Ramage and the Freebooters

by Dudley Pope

  Maxton’s predicament was in fact worse than Ramage guessed: soon after he had heard the drum and realized what it was saying he had been approached by the witch doctor, who heard he was from the Triton and warned him to be silent. But Maxton had earlier planned to go to the white priest that night for a routine confession. It was to have been a long confession – the first for two years. There were many sins for which he sought absolution and which to Maxton seemed grave: killing men, although they were the enemy; swearing, blaspheming and drunkenness. To the priest, a worldly man, when Maxton visited him late at night, they had seemed minor compared with the almost daily stories of knifings, wife-beating, murder and theft.

  Maxton had overcome his fears enough to finish his confession with an account of the witch doctor’s visit earlier that night, admitting he was too frightened to warn his captain of the drums’ message. But the priest, not knowing the actual significance of the message and too sleepy to ask, took little notice: he was more concerned at Maxton’s admission that he had not regularly said his prayers and that he had blasphemed with a monotonous regularity for more than two years.

  So, his ears ringing with admonitions, Maxton had left the priest’s house no wiser than when he entered, except that the priest had almost brushed aside the drums’ message while the witch doctor threatened him with death over it. And he’d arrived back home to find the witch doctor had been back in his absence and reduced the whole family to a state of terror; so much so that one brother and two sisters swore they’d already seen two loupgarous flying among the trees, watching and obviously waiting for them to go to sleep before they began their bloody work.

  But none of the others, priest, witch doctor, mother, father, brother or sister, thought of the third factor. Maxton feared the God of the priest; he did what the priest told him because the alternative was hell fire and damnation. And he also feared the gods of the witch doctor.

  Ramage, as he watched Maxton, saw the direct conflict between the priest’s orders and the witch doctor’s and guessed Maxton would obey the witch doctor for the very practical reason that whereas the priest only threatened eternal damnation after death (but without any threats of instant death) the witch doctor’s threats were very much more positive and immediate: he promised prompt death at the hands of a loupgarou, not only for Maxton but for the whole family.

  Yet neither witch doctor nor priest – and least of all Ramage – knew that there was this third factor in Maxton’s life; almost a third god, a man whose orders he obeyed not because they were accompanied with terrible threats, but because he wanted to.

  And that man was Lieutenant Ramage.

  So now, on his knees in the captain’s cabin, his mind a whirl of conflicting fears and loyalties, Maxton was terrified. Not for himself, he now realized, but for his family and for his captain, both threatened by the same dreadful powers.

  Ramage looked down at the man and, recalling how Maxton had grinned at the approach of the Spanish Fleet at the Battle of Cape St Vincent and watched Ramage steer the little cutter Kathleen straight for the San Nicolas with the same grin, knew that whatever terrified the West Indian was now beyond the comprehension of a white man.

  ‘Maxton,’ he said gently, but speaking slowly and clearly, ‘there’s a way out of this which can save us all. Tell me honestly, can you read the drums?’

  Maxton nodded dumbly.

  ‘Very well: is it difficult to learn the language they talk?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Could Jackson learn enough to send a particular message – not read one – in an afternoon?’

  The head nodded.

  ‘The witch doctor didn’t say you couldn’t teach Jackson, did he?’

  ‘No sah.’

  ‘Will you, then? And show him how to make one of these drums?’

  Maxton scrambled to his feet: the fear had gone and in its place was enthusiasm. With the speed of a Caribbean thunderstorm clearing to reveal bright blue skies, Maxton had stopped trembling and was eager to help.

  ‘Yes sah!’ he exclaimed eagerly. ‘But the witch–’

  ‘The witch doctor will never know – or guess. And rest assured, Maxton, my ju-ju is stronger than his: that I promise you. Now, you’d better report to Mr Southwick.’

  After making sure that Maxton was provided with the barrel he needed to make the drum, and that he and Jackson were down in the orlop where the American could begin his first lesson in complete secrecy, using the Marine drummer’s drum, Ramage had gone on shore to visit Fort George.

  The Colonel was in his office and greeted Ramage with as much enthusiasm as a considerable thick head from too much rum would allow.

  Ramage had given a lot of thought to how he would tackle the task of finding the spy. He’d also thought a lot about Wilson. The Colonel had been very free in his talk about the Governor – but was that because he was an old gossip or because he was shrewed enough to realize Ramage needed to know all about Sir Jason if he was to be able to handle him? Ramage had decided it was the latter.

  And for that reason his first call was on the old soldier who looked askance at Ramage’s first request – that one of his most trusted soldiers should, as secretly as possible, buy a cured goatskin.

  Maxton had specified the size and quality needed for the drum and Ramage passed them on to the Colonel, but to preserve secrecy offered no explanation for the strange request Wilson asked no questions, sent for an aged corporal and despatched him on the errand, explaining the man had a native wife.

  ‘Well,’ he said to Ramage, ‘now we’ve sent the best man in my little army on the trail of goatskin, what’s the Navy doing this fine morning – apart from not sleeping off the after-effects of the Governor’s Ball?’

  ‘The Navy’s brought bad news: the privateers will capture that schooner within the next twelve hours.’

  ‘Will they, by Jove! And why can’t you stop ’em?’

  ‘Because they’ve a head start of a couple of dozen tom-toms, a dozen bonfires – and a spy who was probably a fellow-guest at last night’s ball,’ Ramage said flatly.

  Wilson looked up calmly at Ramage to make sure he was not joking and saw the brown eyes were alight with what might have been anger or excitement, but was certainly not amusement.

  ‘Hmmm. Well, I’ve spent enough years out here not to let anything surprise me; but the King’s enemies have recruited some damned odd allies, I must say!’

  It took Ramage less than five minutes to tell Wilson how he’d heard the tom-tom while the Governor’s guests danced, followed by Appleby’s arrival from Carriacou before dawn reporting the signal bonfires.

  Ramage, concentrating on his story, did not look up at Wilson until he’d finished, and was startled at the change in the man’s face: the puffy look had vanished; the watery eyes were now sharp. His face was different – and so was his posture. The whole air of flabbiness had vanished: Wilson was once again a soldier, mentally and physically alert. And his first few words were spoken with a new briskness.

  ‘Glad the Admiral sent you, m’boy. Misjudged you at first – I admit it. Admiral’s son and all that: thought you’d got your command through “interest” – not unknown, you know!’

  He grinned with an affection Ramage did not notice and continued: ‘Now m’eyes are opened. You were quick enough to spot the tom-toms – and you had the wit to leave lookouts at Carriacou. Never occurred to me – nor to those two nitwit frigate captains the Admiral sent earlier.’

  He took a quill, knife, bottle of ink and sheets of paper from a drawer and put them on the desk. He spent a few moments sharpening the quill – not because it was blunt, but because he obviously wanted time to think. Dipping the quill in the ink and squaring up the loose pages, he wrote several words one beneath the other and then read them aloud: ‘Colonel Wilson… Lieutenant Ramage… Sir Jason Fisher… Edward Privett…and the schooner’s master. Now, who else knew you’d given permission for the schooner to sail at ten o’clock?’
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br />   ‘No one, if Edward Privett’s the schooner-owner. But that document I asked Sir Jason to draw up for him to sign: I wonder if Sir Jason wrote it, or if a clerk made a fair copy?’

  Wilson’s brow furrowed. ‘No, I was in the study all the time. Just me, Sir Jason and Privett. Sir Jason – yes, he sat down at the desk and wrote it himself, then read it out aloud. Privett took the pen and signed it. The door was shut. No, only the three of us heard – or saw.’

  ‘The signed document?’

  ‘Sir Jason locked it in his desk.’

  ‘What did Privett do after that?’

  Wilson scratched his nose with the tip of the quill.

  ‘We talked for a few minutes; then Privett wrote a note to his captain telling him he was to sail at ten but impressing the need for secrecy. He read the note aloud and sealed it. I had it sent down to the schooner by one of my officers.’

  ‘The officer?’

  ‘One of my ADCs. Knew nothing about it. Just called him in and told him to deliver it into the captain’s hands and get a receipt. Came back half an hour later, reported he’d done so, gave me the receipt.’

  ‘Half an hour?’

  ‘Yes – takes fifteen minutes to the careenage by carriage.’

  Ramage rubbed his brow. ‘That means the schooner captain’s definitely cleared.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The tom-tom was sounding less than ten minutes after you and the Governor left me and went to the study. We allow ten minutes for signing the document and writing the note – more perhaps? Plus fifteen for your officer to deliver it. That means the tom-tom couldn’t have started until at least twenty-five or thirty minutes after you left me on the balcony…’

  ‘So we’re back again at Government House,’ Wilson said.

  ‘What did Privett do after you’d sent the officer away with the note?’

  ‘I was just thinking about that. Now – the three of us in the study, the document signed and the note written. Then I rang for the butler to fetch my ADC. He came in, I gave him the note and off he went. Privett started making a flowery speech of thanks; then the Governor rang again for drinks. Yes, by Jove – we talked there for at least fifteen minutes. More like twenty-five.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You,’ Wilson said blandly. ‘Privett expressed a doubt about your abilities – based on your youth. We dispelled them. Don’t blush; neither of us perjured ourselves on your behalf.’

  Ramage gave a mock bow.

  Wilson nodded slowly and, looking directly at Ramage, said: ‘Think seriously about this. I trust you because it’s your plan that’s gone astray and you’ve got to account to the Admiral. But Ramage, make no mistake – it’s your duty to satisfy yourself that both the Governor and myself are trustworthy.’

  ‘I’ve already done that, sir,’ Ramage said dryly.

  ‘You have, by Jove?’

  ‘I can check your story with the Governor, and you know that. And with Privett, for that matter. And all three of you hadn’t left the study before the drum began. So obviously all three of you are beyond suspicion. You couldn’t have done anything even if you’d wanted to!’

  Wilson sat back in his chair and roared with laughter.

  ‘You don’t miss much, Ramage! But’ – his face became serious again – ‘where does that leave us?’

  He glanced down at his list, and wrote in another name.

  ‘I’ve put down my ADC. I’d trust him with my life – indeed, have. He could have opened the letter. But,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘your timetable already cleared him.’

  Ramage nodded. ‘Yes, if he’d opened the letter as soon as he’d left you he couldn’t have given the information to the spy before the drum started.’

  Both men sat alone with their thoughts. Wilson watched the young lieutenant rubbing his brow gently and staring at the table. The lad looked drawn, but that was hardly surprising. This sort of thing smacked of ju-ju and voodoo. How else could secret information get out of a closed room? And soon Ramage would have to send a report to his Admiral – a report which said that a schooner he’d allowed to sail had been captured, because Wilson had no doubt Ramage’s forecast would prove correct. And an Admiral sitting in Barbados was unlikely to be very sympathetic, particularly, as Wilson had guessed earlier, if the Admiral was obviously using him to cover the two frigate captains who’d already failed.

  But in fact Ramage was not thinking of the Admiral, nor particularly of his own responsibility for the schooner sailing: he’d deliberately agreed to let her sail because it suited him to use her as bait. Very well, the bait had been taken, which surely meant that somewhere during last night’s ball there must be just one clue which would lead to the privateers?

  And he’d met enough difficult situations in his life to know that an answer rarely came when you sat down at a desk and tried to think; it was more likely to emerge as you walked along a street, or reached across the table for a sugar dredge.

  But anyway it was comfortably cool in this room. So just run through the evening’s events once again. At about eight o’clock he was talking on the balcony to Cla – to Miss de Giraud. Then Wilson came out and said the Governor was looking for him and almost at once Sir Jason joined them. Miss de Giraud had discreetly moved away; he’d told the Governor the conditions under which one schooner could sail at ten o’clock. Sir Jason and Wilson had then gone to the study.

  Was anyone lurking on the balcony? No, there’d been only himself and Claire. After the two men had gone he’d begun talking to Claire again – after she’d returned from powdering her nose, or whatever had taken her away for a few minutes.

  Suddenly he stood up. ‘May I borrow a carriage, sir?’

  Wilson, startled by Ramage’s white face and blazing eyes, agreed and shouted to an orderly.

  ‘Anything wrong, Ramage? Look as though you’ve seen a ghost! Don’t say you’ve got one of these damned fevers?’

  Numbly Ramage shook his head and turned to the door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Both the coachman and the soldier in the blue and gold uniform of the Grenada Volunteers sitting in front with a musket, eventually protested as Ramage cursed and swore as he goaded them to go faster. The road up to Government House was steep; but Ramage had almost lost control of himself in a turbulent mixture of rage mingled with disbelief at what now seemed all to obvious.

  Finally, with the horses’ flanks running with sweat and their mouths flecked with white, the carriage swung up the driveway to Government House and even before the footmen had time to open the door and unfold the ladder Ramage had jumped down and was running up the wide stone steps.

  The two soldiers on guard at the big doors hesitated, unsure whether to challenge or salute the naval officer running towards them, one hand clutching his sword scabbard and the other his hat, and finally saluted.

  Catching sight of the butler as he entered the house, Ramage called to him to find the Governor urgently, and when the man walked ponderously towards him with a pompous request to state his business, he received an angry retort from Ramage that he didn’t discuss the King’s business with butlers and to take him to the Governor at once.

  But the clatter of galloping hooves, carriage wheels and pounding feet had brought Sir Jason into the hall, and hearing the last of the exchange he called to Ramage and together they went back into the study.

  ‘My apologies, Your Excellency, but there’s some urgency in all this!’

  ‘Oh indeed?’ Sir Jason said coldly. ‘I must admit I’m not used to people bursting into Government House, especially without an appointment.’

  Nettled, Ramage snapped rudely: ‘Fédon was not so punctilious.’

  ‘Don’t be insolent, Ramage: I shall report this to the Admiral.’

  Ramage was far too angry – with himself more than the Governor – to care what was reported, although he admitted Sir Jason was justified in being surprised at his hurried arrival. But (had he not been a colonial go
vernor) that alone should have warned him of an emergency.

  ‘What you report, and to whom, is your affair, Your Excellency. I have come to warn you that you’re probably employing someone who’s also a spy, and the schooner that sailed last night is likely to be in the hands of the privateers within the next few hours.’

  ‘But – but this is preposterous! Do something, man! You must stop it being captured! Why, I shall–’

  ‘If I could fly through the upper regions with the speed of a bird, I could possibly save her. Since I can’t, she’ll be captured…sir.’

  ‘And what’s this outrageous nonsense about me employing a spy? That’s tantamount to accusing me of being a traitor and–’

  ‘I said “You are probably employing someone who is also a spy”, Your Excellency: I don’t suggest you know this person’s a spy.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that qualification,’ Sir Jason growled. ‘What am I supposed to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing, unless you wish,’ Ramage said quickly, seizing his opportunity. ‘I’d prefer to deal with it myself – with your permission, of course.’

  The Governor had clearly lost control of the situation and was only too willing to agree, though still anxiously clinging to the outward trapping of authority. ‘Very well, you have my permission; but I hold you responsible.’

  Ramage couldn’t be bothered to ask for what he was being held responsible. Instead he said: ‘Where is Miss de Giraud?’

  ‘In her room – she has a migraine, though I can’t see what she has to do with all this.’

  ‘Very well: I wish to be taken to her room at once. I have to talk to her alone, though if Your Excellency wishes to accompany me and make sure this meets with her approval…?’

  ‘Dammit!’ expostulated Sir Jason, ‘this is most irregular! Prying into the private quarters of my staff? I simply–’