whole Spanish Fleet: I have a Protection simply because one of the seamen had prudently acquired an extra one without the details filled in.'

  'A wise move. All the Protections are genuine documents, incidentally, although I noticed the details of yours were written in a different ink from the notary's. I asked that man how much he paid for his merely to see his reaction. It was clear only one man was a genuine American.'

  Again Ramage laughed and as the Consul joined in, looking up at the ceiling, Ramage emptied his glass into the tub. At this rate he'd soon be able to see the oleander growing - or swaying.

  By the time Ramage left, to be back at the inn before curfew, the Consul was happily drunk and insistent that Ramage soon paid him another visit. All the men appeared to be asleep, but as Ramage crept to his bed he heard Jackson whisper, 'Everything all right, sir?'

  'Yes - he's friendly enough.'

  The small amount of brandy Ramage had drunk was not enough to soften the mattress. He tried to sort out from the rambling conversation exactly what the Consul had revealed. Admiral Cordoba had been given command of the Fleet and a house was being prepared for him. Typically Spanish, that: too fond of comfort to live on board his flagship, even though it was the largest ship of war afloat. With four weeks to refit, the Fleet would be ready to sail, allowing for a few delays, by mid-January. The admiral wouldn't be concerned with the refitting, so could arrive in early January.

  The Consul's source of information was not from friends at Court and he'd given a curious answer when Ramage had referred to 'a fast messenger'. What had the old man said? - 'I have good friends in Madrid, yes; but I don't need my own messenger'. There'd been a slight and probably unwitting emphasis on 'my own', as though he relied on someone else's messenger. He wasn't relying on a spy close to Admiral Langara since he'd known of the replacement before Langara.

  Ramage knew instinctively that the Consul had told him more than he intended and more than Ramage himself yet realized, and a little thought should reveal what it was. Not the Consul's messenger, but someone else's, and not a spy in Langara's staff: that much was certain. So - how did the information come to Cartagena? Start at the beginning. Probably the King decided. He would tell the Minister of Marine that Cordoba should replace Langara. Normally the minister would write to Langara - and to Cordoba, if he was not in Madrid. That letter would be sent by messenger here to Cartagena and given to Langara, or kept here until he arrived with the Fleet. Of course! Sent by a messenger... ‘I don't need my own messenger!''

  Yet a messenger of the Ministry of Marine could not be in the Consul's pay because messengers would change: there was obviously a regular messenger service between Madrid and the main ports, Cadiz, Cartagena and Barcelona, just as there was between London and Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth. It must be all of two hundred and fifty miles to Madrid from here, mostly across the province of Murcia, which was fairly mountainous, with a high range running parallel with the coast. The condition of Spanish roads was notorious, so the messenger would ride on horseback rather than by carriage, and would probably stay at least two nights at regular inns. Could the Consul have someone at one of the inns who abstracted letters from the messenger's bag, opened, read and re-sealed them?

  As the seamen sat on forms round the bare, grease-stained table eating a breakfast of hard bread and highly spiced blood sausage, Ramage found himself listening to Stafford's cheerful chattering. A lad trained as a locksmith in Bridewell Lane and by chance swept up by a press gang and sent to sea was now sitting in a Spanish inn, armed with an American Protection, and just as at home as if the inn had been next door to his father's shop. Yet had he signed the indentures or stayed at home the day - night, more likely - that the press gang was out, he might well have died of old age without going farther than Vauxhall Gardens, a mere five miles from his birthplace...

  Well, Ramage thought as he bit savagely at the stale bread, at least Admiral Don Josef de Cordoba will have better bread to eat when he arrives, and there'll probably be plenty of bustle near the Castillo de Despenna Perros as the house is being prepared.

  Seeing Jackson had finished eating, he decided to take the American with him when he went to inspect Don Josef's house. He asked the men what they had learned about the zebec's rig and, satisfied they had studied it well, told them they could spend the day wandering round the town.

  Don Josef's house was an imposing building; one that befitted an admiral commanding such a large fleet. Painted white, with a flat roof, it was entirely surrounded by a covered walk formed of graceful arches, like a cloister, and standing in a couple of acres of gently sloping land, most of which was covered with trees and flowering shrubs. Even the gardener's shed was made of stone, but, Ramage noted thankfully, unlike most large Spanish houses, it was surrounded by a low hedge, not a high wall.

  From what he and Jackson could see in an apparently casual stroll past the house, the preparations for Don Josef's arrival had hardly begun. Most of the windows had the green shutters closed, and except for a gardener hoeing round a double row of shrubs lining the road up to the front door, there was no one else in sight.

  For four days Ramage and Jackson took a stroll past the house, and apart from the gardener slowly moving from one shrub to another, there was little to indicate that new residents were due. But on the fifth morning, a dull overcast day with a bite in the wind, showing the snow in the high mountains inland wanted to remind them of its presence, Ramage and Jackson found the great iron gates flung back, the wide, double front doors gaping, all the shutters latched back and the windows open, and signs of movement inside the house.

  The gardener was still hoeing and had progressed to the shrubs just inside the gate. As the two men passed he looked up and painfully straightened his back. A shrug of his shoulders and a quick glance at the sky indicated his disapproval of whatever was going on, and Ramage called, 'Looks as if you've finished the weeding just in time!'

  The old man carefully propped his hoe against the shrub and walked over to them. Ramage guessed he must be nearer eighty than seventy: his eyes were such a light brown it seemed they had faded with the years, and although the face was lined it was contented, as if a lifetime sowing seeds, nurturing them, reaping their harvest of food or beauty and then, their life over, cutting them down and planting them again, had taught him a philosophy rarely understood by other men.

  'Yes, both rows finished, and now I have to trim them into shape - the sap has stopped rising now,' he explained. 'You must never trim them when the sap is rising.'

  'Is that so?'

  'Yes, never when the sap is rising. In the winter they sleep, and when they sleep they do not bleed their sap.'

  'Does the owner of the big house like a fine garden?'

  'Don Ricardo? Yes, both he and his wife love it, but they rarely come: they spend most of their days in Madrid, or wherever the Court is.'

  'But now they pay you a visit?'

  'Oh no - Don Ricardo has lent his house to someone: an admiral, they tell me. I don't think an admiral will worry much about a garden - he'll be used to the sea. But perhaps,
' he said hopefully, almost wistfully, 'perhaps he'll find the garden a change from always looking at the waves ...'

  Ramage only just stopped from commenting that Spanish admirals seemed to spend more time in Madrid than at sea, and said, 'Everyone seems to be bustling at the house: the admiral is due soon?'

  'In a few days. Julio - the major-domo - has just heard the admiral is sending down some of his own furniture and silver from Madrid and it has made him angry: he regards it as a criticism of Don Ricardo. But a man likes to have his own things round him - I told Julio that, but he just blasphemes.'

  'It seems a lot of trouble, sending furniture from Madrid at this time of the year. After all, there's rain and snow in the mountains and it could get spoiled.'

  'Yes, that's what Julio said. Anyway, the carts are at Murcia already, so they'll arrive tomorrow and we shall see. Well, now I must start over there - I don't know where all the weeds come from.'

  Ramage bid him good-bye and as they walked on past the house explained to Jackson, who commented, 'Must be fine to be rich. I wonder what he's sending down - more than his favourite armchair sir, that's for certain.'

  Yes... sending down his own silver Ramage could understand, but furniture! Suddenly he had a picture of an admiral sitting at his desk, reading official - and secret - letters and writing them. He'd spend much of the day at a desk with a secretary, and clerks would be there to make dozens of copies of every order to the captains of all his ships. And Don Josef de Cordoba would assume, probably quite correctly, that his friend Don Ricardo would be unlikely to have a sufficiently large desk; a desk with drawers which could be locked...

  The two great carts with wide wheels which were carrying Don Josef's furniture rumbled and squeaked their way along the last couple of miles of rutted and dusty road into Cartagena with Ramage and Stafford sitting with the driver of the first one and Jackson on the second. Without any prompting from Ramage, Stafford picked up the tin mug, half filled it yet again with brandy, and handed it to the Spanish driver with a knowing wink.

  The Spaniard was already sufficiently drunk to pause for a moment before taking it; then Ramage realized the poor fellow was hard put to distinguish which of the three or four he saw was the actual mug. Finally, with a desperate lunge, he grasped it and with an appreciative grunt bent his head back and poured it down his throat. His head continued going backwards until it was hard up against the side of the cart; then, with a contented belch he fell asleep still grasping the mug.

  'Wish we could pump out bilges as easily as that,' Stafford said, awed by the man's capacity.

  Ramage glanced back at the second cart and Jackson saluted twice - the signal that his driver was also too drunk to know which tack he was on. Ramage nudged the Cockney.

  'Carry on, Stafford. Take your time, but don't forget if I slap the canvas, stay inside until I call.'

  'Aye aye, sir.'

  With that Stafford quietly jumped off the cart, waited until the tail end drew level, and scrambled on board again, climbing under the canvas canopy. Ramage kept a good lookout ahead and behind, but the road was empty. In two or three minutes Stafford was out again, walking beside the cart. 'Not in this one, sir. I'll try Jacko's.'

  Ramage nodded. So far it had been all too easy: a dawn start from the inn and after only five miles they had met the two carts coming towards them from Murcia. The drivers were only too glad to give them a lift; only too glad to accept a mug of brandy and soon unable to refuse more. Now Stafford, with several pieces of soap in his pocket, was searching for the desk and, Ramage prayed, would find the keys in the drawers. The only thing that could possibly go wrong was that the admiral had decided to make do with one of Don Ricardo's tables...

  Stafford climbed up on to the cart beside him, saw the Spanish driver had woken and was trying to focus his eyes on the bottle and, holding the tin mug steady in the man's hand, poured in more brandy. Ramage, almost shaking with impatience and anxiety, swore he'd wait for Stafford to report, instead of asking him at once.

  The Cockney watched with admiration until the Spaniard had swilled down the drink, then took the mug and looked inquiringly at Ramage, who nodded, unsure for a moment whether Stafford was asking for a drink himself or offering Ramage one. Stafford poured a small amount into the mug and drank it, sucking his teeth appreciately.

  The horse stank, and Ramage's head ached from the sun glaring on the bleached rock lining the road and the white dust covering its surface. What little wind there was came from behind and kept the dust cloud raised by the horse's hooves just where the three men sat.

  'Cor, me froat was parched, sir,' Stafford announced.

  He glanced at the Spaniard who was still holding the reins but had fallen asleep again, and pulled a small box from the front of his shirt. He showed Ramage two pieces of soap, each of which bore the impressions of one large and two small keys.

  'Lovely desk, sir: solid me'ogany. Four men could sleep on it. Free drawers. Top one's big - them's the impressions of each side of the key,', he said, pointing to the upper marks on the pieces of soap. 'Other two drawers is smaller. I reckon 'e'd keep letters and secret fings in the top one 'cause the front of the drawer is much ficker wood. Bottom two is just fick enough to take the lock.'

  To Ramage, the designs on the soap seemed more beautiful and infinitely more valuable than if they had been castings of silver inlaid with gold.

  'You're sure you can make keys from those impressions?'

  Stafford gave a contemptuous wave. 'I can make perfect keys usin' just the impression left on the back o' me 'and ten minutes after I pressed it, sir,' he said, and then looked away quickly as Ramage glanced round in surprise.

  'I thought you always worked by day?'

  'Only worked at night when times was 'ard, sir. Difficult not to when y'ain't got even a crust in the 'ouse.'

  ‘I suppose not,' Ramage said noncommittally, knowing that faced with the choice he would do the same. 'But you're sure you'll be able to tackle the door locks?'

  'If I can get a sight of 'em, yers: don't worry, sir.'

  And instinctively Ramage knew he need not worry: a boy who had been forced to burgle to eat and then grown into a man who served cheerfully in the Navy after beiag swept up by a press gang and become one of the best topmen Ramage had ever seen (apart from standing by his captain when he could have gained his freedom) could deal with most situations he met.

  But would the major-domo at Don Ricardo's house accept their offer of help when he found the carters were too drunk to carry the furniture?

  Stafford had all the keys made within a couple of days because fortunately the major domo had been only too glad to have the three foreign sailors help carry the furniture into the house; indeed, he had thanked them specially for driving the carts for the last mile since by then each of the carters had relapsed into a drunken stupor.

  Ramage and Jackson had carried in a few chairs when suddenly Ramage had noticed that Stafford was missing and then discovered that the first time the Cockney had entered the house he had seen what Ramage had failed to notice - the key of a side door hanging on a hook on the wall. Within five minutes of first removing the key Stafford had taken it to the cart to make the impression, stowed the two pieces of soap in his little box, and returned the key to the hook.

  After that it had been simple: Stafford had told Ramage the few tools he needed, and a blacksmith had been only too willing to sell some strips of metal. During the two days that Stafford had been filing away in their room at the inn, with one or two of the other sailors always lolling about casually, but keeping guard in case the innkeeper or his wife heard the rasping, Ramage or Jackson would stroll past Don Ricardo's house to see if the Admiral had arrived. On the evening he finished the keys, Stafford came to Ramage and said: 'I'd like to try 'em tonight, sir, just to be on the safe side.'

  Ramage thought for a moment. To be sure all the servants in Don Ricardo's house were asleep, Stafford would have to be out after curfew. Trying the ke
ys meant risking being caught burgling the house and completely wrecking Ramage's plan. But if they didn't fit they'd be useless on the night they were needed - a night when there'd be no second chance.

  'Very well. Go carefully, though. If you get caught...'

  Ramage tried to think of a tactful way of putting it, then decided Stafford would understand anyway: 'Listen, Stafford - if you're caught, we'll have to swear we know nothing about it'

  'It's all right, sir, I understand, but don't worry. I won't get caught. If I do, I'm all prepared.' He patted the waistband of his trousers. 'Got me file an' a strip of brass, so I won't stay be'ind bars long! I'd like ter go now, sir, an 'ide up near the 'ouse a'fore curfew.'

  Ramage nodded. 'Good luck.'

  That night Stafford came back to the inn late and crept over to Ramage's bed to whisper, 'Fitted a treat, sir. Didn't 'ave to give even one 'o them a wipe o' me file!'

  'Good! Any trouble getting in?'

  'None, sir. I 'id in that little shed place, where the gardener keeps 'is tools.'

  'Fine, you can tell me more in the morning.'

  Admiral Don Josef de Cordoba arrived several days later in the second of a procession of five carriages. He was spotted by Ramage, whose turn it was to make the evening check on the house and who had decided to have a walk, choosing the Murcia road. All the horses were covered in dust, the drivers had handkerchieves over their noses and mouths, and from what Ramage could see of the Admiral sitting back in the carriage, he looked hot and weary.

  While walking back to the inn Ramage had to decide whether or not to raid the house that night. The admiral, his staff and family - who appeared to be in the fourth coach - would be exhausted, and no doubt the servants would be too by the time all the new arrivals had washed and supped and had their clothing unpacked and put away in wardrobes and drawers.

  Since the admiral had arrived a few days earlier than the Consul expected, had he brought his orders for sailing? Probably not, Ramage finally decided: with Christmas Day only four days off, he might want to be settled in for the festivities.