Ramage and the Freebooters

by Dudley Pope

  ‘Then about five minutes after that I thought I could see the reflection of another bonfire on the north side of Union Island – you remember sir,’ he continued, ‘that’s the one between Carriacou and Bequia. But to be honest, I’m not absolutely sure. We’d all got a bit excited by then and I might have been imagining it. The men weren’t sure, either. Afraid we let you down there, sir.’

  Ramage shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about that: I’d sooner know you weren’t absolutely sure than have you tell me you were when you weren’t. Go on, then.’

  ‘Well, we got a boat and sailed for here.’

  The steward knocked and brought in two mugs of tea. ‘Breakfast’s ready now, sir.’

  ‘Very well – ask Mr Southwick to join us.’

  As soon as the Master came down, he told Appleby to repeat his story and, sipping the tea, Ramage reviewed his evening’s activities at Government House with a mixture of shame, anger and irritation. Instead of using every minute of the time he was at the Governor’s Ball to watch and listen, he’d spent most of the time flirting with a woman – more than flirting, he thought, growing hot with the memory – just like some sailor given a night’s shore leave. Trying to dismiss the memory he pictured the scene from the balcony and suddenly remembered the schooner.

  ‘Did you pass a schooner going north as you came down?’ he interrupted the master’s mate.

  ‘Yes sir, about two o’clock this morning we passed one off Kick ’em Jenny.’

  ‘The wind?’

  ‘Stiff breeze from the east, sir – though the island blanketed us once we were in the lee.’

  Moodily Ramage resumed sipping his tea, picturing the scenes on each of the islands during the night. While he’d danced at Government House, men had watched for a bonfire on their neighbour to the south, and as soon as they spotted it, got out tom-toms and passed the news northwards across their own island to other men waiting on the north side ready to light another signal fire. No wonder news travelled so fast!

  He continued thinking as breakfast was served and Southwick, seeing him occasionally rubbing the scar on his brow, kept silent. When he’d finished the meal Ramage glanced up and said, ‘No doubt you’ll want to wash and shave, Appleby?’

  The master’s mate took the hint, thanked Ramage and left the cabin.

  As soon as the door shut Southwick asked, ‘What do you make of it, sir?’

  ‘It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’

  Unperturbed by Ramage’s surly tone, Southwick persisted. ‘It’s obvious until the news gets to the north end of St Vincent, sir. But from there it’s a long way across to St Lucia – twenty-four miles. Have to be a big bonfire for anyone in St Lucia to see it!’

  ‘Needn’t be a bonfire. It took Appleby five hours to get here from Carriacou in his fishing boat. That’s nearly six knots. There’s nothing to stop a fishing boat leaving St Vincent and crossing the channel to St Lucia in four or five hours. Then the tom-toms pass the message the length of St Lucia. In the meantime the schooner’s hardly reached Bequia.’

  But Ramage knew he was still ignoring the vital question, and it probably hadn’t even occurred to Southwick yet. Briefly he told the Master about his previous evening’s conversations with the Governor, and the schooner-owner’s determination that his vessel should sail.

  ‘He deserves to have her captured,’ Southwick growled. ‘Underwriters’d never pay up if they knew.’

  ‘They’ll get to know eventually.’

  ‘Do you suspect him, sir? Some sort of fraud with the insurance?’

  Ramage shook his head.

  ‘It wouldn’t make sense. Just think what’s shipped out of Grenada in a year – about 12,000 tons of sugar, more than a million gallons of rum, 200 tons of cotton, 100,000 gallons of molasses…with freight rates so high a schooner-owner makes an enormous profit – more in six months, I should imagine, than he could claim on the insurance for a total loss.’

  ‘But they’re not making profits because the schooners are being lost,’ Southwick pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but they’d sooner make the profits. That’s what convinces me there’s no fraud.’

  ‘Then where the devil do the privateers hang out?’ Southwick exclaimed bluntly. ‘Until we find their nest I don’t see we can do much.’

  ‘Our next job is to discover how the spy found out when the schooner was going to sail.’

  Southwick shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anyone could have seen her leaving.’

  ‘At ten o’clock, yes!’ Ramage snapped. ‘But Appleby’s already told us that the first signal he saw was at 8.42. So the spy knew beforehand. Why, they knew in St Vincent by nine o’clock.’

  ‘I still don’t see it matters, sir,’ Southwick said doggedly. ‘If only we can catch the privateers the spy’s out of business.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ramage said patiently, ‘but we don’t know where they’re based and no one’s ever seen them!’

  ‘True,’ the Master admitted, scratching his head, ‘but I still–’

  ‘I don’t either at the moment. But you’re looking through the wrong end of the telescope.’

  Southwick looked startled. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the spy’s given himself away.’

  The Master grunted his disbelief.

  ‘Of course he has. Why didn’t he wait until the schooner sailed before passing the signal?’

  ‘Can’t see it matters, sir.’

  ‘Nor can I – and that’s the clue. He passed the signal soon after eight o’clock last night and the schooner sailed at ten, so he gained two hours. But two hours can’t matter to the privateers.’

  ‘I still don’t–’

  ‘Exactly! Those two hours don’t matter. So why didn’t the spy wait?’

  Southwick shook his head but said nothing.

  ‘Because he was too confident. He didn’t think we’d ever guess the trick. He and privateersmen have been getting away with it for months. Tom-toms and bonfires – and no one’s ever noticed them!’

  Southwick nodded, then said questioningly: ‘I can see that, sir; but I can’t see he’s given himself away – that’s what you just said – by making the signal before the schooner sailed.’

  ‘You weren’t listening properly when I told you what happened at Government House.’

  It was an unfair thing to say and Ramage knew it, because he’d only realized the full significance of the timing a few minutes ago.

  ‘What did I miss then?’ The Master’s voice was almost truculent.

  ‘You missed me saying that only four people knew the schooner was going to sail.’

  ‘Only four? Why, it’ll be easy–’

  ‘No it won’t,’ Ramage interrupted bitterly. ‘Those four people are the Governor, Colonel Wilson, the schooner’s owner and, later on, the schooner’s master. Four people. Which one would you suspect?’

  ‘Phew! The Governor, the Colonel, the owner… Well, we’re almost back where we started!’

  ‘Almost. We take ten steps forward and slide back nine.’

  ‘The schooner-owner: must be him. It’s an insurance fraud.’

  Again Ramage shook his head. ‘No – if it was, the owners of all the schooners lost so far would be in it. And they’re the losers because soon there won’t be any schooners left. Apart from that this owner signed a document taking full responsibility. That alone rules out insurance because the underwriters could refuse to pay. It means he wants the profits from the freight – and is prepared to gamble.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Southwick said grudgingly. ‘But surely you don’t suspect the Governor or Colonel Wilson?’

  ‘Hardly. That’s what I meant about slipping nine steps back.’

  Idly he tapped the table with a knife. The sky through the skylight overhead was turning from black to grey. An idea was floating round in his brain, the details for the moment blurred.

  ‘By the way, I gave Maxton leave yesterday afternoon. Jackson told you?’

  �
�Yes sir: he’s due back at dawn, I believe.’

  Ramage nodded.

  ‘It’ll be interesting to see if he deserts,’ Southwick added.

  ‘You think he will?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he won’t. I hope not, anyway.’

  The idea was beginning to take shape and he started rubbing his brow. Southwick misunderstood the reason and said: ‘It’d be disappointing, after all he went through with you in the Kathleen.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of that. Listen, Southwick – those damned tom-toms talk. But who can read what they say? I wonder if Maxton can.’

  ‘Is it important? Surely we can guess. Last night they said the schooner was sailing!’

  Ramage grinned. ‘Ever thought hard about a tom-tom, Southwick?’

  The Master looked puzzled. ‘Not really. It’s a sort of drum, and these fellows use it to signal with, like shouting a long distance.’

  ‘Yes, but with this difference. You can recognize a man’s voice when he shouts. Can you recognize a tom-tom? Recognize whether one particular man’s beating it or another, even though the message is the same?’

  Southwick shrugged his shoulders. ‘They all sound alike to me.’

  ‘Exactly. And I’m wondering if they sound alike to the natives.’

  ‘By Jove,’ Southwick exclaimed, banging the table with his fist. ‘You mean, we could get a native to pass some false signals? Throw the whole system into confusion? Why, we could drive this spy mad! Just think of him listening to us drumming out false information about a schooner sailing. He has to get his drummer to thump out “Annul previous signal”; then we follow up with another “Annul…”’

  He roared with laughter at the thought, thumping the table to simulate a tom-tom, but then his face fell. ‘Still doesn’t find the privateers, though!’

  ‘No, but it’s a good idea: we may be able to use it – if we can find someone who talks the language of the drums. Send Maxton down to me as soon as he comes back on board: he might know something.’

  As the sky lightened and the Triton’s ship’s company were busy scrubbing the decks, polishing brasswork and going through the dozens of jobs carried out at daybreak on board every British ship of war, Ramage slowly shaved himself, deliberately taking his time, trying to find a flaw in his conclusions. They were simple enough to worry him.

  First, the spy was so sure his tom-tom and bonfire method would never be discovered that he revealed his knowledge by passing the signal before the schooner sailed. Very well, that probably wasn’t over-confidence on his part – tom-toms were beating most nights, and the two frigates didn’t spot the bonfires.

  Secondly, suppose the spy was caught. He might be doing it for money – the privateers would pay well for information. Or he might be French and doing it to further the Revolution – Grenada was only just recovering from Fédon’s Revolt. Once captured, could the spy be forced to reveal where the privateers were based? It was possible. But would it help that much, with only the Triton to tackle them? These privateers would be among the fastest vessels in the islands. Going to windward they could sail rings round the Triton.

  Yet – he ran his hand along his jaw: the razor was blunt – perhaps they could be trapped in their base. The fact that it was well-hidden might also mean it was hard to get out of: maybe the privateers had to use boats to tow themselves out…

  There was a knock on the door and Southwick called, ‘Maxton’s here, sir.’

  ‘Send him in.’

  Ramage made the last few strokes with the razor, wiped off the remaining soap, and looked at his face. His eyes were more sunken than usual; his cheeks too. That meant he was worrying more than he realized; a few late nights didn’t do that. He must have lost six or eight pounds in weight. Yet he wasn’t conscious of worrying overmuch.

  He walked into the day cabin and saw Maxton standing just inside the door, obviously overawed at his first visit to the captain’s quarters.

  ‘How were the family, Maxton?’

  ‘Glad to see me, sah.’

  ‘Your parents alive?’

  ‘Yes sah! My father’s a freed slave.’

  ‘Brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Four brothers, three sisters, sah. And twenty-seven nephews and nieces.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Ramage said, smiling as he tried to average it out. If all seven had wives or husbands, it was nearly four children each. He brushed the irrelevance aside: his approach to the seaman was going to be unorthodox.

  ‘Ah – Maxton, I need your help.’

  ‘Yes sah?’

  ‘You heard the tom-toms last night?’

  Maxton’s eyes seemed suddenly to become opaque before he looked away.

  ‘No sah, I didn’t hear no drums.’

  Interesting – he called them ‘drums’.

  ‘Nothing? You heard nothing?’

  ‘Nothin’, sah.’

  The man moistened his thick lips; his hands wrestled with each other. Perspiration was beading his upper lip and brow, and he looked down at the deck.

  ‘Well, someone was beating them last night, Maxton.’

  ‘If you say so, sah.’

  ‘And the drums were talking, Maxton.’

  ‘Yes, sah.’

  ‘But you didn’t hear them?’

  ‘No sah, I heard nothin’.’

  ‘Well, I heard them, Maxton. Shall I tell you what they said?’

  Maxton’s eyes flickered at Ramage for an instant before looking down again. He was terror-stricken: that much was clear, though Ramage could think of no reason nor guess the man’s thoughts.

  ‘They were passing a signal, Maxton. They said that a schooner was sailing from St George for Martinique.’

  Ramage thought for a moment, suddenly realizing something he had not thought of before – an ordinary bonfire could only signal one fact, unless someone hid the light for a moment or two and showed it again, as the Red Indians did. But Appleby had reported that several trees were burning to make the bonfire, so obviously that was impossible. But hold on – did it mean the bonfires were lit a certain time before the schooner sailed? Two hours before? Was that the prearranged signal? It was worth trying.

  ‘The drums also said the schooner would sail at ten o’clock, Maxton. And you heard it and you knew what it said.’

  ‘No sah,’ the man exclaimed, his hands held out as if imploring Ramage to believe him. ‘No sah, I didn’t hear nothin’.’

  ‘You heard the drum, you knew what it said, and why it was saying it, yet you didn’t warn me. You knew that drum was helping the enemy, Maxton. An enemy you know we’re trying to stop capturing the schooners. The same enemy who tried to kill us several times when we served in the Kathleen.’ Then he added as an afterthought: ‘An enemy who is trying to kill me now, Maxton.’

  ‘Oh no he’s not, sah: he’s just tryin’ to capture the schooners. You see, the freebooters–’

  He broke off, realizing he’d just given himself away.

  ‘Maxton,’ Ramage warned quietly, ‘I won’t bother to warn you about the Articles of War: you know the penalties for helping the enemy by not passing on information to the officers. I’m just sad that you care so little about me and the rest of your shipmates that you’d let us all get killed by walking into a trap.’

  For a minute or two Maxton just stood trembling, his eyes large, perspiration running down his face, lips quivering; a man in the grip of a great, perhaps nameless fear. Suddenly he seemed to get control of himself and with an enormous effort of will he said: ‘If I said anythin’ about the message sah, they’d kill all my family and me too.’

  ‘Who would?’

  ‘Why, the loogaroos sah,’ he exclaimed, as if surprised Ramage did not know.

  The loupgarou, the vampire: Ramage remembered the natives’ twin fears, jumbies and loupgarous. Of the two, jumbies were less fearsome – evil spirits that could be kept at bay with jumbie beads, which were talismen or lucky charms. Jumbies could be bought off with offerings of mo
ney and other things and were mischievous rather than dangerous.

  But not loupgarous. They came out only at night, flying around unseen in the darkness to attack unsuspecting people and drink their blood, leaving them maimed or dead. And no one knew who they were, for they were really human beings whose spirits emerged from their sleeping bodies and changed into vampires.

  They spent the night going about their dreadful business and before dawn returned to the sleeping bodies so that these particular men never knew that, as they slept, they turned into loupgarous.

  And only the witch doctor could summon up the loupgarous; only a witch doctor could order them to attack a particular person. More important though, Ramage realized, no white man could ever persuade a coloured man they did not exist; that they were a lot of nonsense invented by witch doctors. Oh, what was the use, he thought: this was voodoo; black magic practised in Africa for centuries and then transported to the West Indies. It’d be as impossible to persuade a West Indian that loupgarous did not exist as to convince a Scots Calvinist that Christ never existed.

  But for all that, Ramage knew he needed the information; he needed it so desperately that he had to use questionable methods to get it.

  ‘Maxton, you believe the witch doctor can order the loupgarous to kill you and your family, so naturally you’re frightened of him.’

  The West Indian nodded. Suddenly Ramage snapped: ‘Are you frightened of me?’

  The man shook his head vigorously, surprise showing on his face. ‘No sah!’

  ‘Why not? I too can kill you – you’ve broken one of the Articles of War and I can have you hanged. And the Governor can hang your family for abetting you in treason.’

  To Ramage’s amazement the West Indian suddenly dropped to his knees, muttering – gabbling, almost – a prayer in what Ramage recognized was crudely pronounced Latin: a Catholic prayer.

  Then sickened by what he was doing and what he had to do, he realized Maxton’s terrible predicament. The Catholic priest had, in his childhood, made Maxton a Christian and frightened him to death with visions of hell’s fire and eternal damnation; at the same time the witch doctors had been busy with equally horrifying voodoo threats; of loupgarous and jumbies and nameless evils of darkness and ignorance, the extent of which Ramage could only guess.