by Dudley Pope
‘So you get the job. If you fail – too bad. If you succeed – well, as far as he’s concerned you’re welcome to what little credit there is. And it won’t be much – why, the Jamaica frigates are doing this sort of thing every day along the coast of Hispaniola.’
Ramage nodded, reflecting how Chubb and Dace must be laughing. Ten minutes’ embarrassment while a lieutenant asked them questions was a small price to pay to get rid of any responsibility.
Two hours later the Triton was running fast along the south coast of Grenada, helped by a couple of knots of current streaming into the southern end of the Caribbean from the Atlantic.
The island was a pyramid, the high mountains in the centre surrounded by concentric rings of ever-lower hills until, at the coast, they ended in cliffs rarely more than fifty feet high.
Like great black fingers, many peninsulas stuck out along the south coast, the trade winds raising a heavy swell which battered the headlands incessantly, undercutting the rock until great pieces toppled into the sea. Between each headland was a long narrow stretch of calm water, often extending inland for a mile or more, and ending in mangrove swamps.
Pointing out two of them to Southwick, Ramage said: ‘Look – that’s Chemin Bay, between Westerhall Point and Point of Fort Jeudy. You’d never believe there’s a lagoon leading off to one side at the far end big enough to take three frigates at anchor. And just to the west is Egmont, with another one.’
‘Just the place for privateers!’
Ramage nodded. ‘Fortunately the other islands aren’t made the same way!’
‘Just as well… A few guns up on those headlands and you’d never get in.’
The island, roughly rectangular and lying lengthways north and south, had a great bight extending up from its south-west corner and at the head of it was the harbour and capital, St George. The Triton was steering to pass Point Saline, the south-west corner of the island – and the last sight of land for ships bound south to Trinidad and the coast of South America – before hauling her wind and beating up to St George.
Southwick commented, ‘The stretch of the coast puts me in mind o’ Cornwall – sheer cliffs and rocks and too much wind for trees to grow properly. Just look at those small ones – some kind of fir, are they? – all leaning over to leeward!’
But Ramage did not want to be reminded of Cornwall: already the long tropical nights were bedevilled by memories of Gianna: lying in his cot his imagination nearly drove him mad when he thought of the long months there’d be before his fantasies gave place to reality and he’d see her again.
Looking down at the small sketch he was holding showing the harbour and lagoon of St George and then across at Point Saline, he nodded significantly at Southwick, who started bellowing orders which sent men running to the sheets, braces and bowlines, ready for the turn which would take the brig round the Point and bring St George into sight.
St George was built on several hills, with steep cliffs on the seaward side. The entrance to the harbour, little more than a slot cut in the cliffs, led straight to the quays built round three sides of a rectangle, the town ranging over the hills on the west and north sides. To the east, hidden from seaward, was a huge, almost circular lagoon, the sea-filled crater of an extinct volcano and surrounded by steep hills to form a natural amphitheatre.
But at the point where the rim of the lagoon joined the east side of the harbour a coral reef had grown, closing the channel to everything but open boats.
‘A damn shame,’ Southwick had grumbled. ‘That could be one of the finest hurricane anchorages in the Windwards! Worth using a few tons of powder to blast a channel through.’
The town and harbour were well protected against attacks from seaward by Fort George, built high on the hills at the west side of the entrance and covering the whole bight.
The Fort, massively built of stone, was also the headquarters of Colonel Humphrey Wilson, the military commander of His Majesty’s land forces in Grenada, and the man on whom Ramage was about to pay his first official visit.
But for a few minutes Ramage stood beside one of the eighteen-pounder guns poking its muzzle through an embrasure in the massive walls round the top of the Fort, refreshing himself in the brisk wind after the heat of the quays in the harbour below.
Facing eastwards, he had the open sea on his right – with the Triton anchored a quarter of a mile out – the lagoon facing him, and the open-ended rectangle of the harbour to his left.
Several small rowing boats were scattered across the lagoon, but most were close by the coral reef, each with two or three men fishing with tropical lethargy, hidden from the heat of the sun by wide-brimmed straw hats or pieces of sacking propped up with sticks to make a little shadow. Occasional movements by one of the men and glints of silver as the fish jumped clear of the water, showed there was plenty to be caught.
Ramage watched two of the Triton’s boats laden with casks pulling for the reef: Southwick was taking the opportunity of getting fresh water from the big cistern on the far side of the lagoon.
On the shore just short of the reef two island schooners were lying over on their sides like stranded whales, hove down at the careenage by tackles to their masts so their bottoms could be cleaned. Smoke from the nearer one showed she was being cleaned by the old-fashioned method of breaming, men running flaming torches made of reeds along the planks, melting the old coating of pitch and burning off the weed and barnacles. The other one was already cleaned off, and Ramage could visualize her crew smearing on a thin layer of new pitch before coating it with a mixture of sulphur and tallow, in the age-old battle to kill the teredo and gribble worms who used the planking as both a home and a life-long meal.
Two small cutters were unloading a cargo at the quays; a third was alongside a schooner to which it was transferring its cargo. Obviously the cutters collected freight from the smaller bays and harbours round the island and brought it to St George, where it was transhipped to the larger schooners plying between the islands.
A second schooner farther along the quay was being loaded from carts, the crew hoisting up sacks with a tackle from the mast. A third, beyond it, was almost fully laden. Even from five hundred yards away Ramage could hear the shouting and yelling of a couple of dozen men heaving at the tackles, and pulling and pushing the sacks as they swung on board in a welter of good-natured confusion. To a prying eye, he noted as he turned away, it was obvious all three schooners would be ready to sail in a few hours.
The sun’s glare forced him almost to close his eyes as he took off his hat to wipe away the perspiration; then he hitched at his sword belt, straightened his stock and walked towards the military commander’s office in the fortress.
The sentry detailed to escort him from the guardroom at the entrance gave an audible sigh of relief, obviously impatient with young naval officers stupid enough not to stand in the shade.
Colonel Wilson, upon whom the Governor leaned heavily for advice, was a man who loathed the Tropics, loathed his office in Fort George, loathed Grenada, and was within a few paces of loathing all naval officers solely because, unlike his, their stay in the island was always brief.
All this Ramage had already heard in Barbados, but most of it was obvious within a few moments of entering his office after being announced by the sentry – a crudely contrived insult, Ramage noted, since it was a matter of courtesy that an ADC should have been available the moment the Triton anchored after firing her salute.
‘What’s your name?’ the Colonel barked by way of a greeting. ‘What’s your business?’
Obviously the Army was no different from the Navy in the low proportion of officers who were also gentlemen.
‘Ramage, sir; Lieutenant, commanding His Majesty’s brig Triton. You’ll have heard your guns replying to our salute as we arrived.’
‘Your business?’
A round, red face mottled with purple; two bloodshot, watery eyes astride the bridge of a bulbous nose; enormous ears like handles on a jug; n
ominally clean-shaven though obviously his razor had been resting for a couple of days; a mouth once firm but the lips now slack and petulant; hands large, flat down on the desk and displaying filthy nails; the cuffs of his shirt dirty and those of his uniform frayed… Snuff had been spilling down the front of his coat for weeks.
Although a half-empty bottle of rum, a glass up-ended over the top, was clearly the most important item on his desk, Ramage realized that the man’s shoulders were the most significant part of him. Obviously they had once been braced back with a military erectness; but now they were permanently hunched forward and sagging. He was a symbol of tropical boredom and ill-health. He’d probably seen three-quarters of his regiment dying from sickness and drowned in rum his disappointment at not getting promotion.
Yet the dark rings under the eyes and deep vertical wrinkles each side of his mouth were not entirely due to drink. Probably there was a nagging wife in the background, a woman whose social aspiration had overtaken her husband’s ability to buy or obtain promotion. All these things had charged a high price against the Colonel’s physique…
But Ramage knew he had to work with the man: his orders were so worded by Admiral Robinson (purposely? he wondered) that although he had to protect the schooners and deal with the privateers, the military commander was responsible for what went on inside the harbour. Which, Ramage suddenly realized, meant that the Colonel could interpret them to say he decided when the schooners sailed.
‘From Admiral Robinson, sir,’ Ramage said quietly, placing a sealed envelope on the desk.
‘Wait outside while I read it.’
Ramage flushed, paused a moment and then turned on his heel, closing the door quietly behind him, and determined to make all allowances for the man’s three years’ service in Grenada. Three or four minutes later Wilson bellowed for him to return.
‘Don’t know what the Admiral’s doing, sending me a youngster and a brig,’ he snapped. As he folded the letter he added sourly. ‘Can’t show you these orders, they’re secret, but–’
‘I’ve already seen them,’ Ramage couldn’t help interjecting. ‘The Admiral showed them to me before they were sealed.’
‘Most irregul—’ The Colonel broke off, obviously realizing it was unwise to criticize the naval Commander-in-Chief. ‘Very well then, you’ll sail at once and begin your patrols. Don’t want your damned sailors roistering round the town–’
‘I think, sir–’
‘Don’t interrupt – and don’t think. I do the thinking. I give the orders.’
The insult was crude, but more important was that the Colonel obviously knew he was overstepping his authority and was testing how far he could go. Ramage sensed that if he was to achieve anything in the next few weeks, now was the time to regain some of the initiative.
‘I have my orders from the Admiral, sir. Part of them is referred to in his letter to you, which I’ve just delivered.’
He paused to let Wilson absorb the point and then added quietly: ‘The rest, which aren’t referred to, concern the way in which I deal with the privateers, so if you’ll forgive me I’ll take my leave and–’
‘Now Lieutenant, don’t rush things: far too hot for that!’
Wilson lifted the glass off the bottle, took another from his drawer and began pouring.
‘A drink, perhaps? I want to hear the news from home. Did you bring any mail or newspapers? All the ladies’ll want to hear of the latest fashions.’
The change of face was too much for Ramage.
‘No mail or newspapers, sir. And it’s a little early for me to have a drink, so if you’ll–’
‘I won’t, so sit down again. Sorry for my temper: never good at the best of times and this schooner business is wearing me down. Dam’ Governor sends me notes daily; a deputation of ship-owners is due here this afternoon – the fifth in five weeks. Plantation-owners trot up to Government House every day and since I’m only a soldier I can’t do a dam’ thing about it except listen to the same old story and make the same old excuses.
‘Two bloody frigates patrolling up and down the islands for a couple of months and never sight or sound of freebooters. In fact they more than hinted there weren’t any – that the schooners were sailing off and handing themselves over to the French or Spanish. So just when I’m expecting the Admiral himself with a squadron, you arrive! Not your fault; not blaming you, m’lad.’
He paused for a breath, took an enormous gulp of rum, and Ramage noticed the dark patches on his coat showing how much the Colonel was now perspiring: it was running in streams down his forehead, being diverted along his eyebrows, then trickling down his cheeks. Yet the room in the Fort was cool from the breeze. Unwillingly, Ramage began to feel sympathetic: the Colonel was a convenient whipping boy for everyone.
‘The Admiral doesn’t mention any plan, Ramage.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Leaves it all to you?’
‘So I believe, sir.’
‘Well, you have your orders, surely?’
‘They’re secret, sir.’
It was unfair but Ramage could not resist it.
‘Quite so, quite so. Now is there any way I can help…’
‘I’d like some facts and dates, sir, about the schooners already lost.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I haven’t got ’em. I don’t–’
‘You mentioned the deputation of ship-owners. Is there a particular one who acts as spokesman?’
Wilson’s watery eyes lit up.
‘By jove, yes: Rondin! Owns half the schooners. He’s a cold fish – has the Governor’s ear, too! He’s your man!’
‘If I could see him…’
‘Of course – look’ee, Ramage, I’ll arrange it for this afternoon. That’ll head off the deputation, too. I’ll send word – maybe you’d like to go up to see him – lovely house on the other side of the lagoon?’
‘At four o’clock then, sir? And transport?’
‘Of course, of course…’
The house of Mr Rondin was large and spacious as became a leading businessman of Grenada and cool with high ceilings. But there was too much silver, too much ornate chinaware, too many cut-glass decanters on display to indicate anything but that the Rondin’s were nouveaux riches.
And Rondin greeted Ramage with a curious obsequiousness in a large, octagonal drawing-room which had windows on five sides. A tall, angular man with white hair smoothed unfashionably flat on his scalp, his face equally unfashionably tanned by the sun, he bowed a greeting: ‘My Lord, I am John Rondin.’
Since he never used his title in the Service, for a moment Ramage was startled: then he realized Colonel Wilson must have emphasized it, probably making the most of what the Admiral had sent him. A lieutenant and a small brig was not much of a hand to deal; but shuffling in that the lieutenant was a lord and heir to one of the country’s oldest earldoms – well, it might take one trick, or at least divert some attention from the smallness of his ship.
As he shook hands, Ramage sensed Rondin’s grey eyes were missing nothing – yet there was no impression of prying. As soon as they were seated in comfortable cane armchairs and the coloured butler was pouring them drinks, Rondin said: ‘Does the Admiral intend sending more ships to reinforce you, my Lord?’
Ramage inclined his head towards the butler. Rondin nodded almost imperceptibly and promptly changed the subject: ‘You had a pleasant voyage from England?’
‘Yes – good weather most of the time, apart from the usual blows in the Bay of Biscay.’
‘Ah – the underwriters’ nightmare! I wonder how much that Bay’s cost them in claims for total losses…’
Ramage laughed. ‘Not enough to make them refuse to cover that part of the voyage.’
‘True – they grumble, they increase premiums, but they rarely go bankrupt.’
‘The essence of underwriting. Rather like being a bookmaker – always hedge your bets.’
‘And that’s just what it is,’ Rondin said, motioning the b
utler to leave.
As soon as the door was closed he continued: ‘You were quite right, my Lord: that man has been with me twenty years, but walls can have ears.’
Realizing his caution had reflected on Rondin’s employees, Ramage began to apologize but Rondin waved his hand.
‘You were quite right. I think I can guess what’s in your mind, but I’ll know in good time. Now tell me, do you expect reinforcements?’
‘No.’ Ramage said bluntly. ‘That doesn’t mean the Admiral isn’t very worried, but he hasn’t any other ships to spare.’ Ramage considered the lie was justifiable. ‘Yet I begin to wonder if a dozen frigates would help. However,’ he added warily, ‘I’d be glad of your views.’
Rondin lifted his glass and held it against the light, looking questioningly at the rich brown liquid. ‘I should have thought a dozen frigates would be just about enough – but forgive me, I’m not a naval man, merely a poor ship-owner becoming even poorer as the weeks go by…’
‘Perhaps I’ve misunderstood the situation, sir,’ Ramage said innocently. ‘Surely the schooners are being lost between here and Martinique?’
The ship-owner nodded.
‘And to privateers which – as far as anyone knows – materialize out of thin air, make their capture, and vanish with the schooner?’
Again Rondin nodded, and Ramage searched for a simile.
‘Then surely, it’s rather like a farmer losing cattle between the farmyard and the meadow. He sees them leave the farmyard, watches them part of the way to the meadow – and they don’t come back at milking time.’
Rondin said: ‘Yes – somewhat simplified, that’s the position.’
‘Yet with only 160 miles to sail to Martinique and two frigates patrolling the route, the schooners were still captured, even though they were almost in sight of a frigate most of the time.’
‘Yes – in daylight, anyway, but don’t forget they make part of the passage at night.’
‘No, I wasn’t forgetting; that’s why a dozen frigates are either not enough or too many. On a moonless night, visibility is about half a mile, so to cover the night passage you’d need a frigate at least every mile. Ten hours of darkness at say five knots – fifty frigates…’
