by Dudley Pope
‘Did he cross himself?’ Ramage interrupted.
‘Never once, sir. When he calmed down I asked what’d put him about so, and he said this man Fetch was the wickedest man in the Caribbean; that he wished him dead.’
Ramage nodded. ‘Did you get the impression he’d help…’
‘Yes, sir. To be honest – I hope I didn’t overstep the mark, sir, but I thought you might have the same idea – I sort of hinted that it shouldn’t be too difficult to do him in.’
‘What did he say to that?’
‘Went quiet for a minute or two and his eyes went glassy – you know how I mean, sir. Then he asked if I’d help, and if I reckoned Rossi an’ Stafford would join us, I said I knew they would.’
‘Does Maxton know where he lives?’
‘Yes, apparently he’s a sort of witch doctor and terrorizes all the local people, Maxton’s father included, and makes ’em pay him so much a week from their crops. Maxton says he was mixed up in the big rebellion a year or so ago.’
‘Thank you, Jackson; that’s all we need to know. You’d better sound out Rossi and Stafford about this Fetch fellow. Don’t go into a lot of detail, though.’
As soon as Jackson left the cabin, Southwick said: ‘How many men are you taking, sir?’
‘Say twenty. Water and food for forty-eight hours. Swords, pikes, tomahawks and pistols. No muskets – too crowded for them.’
‘Twenty? Can’t you squeeze in more?’
‘I doubt it, but have another twenty standing by when you rendezvous with us. Oh yes, some grenades might be useful – you’d better see to it that half a dozen men know how to use ’em and make sure they’ve flints and slow matches. And I want false-fires and rockets, at least a dozen of each.’
Southwick had already taken pen and paper and was noting down Ramage’s requirements.
‘Call for volunteers, sir?’
‘No – they’ll all volunteer. Just pick twenty steady men for the main party, and another twenty to stand by. Don’t leave yourself short of topmen. I’d like Jackson, Maxton, Rossi, Stafford, Evans, Fuller, John Smith the Second… You keep Appleby; you’ll probably need him.’
‘Although you don’t want muskets, sir, there’s those half dozen musketoons. They fairly cut a swathe through a crowd o’ men.’
Ramage nodded. ‘I’d forgotten – yes, we’ll take them. One each for Jackson, Stafford, Evans, Fuller and Smith the Second, and you choose the other one.’
‘Very well, sir. I’d better make a start on this, and the station bill will have to be changed.’
With that Southwick bustled out, and Ramage took up the pen, jabbed it in the ink, and scribbled a few lines in his daily journal. With so much happening, one day was merging into the next, and he’d need the notes when he came to write his report.
Just before leaving the Fort, the Colonel had given him some advice. Wilson began by pointing out what was already obvious, that Admiral Robinson had given Ramage his orders for a particular reason, because whoever received them was likely to fail, and would be a convenient scapegoat.
It was what followed that surprised Ramage.
‘Suppose you don’t come out of this alive, m’lad,’ the Colonel had said with his usual bluntness. ‘I’m the only one in any authority who knows what you’re going to attempt tomorrow night. So why don’t you write a report to His Excellency explaining exactly what you intend doing and why. You can leave it with me, and I’ll deliver it the following afternoon, when it’s too late for him to countermand anything – or, for that matter, accidentally reveal anything that’s secret.’
Although he’d shrugged off the idea at the time, Ramage had since realized it was sound advice. Well, if he didn’t write the report now he never would, because there wasn’t much time left. He closed the journal, took out some sheets of notepaper, dipped the pen in the ink and began writing.
Triton, St George Roads, 1st June, 1797
Sir,
Having failed to discover the precise whereabouts of the privateers’ base by making a reconnaissance in HM brig under my command, but having discovered the means by which advance news of the sailing of schooners is passed northwards through the islands to the privateersmen, I am putting into execution a few nights hence the only plan which, upon mature consideration, offers any chance of speedily securing the safety of the schooners upon which the trade of the island of Grenada so largely depends.
The plan fell into four parts, Ramage wrote, and described it briefly, concluding:
The operation depends for its success upon the amount of surprise that can be achieved. If surprise is lost, the operation will fail since the privateersmen will outnumber the British seamen by a considerable margin. However, this is a factor against which it is impossible to plan in detail.
I am, sir, etc.,
Nicholas Ramage,
Lieutenant and Commanding Officer
His Excellency Sir Jason Fisher, Knt,
Government House,
Grenada.
Calling for his clerk and telling him to copy the letter into the letter book, and make another copy for Colonel Wilson, Ramage then went up on deck, thankful to get into the cool breeze.
The next afternoon, by which time, Ramage estimated, the privateers would have unloaded their prize, he went on deck to give orders to Southwick to get under way.
‘I have to report that four men have deserted, sir,’ Southwick said solemnly.
‘Deserted? Who the–’
Southwick laughed at Ramage’s dismay.
‘The tom-tom, sir – difficult to smuggle something like that on shore. I thought the best thing was to send in the master’s mate with a boat to fill water-casks. Jackson put the tom-tom in a kitbag and while Appleby turned his back he and Maxton and the other two slipped away. Anyone watching would’ve thought it was a regular case o’ men deserting.’
Ramage felt childishly annoyed: to begin with he’d completely forgotten to arrange for the four men to be landed to carry out their part of the night’s work; and he was – he admitted it – jealous that Southwick had, without reference to him, thought up an ingenious way of doing it.
‘I hope you explained what they’re supposed to do,’ he said tartly.
Southwick related in detail what he’d said.
‘Fine – they didn’t forget to take false-fires, I hope?’
‘Took three, sir, just in case one gets damp.’
‘Hmmm,’ Ramage grunted.
Now he had nothing to do he was getting jumpy. Too much depended on too many people doing things upon which other things depended. Jackson was reliable – but had Maxton really trained him with that damned drum? Would the four of them carry out their orders properly? Could Rondin really be trusted, or had he already passed a warning to the privateers?
Was – he forced himself to think about it now, though he’d been avoiding it most of the afternoon – Claire really to be trusted? He felt ashamed at his doubts; but he’d fallen in love with her and that alone might warp his judgement, leading him to wasting men’s lives. That worried him more, he admitted, than if she’d been married and he’d cuckolded her husband while a guest under his roof. And what if the schooner –
‘Everything’ll go all right, sir,’ Southwick said quietly, sensing Ramage’s doubts. ‘It’s the waiting that plays old Harry with all of us.’
‘Not with you,’ Ramage said.
‘You’d be surprised, sir. I’d sooner be leading a boarding party than trying to conn the Triton round reefs in the dark into some damned bay I’ve never seen before and where the chart gives no soundings.’
‘Better to run the ship aground than get a pike in your stomach.’
‘No,’ Southwick laughed, ‘when you’ve a stomach the size of mine’ – he patted it proudly – ‘you’d sooner take your chance with a pike than a reef.’
At that moment the clerk came up with Ramage’s letters to the Governor and Wilson. Both were plastered with red seals, and Ramage s
aid: ‘Have these delivered to the Colonel at the Fort, Mr Southwick, and we’ll get under way as soon as the boat returns.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Triton had sailed in broad daylight with all the ritual attached to a final departure, including a farewell salute fired in honour of the Governor, and rounded Point Saline. To a casual onlooker or a watchful spy, she was obviously bound for Barbados or Trinidad.
And, as planned, when darkness fell with its usual tropical suddenness, Ramage had given the order for her to wear round and steer for the rendezvous with Rondin’s schooner, the Jorum, at midnight four miles off Gouyave, a small village on the north-west side of Grenada ten miles from St George.
From several minutes before ten o’clock he and Southwick had watched Point Saline for signs of the blue flame of a false-fire. At ten minutes past ten Ramage shut the night-glass with a snap, having taken three bearings.
‘Well, Jackson must have done the job. Fetch must be dealt with and the signal passed.’
‘Unless they all got drunk – or walked into a trap. Or that Fetch fellow was too smart for them,’ Southwick growled.
Since the remark merely emphasized his own unspoken fears and it was unlike the Master to be depressed, Ramage snapped: ‘Or the wind might drop and we’ll miss them at the rendezvous.’
‘It might,’ Southwick said, missing Ramage’s sarcasm. ‘Often does drop at night.’
Ramage made no reply: he’d lose his temper with the old fellow if he wasn’t careful. He opened the night-glass again and looked up towards St George.
Over there at this moment, within the circle contained by the telescope’s lens, Claire was at Wilson’s house and probably making polite conversation with the Colonel’s lady; Sir Jason would probably be playing whist – had he found a new butler yet?
Ramage shivered. He’d left his coat in the cabin and although chilly it was not entirely the wind. But he was thinking of Rondin’s words. When spoken, the praise and businessman’s cold-blooded approach had alternately embarrassed and surprised him. But now their significance was sinking in. Rondin had tried to deter him because he thought a better opportunity of destroying the privateers would come along. But Ramage felt instinctively it would be foolish to miss the present one.
Although their spy in Government House was out of action, the privateersmen had too much at stake to shrug their shoulders and go elsewhere. No, they’d quickly set up a new system, and it wouldn’t be difficult: someone watching for a schooner sailing, beating a drum for a few moments from a high hill over the harbour – and vanishing into the rain forests until the next schooner sailed. Not as effective a spy as the butler – who obviously found out many other secrets – but equally effective as far as catching the schooners was concerned.
Ramage knew it was his only chance. And all the while Admiral Robinson waited in Barbados. In London the Admiralty, the West Indian Committee and the underwriters would soon be needing scapegoats to placate them. Rondin was right – if one had plenty of time. But Ramage knew time was the only thing he lacked.
‘Keep on imagining I can hear tom-toms,’ Southwick grumbled.
‘It’s that stomach of yours: you ate too much for supper.’
‘I did, too,’ Southwick admitted. ‘But it’ll be a few hours a’fore I can sit down to a quiet meal again without fretting about whether the quartermaster’s gone to sleep.’
‘You haven’t much to grumble about,’ Ramage said unsympathetically. ‘You’ll have twenty-four hours at the most. What about me – twenty-four months of it. Well, nearly twelve anyway.’
‘You’re welcome to every minute,’ the old Master said with a sudden cheery frankness. ‘Just don’t go and get yourself killed and leave me to take the ship back to Barbados!’
‘Barbados? I thought you said you were going to run her up on a reef in the dark?’
‘Aye, that’d take a load off my mind. Then I can hire a schooner for the King’s service and go back to Barbados as a passenger–’
Ramage cut him short. ‘If you can spare a moment of your fast-vanishing leisure to order a cast of the log – and repeat it every fifteen minutes – you’ll avoid having me fretting.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘I’m going below for half an hour. Keep an eye on the course steered.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘And keep a sharp lookout.’
This time Southwick made little attempt to keep the irritation out of his voice, ‘Aye aye, sir.’
Moodily Ramage walked to the companionway, not knowing Southwick had deliberately pretended irritation because he knew his young captain’s nerves were bar taut and the reply would make him realize it by the time he reached the cabin.
No sooner had he sat down to write up the log than Ramage remembered he’d forgotten to bring the slate with him and angrily shouted through the skylight for Southwick to pass it. As soon as it was passed down he copied the details and handed it back to the seaman waiting overhead.
Then he went over to the chart spread out on the table, each corner held down by a weight to prevent it rolling up again. He plotted the three bearings, pencilled in a tiny cross and wrote the time beside it. From the cross he checked off the course he’d given Southwick to steer, knowing it was a waste of time since he had already checked it several times earlier, long before darkness fell, and the Triton had been in the precise position he had intended when he had given the order to alter course.
Irritated at his own jumpiness he flung down the pencil, went over to a cupboard and took out his case of duelling pistols. They were a gift from Sir Gilbert Elliot, the former Viceroy in Corsica, to mark the day when Ramage was given his first command, and were a splendid example of the gunmaker’s art: each stock was of richly grained walnut; the hexagonal barrels, shining blue in the dim light from the lantern, were long – too long for the rough and tumble of fighting, but ensuring accuracy – and the upper flat surface was ideal for aiming quickly.
He picked up one of them, flicked up the appropriately named hammer to expose the priming pan, blew into it to make sure there were no fine grains of priming powder still in the pan or touchhole, then pushed the hammer down again so that it covered the pan. Then, after checking that the jaws of the cock gripped the flint tightly, he cocked the gun and squeezed the trigger. The cock arched over faster than the eye could follow, the flint in striking the curved face of the hammer lifting it from the pan and making a satisfactory spark.
After repeating the procedure with the second pistol, he shook out lead shot, each the size of a schoolboy’s marble, from a green baize bag, and took some cloth wads from a compartment in the case.
Selecting two shots he rolled them on the desk and then held each of them up to the light. They were well-cast and, as far as he could see, perfectly spherical. Not that it would matter much at the ranges he’d be firing.
Holding one of the pistols with the muzzle pointing upwards, he took the larger of the two flasks from the case, put the funnel-shaped end in the muzzle and pressed the catch at the side which automatically allowed the correct amount of powder to drop into the barrel.
It took only a few moments to ram home both shot and wad, pour priming powder from the smaller flask into the pan and shut the hammer down again, making sure it was a tight fit and none of the priming powder could shake out.
After loading the second pistol he took his jacket and put a couple of dozen shot and wads in one pocket and the two powder flasks in another. A sudden thought struck him as he put the coat down on the settee, with the two pistols on top, and looked round for his hat.
Quickly he went up on deck and found Southwick.
‘In the dark,’ he said, ‘we can’t be sure of identifying each other. A fraction of a second might save a man’s life. Get the boatswain’s mate to cut up forty strips of white cloth – wide enough for each man to tie round his head. Explain the reason to them – anyone without a headband is fair game. Have someone take four over to the sc
hooner for Jackson’s party.’
‘Don’t forget to wear one yourself, sir.’
‘What? Oh yes, of course.’
And Ramage realized he was more jumpy than he cared to admit; but for Southwick’s warning he’d have crammed his hat on his head when he went on board the schooner. If it had sailed, and if they could find it in the darkness.
A sudden yell from a lookout sent Ramage dashing up the companionway. Southwick pointed over the larboard side, where several small objects bobbed about, black on the dark grey of the sea.
‘Dozens of ’em,’ Southwick growled. ‘Thought they were rocks for a moment! Can’t make out what they are, even with the glass.’
Ramage called to the lookout who reported that they stretched diagonally across the brig’s bow from the larboard beam.
‘Back the foretops’l, Mr Southwick!’
Within moments of Southwick’s bellows the foretopsail yard was being braced round and the sheets trimmed again so the wind blew on to the forward side, trying to push the brig astern in opposition to the maintopsail trying to thrust her ahead. The opposing forces, balancing each other, stopped the ship within a few yards of the line of objects.
By then Ramage was on the fo’c’sle with the night-glass jammed to his eye. He snapped it shut and went aft to tell Southwick.
‘Casks and sacks – the Jorum’s ahead of us and to windward and has dumped some of her cargo.’
‘She got up here faster than I expected!’ Southwick exclaimed.
‘I told you these schooners were slippery. Let’s get under way again!’
Southwick shouted the orders which set the men bracing the foretopsail yard round again and the sail filled with a bang. Almost at once the brig stopped pitching gently, and the splashing as her stem and counter alternately slapped down on to the waves gave way to the steady sluicing of water as she gathered speed.
But more than ten minutes passed before Ramage was certain he had identified the mountain peaks that let them identify the few bonfires on shore as the village of Gouyave, while it took a timed run of fifteen minutes to establish their exact position and discover they were half a mile inshore of the rendezvous. By that time Ramage had the ship cleared for action and the carronades run out, using only the depleted crew.
