Ramage and the Freebooters (33 page)

‘Wrong again, my Lord: I saw you this afternoon at Government House.’

No trace of coquettishness – or forwardness: just this frankness. Why was it so surprising? No reason – except it was so unusual.

‘I must have arrived with my eyes shut: I didn’t see you.’

‘No, you were too busy talking affairs of state with Colonel Wilson. But come, shall we – oh no, we’re too late! Henry’ – she motioned towards the master of ceremonies – ‘will get into a terrible state if we join the line now.’

Ramage had already spotted through the big doors that there were several empty chairs on the balcony running along the entire front of the house.

‘I’m a stranger to Grenada, so why don’t you point out St George’s beauty spots from the balcony?’

She nodded and offered her arm.

The view down on to the little town and across the lagoon was as beautiful by night as by day. Here and there cooking fires glowed red outside native huts; in the lagoon boats rowed swiftly back and forth, a man in the bow holding aloft a flaming torch to attract the fish, a second standing poised beside him like a statue, a long trident in his hand, and a third man rowing.

All round the house and down the hill fireflies winked their bright blue lights, tiny stars flashing for a second, and out here the incessant liquid croak of tree frogs almost drowned the orchestra. In the clearness of the tropical night the stars were almost too bright to be credible and over the hill on the east side of the harbour entrance Ramage could just see the uppermost star of the Southern Cross, and Sirius and Jupiter, to his left, were almost unbelievably brilliant, the brightest stars in the sky.

As they stood watching Ramage realized she had not withdrawn her arm.

‘You like Grenada, my Lord?’

‘Yes – though so far I’ve seen very little of it.’

‘Of course – you left us for Martinique so soon after arriving! How did you find it?’

‘More French than France.’

‘And the ladies – they’re very chic.’

Teasing, bantering, and her voice fascinating.

‘So I’m told; but I was there only a few hours and met none.’

‘Shame! Fort Royal is something to linger over – like a good brandy.’

One of the men in the boats suddenly lunged with his trident and a moment later held a large fish aloft, the red light of the torch reflecting on the wriggling body.

‘I’m afraid sailors can rarely linger…’

‘A wife in every port?’

‘A deliberate falsehood spread by jealous soldiers!’

She laughed. ‘Another illusion shattered… But an attractive notion,
n
’
est-ce pas
?’

‘Yes – though I hardly think a wife would want to share a husband,’ Ramage said dryly.

‘Oh, I don’t know: a woman would be more likely to share a husband with another woman – if she loved him – than a man to share his wife.’

‘Indeed? This is most instructive – do go on,’ Ramage teased. ‘Is this an old Carib custom?’

Again that natural laugh and as if by accident her arm moved so the back of his hand rested under her breast. The material of the dress was thin, and even as she laughed he sensed she wore nothing beneath. He turned his head to look at her: the front of the dress was cut low and square; the valley between her breasts –

‘Ah there you are!’

Cursing to himself Ramage turned to find Colonel Wilson beaming at them.

‘Excuse me m’ dear fellow, but the Governor wants to talk to you. Rather urgent, I’m afraid – they’re here, Your Excellency!’

Sir Jason followed Wilson on to the balcony.

‘Sorry – excuse us, Miss de Giraud – but Ramage, these blessed ship-owners have just been talking to me: fancy interrupting the ball like that. Want to sail their schooners: they say the cargoes are spoiling and they’ll miss the next English convoy from Jamaica unless the schooners reach Martinique in a few days.’

‘If they sail them now,’ Ramage said grimly, ‘they probably won’t even reach Martinique, let alone ship the cargoes in the next Jamaica convoy.’

‘We’ve told ’em that,’ Wilson said, ‘but they say they’d sooner risk that than let the cargoes rot.’

‘They lose the schooners too,’ Ramage pointed out. ‘Soon they won’t have any ships left.’

‘They collect their insurance though,’ Wilson said bitterly.

Ramage sensed the Governor’s attitude had definitely changed: he was trying to persuade him to let them sail, not blustering and vowing they could go. A sudden idea crossed his mind but he dismissed it.

‘Is any one owner more anxious than the rest?’

‘Two are making the fuss.’

‘But three are loaded. What about the third owner?’

‘That’s Rondin. Didn’t say much – seemed more inclined to go by what you said. At least, that was my impression – agree, Wilson?’

The Colonel nodded. ‘Has more sense than the rest of ’em put together.’

Ramage shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s madness to sail now.’ He asked Wilson: ‘Have you mentioned our suspicions to the Governor?’

Again the Colonel nodded.

‘Very interesting they are, too,’ Sir Jason said in a flat voice belying his words, ‘but it doesn’t help the present situation.’

‘If you’ll pardon me, Your Excellency, I should have thought it provided a very definite answer.’

‘Well, it doesn’t, I’m afraid. At least two of these gentlemen insist their schooners sail tonight.’

Tonight! Ramage tried to keep his temper. It seemed comical that you had to order men to keep their ships in port for their own safety. It’d make more sense if they were protesting because Ramage was ordering them to sail.

Wilson coughed to attract Ramage’s attention. ‘Lieutenant – I don’t think His Excellency will mind me telling you that one owner proposes to sail his schooner tonight whatever Sir Jason or you say–’

‘That’s so,’ Sir Jason interrupted.

‘Very well,’ Ramage snapped, as the idea came back more forcefully, ‘just to maintain some semblance of authority – I don’t imagine anyone wants me to put men on board to prevent it – I’ll give permission for that one schooner to sail, though it’s making a virtue out of a necessity.’

‘Ah, splendid,’ purred the Governor. ‘Splendid, I knew you’d be reasonable.’

‘But on two conditions,’ Ramage said, thinking quickly and looking at his watch – eight o’clock.

Sir Jason sighed like a child impatient with its parents.

‘One is that she’s under way by ten o’clock and no one but the owner and the master are told after being sworn to secrecy – not even the crew must know until they’re ordered to cast off the lines; second, the owner must sign a document in front of you, Sir Jason, declaring that he’s sailing at his own request, at his own risk and very much against my wishes and advice.’

‘And mine too, if that helps,’ Wilson added.

‘Very well,’ the Governor agreed. ‘I’ll speak to him now and he’ll sign the document in my study.’

‘And one more thing, Sir Jason, on which I’m afraid I must insist…’

Suddenly he realized Miss de Giraud had several minutes earlier tactfully walked a few yards along the balcony.

‘…I must insist on absolute secrecy. None of the other owners must know; nor any of your staff or Colonel Wilson’s. Just the owner and the master of the schooner.’

‘But my dear fellow,’ grumbled Sir Jason, ‘are you implying–’

‘Otherwise the schooner doesn’t sail, sir; I’ll put some of my men on board all three. And the other two owners must be told nothing – except they can’t sail for the time being. They can have explanations tomorrow why one vessel left.’

‘It’s most irregular,’ Sir Jason expostulated, ‘why, they’ll probably think this owner’s bribed me.’

‘Bribed
me
,’ Ramage corrected. ‘I’m permitting it to sail, Your Excellency; you can make that quite clear.’

‘Very well. Come along Wilson, we’ll get this fellow down to my study. I’ll see you later, Ramage.’

For a moment Ramage stood thinking. Had he let himself be rushed into a silly decision? There was no denying he was angry; but then he smiled. It wasn’t a handsome smile; it was coldly cynical. All this could be a blessing in disguise – oh yes, he thought, very much a blessing! A spy could be caught only when he passed information; so first he had to have information. And probably the only information this particular spy sought was the time a schooner sailed.

Eventually, Ramage reflected, he would have been forced to sail a schooner as bait, knowing it would almost certainly be captured. That would be the price for just one attempt at trapping the spy, and it’d be a high price because if the owner ever discovered his schooner had been used as bait he would create the devil of a fuss. Ramage could imagine the angry letters – from the Committee of Underwriters at Lloyds, from the West India Committee and from anyone else moved to put pen to paper – streaming into the Admiralty, all blaming Lieutenant Ramage of His Majesty’s brig
Triton
!

But here, by an unexpected piece of luck, was an owner actually
insisting
this schooner sailed – insisting to the Governor. And presumably prepared to put his signature to a document drawn up by the Governor that the vessel sailed at the owner’s risk…

Ramage gave a short and bitter laugh and then turned to Miss de Giraud, but the balcony was empty. She had probably gone to – well, women did, and with much more discretion than men.

He stood a foot up on the chair and, leaning forward, stared across the lagoon. The bonfires in front of the huts were dying out. With their meals cooked and eaten, the people would be going to bed ready to rise at first light and begin their work. Only one of the boats was still fishing with a burning torch.

There was no sign of movement along the Careenage – just the dark outline of the three laden schooners secured alongside. Was the spy watching even now?

Mosquitoes hummed in his ears and absent-mindedly he waved a hand to brush them away. Itching round his wrists told him they’d already had a good meal.

St George must be one of the most beautiful small harbours in the world. Out here the breeze was cool and behind the orchestra was muted; the guests’ idle chatter too was masked by the clicking of the frogs.

Yet to him the night in the Tropics was always faintly menacing; always an air of mystery. Strange, almost human, animal noises from the jungle and the hysterical whine of flying insects. Scorpions moving crabwise, centipedes crawling with deceptive speed, and the sudden scurry of a lizard across your shoe. The tap, tap, tap – in the Governor’s House at least – of death watch beetles steadily chewing their way through the roof timbers. Beneath the lushness he always sensed the death and decay.

And what was Gianna doing? He added four hours to the present time to allow for Grenada’s distance west of Greenwich. Wherever she was she’d be in bed and asleep. But at the moment he could not remember her as clearly as he did last night. Curious, the picture was fainter, and he found it hard to recall even her voice. He must write, though God knew when any ship would leave with mail. And her letters – was she writing letters in the form of a diary and posted in time to catch the West India Packet sailing regularly from Falmouth? Would she write regularly even when she received his letters only intermittently? That was –

A rustle of silk behind him interrupted his thoughts and without looking round he knew Miss de Giraud had returned and was standing right behind him. Touching him lightly on the shoulder she whispered: ‘Surely not homesick? You look so sad standing there alone and looking out to sea!’

‘No, not homesick – just thinking about this and that; the view, the bonfires dying out in front of those huts…’

‘Yes, it’s very beautiful: I never get tired of it.’

‘But you’ve seen it – for a year?’

‘From here for a year; from other places round the lagoon for much longer.’

‘But you aren’t a Grenadan?’

‘No, not a Grenadan.’

It was neither a rebuff nor an evasion. Nor for that matter, an answer.

‘I shall be sorry to leave Gr—’

High in the hills behind Government House a tom-tom suddenly began a rhythmic beat. No, not rhythmic: it began with a rhythm, then changed to equally spaced beats. Then stopped for a few moments, began more beats, and broke into a rhythm again.

Tum-dee-dee-tum-tum…tum-dee-dee-tum…tum…tum…

‘That’s the first time I’ve heard tom-toms here.’

‘Oh? They’re often beating.’

It stopped but Ramage continued listening and suddenly walked to the edge of the balcony, leaning over so his head was clear of the building. Faintly in the distance, away to the north, another drum had taken up the beat, very faintly, barely distinguishable above the croaking frogs.

‘What are they doing, passing messages?’

‘No – at least, I don’t think so. Usually it’s some voodoo rite – you know, black magic.’

‘A sort of ceremony?’

‘Yes – perhaps someone in a family is ill. They send for a witch doctor – though officially they don’t exist – and a drummer. They have some ritual to cure the people.’

‘Does it cure them?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. At least it can’t make them any worse.’

Ramage realized several people were coming out from the doors farther along the balcony.

‘We’ve been out here rather a long time – would you like to dance?’

‘For fear my reputation would otherwise be compromised?’ she whispered, laughing quietly at Ramage’s discomfiture. ‘Don’t worry my Lord, we’ve been standing in front of a door all the time!’

‘Nicholas, not “my Lord”.’

She curtsied, again with that mocking look in her eyes. Or was it mocking? Ramage wished he could be sure.

‘And I – my Lord – am Claire.’

‘And may I have the pleasure of the next dance, Claire?’

‘I must look at my programme.’ She pretended to read it. ‘By chance I am not engaged for the next dance, Lieutenant.’

They danced, paused for refreshments and danced again for nearly two hours. By then Ramage had given up trying to conceal that she was making him tremble: the silk of her dress moved so smoothly under his right hand that she might well have been naked. She knew it, she accepted it, and she responded. Time was forgotten – until a planter dancing with his plump and drab wife growled, ‘It’s past ten o’clock – I want a drink!’