by Dudley Pope
As a ship of the Spanish Navy she would come under the general control of the Ministry of Marine in Madrid and, if based at La Guaira, the local control of the Captain-General, with the Royal Treasury in Caracas—the Intendente, in other words—paying the bills. As privateer, she would still be under the general control of the Captain-General, but the commander of the Privateering Branch would decide how she operated, and would pay her expenses out of the Privateering Branch funds.
All that seemed straightforward but, Ramage discovered, the ship had recently been ordered by Madrid to sail to Havana and then on to Spain, which meant that the Privateering Branch would lose her, and obviously the commander did not want to pay for anything more, claiming that the Royal Treasury should foot the bill. But the Intendente would not agree—she was not a ship of the Spanish Navy (though, Ramage could see, it was clear that once she arrived in Spain she would be added to the Fleet), because she had been commissioned as a privateer.
It was hard luck for the Privateering Branch: the letters made it clear that the Branch had paid for all the refitting so far but as soon as she was ready to go to sea she was ordered to Havana, bound for Spain. It said a lot about Spanish officials that it had taken them more than a year to commission the ship, and that the chattering of clerks—people like the Intendente might be higher up the scale, but they still had clerks’ mentalities—meant that although the Jocasta had been in Spanish hands for two years all they had done was move her from La Guaira to Santa Cruz. Those Spanish clerks were the best allies that Britain had, Ramage reflected. The Calypso frigate had winkled her out of Santa Cruz, but the clerks had quite effectively seen to it that she stayed there until the Calypso arrived. Did his Most Catholic Majesty realize that, albeit unwittingly, his clerks were guilty of treason?
He had just picked up the next batch of the Captain-General’s letters, hoping to find the latest orders to Velasquez, when he heard someone hurrying down the companion-way, and a moment later the sentry called: “Mr Orsini, sir!”
Paolo knocked on the door and came in, his eyes glinting with excitement in the dim lantern light. “Mr Southwick’s compliments, sir: he says it wants about five minutes before the castles blow up!”
Ramage was tired; he was anxious to know Velasquez’s orders. The castles would blow up if Rennick and his sergeant had done their work properly—and providing the slow matches burned true. But there was nothing that Nicholas Ramage, Captain, could do to help or hinder the process. For that matter, it was of no consequence as far as his orders were concerned whether the castles blew up or not. Admiral Davis would lose no sleep if both fuses went out: he would have the Jocasta back again, which was all that mattered. The castles were the bonus, and anyway Ramage wanted to continue reading the letters. But the cabin was hot and stuffy and Paolo was holding the door open, waiting to follow him on deck. How like Gianna the boy was; the same heart-shaped face, the same eyes.
Ramage put the papers in the top drawer, locked it, and stood up to find Paolo holding out a cutlass, but he motioned it away.
“The ship’s company aren’t about to mutiny, are they, Paolo?”
“No, sir,” the boy said, “but we have more than a hundred Spanish prisoners on board!”
Ramage took the cutlass and slipped the belt over his shoulder. In the excitement of sailing out of Santa Cruz he had forgotten the prisoners; seizing the ship seemed like something that had happened last week.
On deck the stars and waning moon were enough to light up the ship. Southwick, incongruous in his mutineer’s garb, waved to the south: “I didn’t think you’d want to miss the excitement, sir. Any minute now, taking half an hour from the time we saw the lights.”
“It should be quite a sight,” Ramage said, making an effort to sound cheerful so as not to spoil an otherwise exciting occasion: nearly every man on board except the lookouts was up in the rigging or on the hammock nettings—Southwick had obviously given permission—eagerly staring at the top of the cliffs.
The ship was lying hove-to, with the Calypso five hundred yards away to the east.
“Where’s the Santa Barbara?” Ramage asked.
Southwick pointed to the west. “She’s well clear of the entrance, sir. I saw her with the night-glass. Towing her boats, so she must have recovered the Marines and Spanish prisoners. She’s making up for us, like you told Wagstaffe.”
“Prisoners!” Ramage said crossly. “We’ll soon have more Spaniards out here than there are in Santa Cruz.”
“Don’t forget the soldiers, sir.”
Ramage gave a short laugh. “No, if we’d arrived twelve hours later we’d be the prisoners.”
“I didn’t mean that, sir,” Southwick protested, but Ramage felt too drained to do anything more than watch the cliffs. It was hard to believe that less than three hours earlier the Calypso had first approached Santa Cruz to begin a dangerous game of bluff. Certainly it had worked and he had hooked the Jocasta like a fisherman landing a lethargic perch, so he should be cheerful and content. Instead he felt as taut as a flying jib sheet hard on the wind. He had expected to lose half of these men who were now waiting in the shrouds and on the hammock nettings like excited starlings perched in a grove of trees. So, he told himself, he should be cheerful because only a handful had been killed.
The fact was that he was far from being a natural gambler; he had little patience with those pallid fellows crouching over the gaming tables at Buck’s, terrified that the turn of a card or the tumble of a die would ruin them, yet always hoping desperately to win. Obviously all they lived for was the fear of losing and exaltation of winning, but it was sad to think that grown men hazarded their futures on the face of a card or the spots of a die. A house that had been a family seat for a couple of centuries often changed hands because a die stopped rolling to show a three instead of a four.
Yet … yet … he had just done much the same thing, except that no gambler at Buck’s or one of those other elegant establishments would play against such odds: no one wagered a guinea to win a guinea, unless he was drunk or desperate, yet he had just risked a frigate, and more than two hundred lives, to win a frigate.
Castillo San Antonio suddenly exploded. A great lightning-flash radiating outwards lit the surrounding hills, the entrance channel and the Calypso as though it was day and then equally suddenly plunged everything into a darkness that seemed solid. A moment later a deep rumbling coming through the water made the Jocasta tremble, while a noise like a great clap of thunder skated across the sea, followed by echoes bouncing off the mountains and gradually fading into the distance. Then came the startled mewing of seabirds wheeling in alarm and the sudden chatter of excited men.
Ramage blinked rapidly, dazzled and still hardly able to believe what he had just seen. “The night-glass !” he snapped at Southwick.
The hard, rectangular outline of the castle on top of the cliff was hidden in an enormous wreath of smoke and dust, the top of which swirled snakelike in the moonlight. Gradually it thinned out, blown clear by the wind, and finally Ramage could make out the remains of the castle.
“What can you see, sir?” Southwick asked excitedly.
Ramage realized that every man within earshot was straining to hear his reply, and he spoke loudly: “The centre has gone, right down to the foundations. The western corner is still standing … yes, the smoke’s clearing more: the whole eastern side has collapsed.”
“I wonder how much powder there was in the magazine?” Southwick asked incredulously.
“Enough! Ah, there we are, the smoke has cleared completely. Yes, three-quarters of the castle—all except the western end—has gone. A lot of the stonework has slid down the hill in an avalanche.”
“Rennick needn’t have bothered to spike the guns,” Southwick muttered, obviously determined to have the last word on the subject.
Ramage swung the night-glass to find the Santa Barbara and saw that she was still beating up to join the Jocasta. For a moment he had feared she might have b
een close enough to be damaged by lumps of stone hurled up by the explosion.
A red eye winked at the far end of the channel.
“Santa Fé!” he exclaimed. “They’ve woken up and started firing down the channel.”
“Aye, they probably think the English are coming,” Southwick said contemptuously. “Look!” he added as more red flashes followed, “that first gun woke up the rest of them!”
At that moment El Pilar blew up. Again a blinding flash lit up the hills—showing San Antonio a wrecked shell, the western wall throwing the rest into heavy shadow—followed by a shock through the water and a dull blam-blam, as though the side had fallen away from a mountain.
Ramage handed Southwick the night-glass . “We’ll go down to meet the Santa Barbara. The sooner our prisoners are transferred to her the better. I’m going below to finish reading the Spanish orders.”
“Ah, we might find a few prizes to take back with us,” Southwick said cheerfully.
“The Jocasta’s enough,” Ramage said crossly.
“Yes, sir, but don’t forget that Isla de Margarita is the pearl island, and they find emeralds farther along the coast.”
“We’ll collect enough oysters to make a crown of pearls for you,” Ramage said sarcastically, “then hurry back to English Harbour for the coronation.” With that he went below, hearing Southwick beginning the string of orders which would take the Jocasta down to the Santa Barbara.
Captain Velasquez had the irritating habit of putting the earliest letters at the top and the latest at the bottom, but Ramage was curious about the way the Captain-General had handled the Jocasta affair. Here, written at great length, was the first letter to Velasquez describing how English mutineers had brought the ship to La Guaira—”under the command of an officer named Summers”—and handed her over to “the municipality.” Clearly the Captain-General was determined not to take any personal responsibility even at that early stage. The junta had ordered the ship to be taken round to Santa Cruz because the port was well defended and there, the junta directed, Velasquez would take command.
That letter alone would have hanged Summers, Ramage thought, and the very next one again referred to the seaman, saying he would act as master for the voyage, and when he handed over the frigate to Velasquez he was to be allowed to return to La Guaira, unless Velasquez had any use for him in refitting the ship “in view of his particular skills.”
Then came a series of orders dealing with fitting out the ship. The English were always so short-handed that they sailed the ship with fewer than two hundred men, the junta noted, but it regarded three hundred as the absolute minimum. The master shipwright had assured the junta that the frigate could carry more guns without endangering her stability, so Velasquez was to consider fitting six more, but the junta did not specify the size of the guns, nor whether they were to be mounted on the quarterdeck and fo’c’s’le or on the main deck.
In later letters there were complaints—obviously referring to reports by Velasquez—about the amount of work and cost of commissioning the ship. Then, the most flowery letter so far, the junta’s unanimous decision on the ship’s new name, La Perla. This, the Captain-General ordered (for once he took the credit for it), was to be painted or carved on the ship’s transom after all traces of the original English name had been removed, the letters painted in red on a gold background, “to match the glorious flag of Spain.” The Pearl, Ramage thought, was hardly a suitable name for a ship of war.
Further letters reported that Spanish merchant seamen had been pressed and were being sent to Santa Cruz to man the ship. Another told Velasquez that soldiers were being used to make up the number, volunteers from two regiments recently arrived from Panama. These men would make excellent seamen, the Captain-General assured Velasquez.
There were more letters about provisions—mostly saying that various things were not available—and, at last an urgent warning to Velasquez that an English “corsair” had been sighted and was probably bound for Santa Cruz to attempt to recapture the frigate. From the date of the letter Ramage saw that it referred to Captain Eames’s arrival on the Main.
Several letters had mentioned dates by which Velasquez should have the ship ready, and then came the first to mention Havana. This was an order telling Velasquez that because of instructions just received from the Ministry of Marine in Madrid—”from the hand of the Secretary of State for the Navy, His Excellency Don Juan de Langara”—La Perla was to proceed to Spain by way of Havana, and Velasquez was to prepare for the voyage accordingly “and report at once if the ship has any needs.”
A letter dated twelve days later and referring to one from Velasquez seemed to show that La Perla’s Captain had suddenly found a dozen excellent reasons why the frigate could not sail for Spain, but the Captain-General, obviously mindful of the order from Madrid, dismissed them all: the ship would sail as soon as one or two ships bound for Havana were assembled so that La Perla could escort them and “protect them from English corsairs.”
Ramage saw from successive letters that as the days passed the idea of a convoy to Havana grew in the minds of the junta: obviously the businessmen in the province of Caracas were thankful for this rare opportunity to send goods from La Guaira to Cuba and Spain under the protection of a frigate. Then came more specific information for Velasquez: ships from Vera Cruz, Cartagena and La Guaira would assemble in Havana, ready to sail as a convoy for Spain, escorted by a 74-gun ship and four frigates, of which La Perla would be one.
Ramage sighed as he struggled with the handwriting. The letters were full of abbreviations, and the clerks obviously cared little if blots of ink obscured words providing the big wax seals were perfect. He was tired of phrases like “very magnificent, sir” used by almost anyone when writing to a superior; he was bored with the decisions of the “Real Audiencia y Chancilleria.”
The convoy for Spain was due to sail from Havana “any time after the first day of August” in one letter; another put the date back at least two weeks. Velasquez was to sail from Santa Cruz to arrive at La Guaira by the beginning of July—except that the next letter from the Captain-General delayed it two weeks. Then came a definite order: La Perla was to be ready to sail from La Guaira on 26 June, escorting one ship.
One ship? Ramage read the paragraph again. From the previous references he had understood there would be at least four or five ships. The next paragraph told Velasquez that the junta was awaiting orders from His Excellency the Viceroy of the Indies, in Panama, concerning this particular ship, but the Captain-General trusted that in any case La Perla was ready to sail.
Why on earth would the Viceroy—the man who ruled the whole of the Spanish Main and Central America in the name of His Most Catholic Majesty—be concerning himself with one ship? Was she going to carry important passengers? Was he travelling in her himself?
Ramage had been conscious of a lot of bustle on deck, and the sentry’s call warned him that Southwick was coming to see him.
“We’re all ready to begin sending the prisoners over, sir,” the Master reported. “Wagstaffe had the sense to send Marines over with his two boats to help guard them. I’m using two of our boats as well. Two trips for each boat.”
“Very well. Tell Wagstaffe to come over and bring his sea bag with him. And Captain Velasquez will go over to the Santa Barbara in the last boat. I want to see him first.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I’ll be glad to see the back of ‘em and get the lower deck scrubbed out and aired. You wouldn’t credit the mess they’ve made.”
Ramage went back to the letters. His eyes ached, his head buzzed with weariness. Only two more letters remained of the bundle from the Captain-General, and he cursed the time he had wasted. It was, he admitted, sheer curiosity: it mattered not a damn when the Captain-General of Caracas or the Mayor of Santa Cruz ordered Velasquez to sail for La Guaira and Havana: the ship was back in the Royal Navy and half a ton of Spanish correspondence and a ton of His Most Catholic Majesty’s sealing wax could not
affect that.
Wearily he wriggled in his chair: the candle in the lantern was burning low and he turned the letter to catch more light. The junta had received a communication from His Excellency the Viceroy, and as a result it had been decided to entrust “a particular cargo” to the ship which La Perla would escort. His Excellency the Viceroy had further ordered that another “particular cargo” from the province of Columbia should also be despatched to Spain in the same ship. This valuable cargo had already been sent round from Cartagena in smaller vessels and was now safely on board the ship at La Guaira, and the ship would be ready to sail when La Perla arrived on 23 June.
The 23rd of June: that was the day before yesterday, Ramage realized, but La Perla had been delayed by the wait for her troops to come back from the mountains. They had returned to Santa Cruz yesterday; they were due to board today. The Captain-General would know all that, and would expect La Perla to sail for La Guaira by noon.
Suddenly he awoke with a start, realizing that he had been half asleep while reading. Slowly he repeated to himself what the letter was telling him: a merchant ship loaded with “a particular cargo” important enough to involve the Viceroy and described by the Captain-General as “valuable” was at anchor at La Guaira waiting for La Perla to arrive to escort her to Havana.
He reached up to the rack of charts overhead, selected the one showing the coast from Santa Cruz to west of La Guaira, and unrolled it on the desk, hurriedly weighting it down with an inkwell at one end and his hat at the other.
His hand was trembling slightly as he reached for the dividers and measured off the distance between Santa Cruz and La Guaira. Just over two hundred miles in a direct line, but the road ran like a snake over mountain ridges and across valleys, skirting round a great gulf … A messenger on horseback would have to cover a good three hundred miles, and much of the way must be simply mule tracks climbing over the great saddle of mountains to Caracas, some peaks of which were 9000 feet high. The chart showed few villages and only two small towns on the way, so changing horses would be difficult. No messenger from Santa Cruz with the warning that La Perla had been captured could reach La Guaira or Caracas by land in less than thirty hours—probably more like forty-eight. La Perla herself—the Jocasta, he corrected himself—might make it in twenty-four.
