Ramage's Mutiny (18 page)

“Compose yourself,” Lopez said sharply, wiping the perspiration from his face with a large, lace-edged handkerchief. “If we die then so does he!”

“But he doesn't
care
about death!” the lieutenant protested. “They're heretics, these English; they place no value on life; they glory in killing people.”

“I wish I could kill
him,
” Lopez said bitterly. “Anyway, it was your uncle that gave us the orders and made me take you as a lieutenant. A poor captain like myself can only obey the CaptainGeneral. You asked him to let you sail in the
Santa Barbara.
You wanted to impress your friends with your bravery. You have only yourself to blame. Me—I am just an ignorant naval officer. I live or I get killed. I knew that years ago, when first I went into the Navy.”

Ramage snapped his fingers. “What is Captain Lopez saying?”

The lieutenant looked down at the deck. “He is shocked at your cruelty. You have no right to risk our lives with your foolish ideas!”

“Young man,” Ramage said heavily, “you know well enough what the buccaneers used to do along this coast a hundred and fifty years ago with people like you. Yes, they'd light a fire and hang you over it on a spit, or make you walk off the end of a jib-boom …”

“You would never—”

Ramage deliberately looked disinterested and callous. “Today, prisoners can fall over the side—accidentally, of course—and—”

“You would never dare! You would be punished. My uncle is the Captain-General of the province: he would protest to Madrid and—”

“How would he ever know?” Ramage asked casually.

Lopez, alarmed at his lieutenant's high-pitched protest, demanded to know what was being said.

“He threatens to roast us on a spit over a fire, like the corsairs did. I warned him. I told him my uncle would have him punished.”

“You did
what?
”

“I told him my uncle was the Captain-General of the province and he would be punished.”

“You fool,” Lopez said contemptuously. “Until now you were an insignificant lieutenant. Now, with your own tongue, you have made yourself a valuable hostage!”

Ramage told Aitken to take the prisoners away, and the lieutenant jumped up to continue his protests, but when he looked up at the English Captain he found that the vague, almost bored expression was gone; instead a pair of deep-set brown eyes seemed to bore into him, and he realized with a suddenness that left his knees weak and his lips trembling that he should never have asked his uncle for the commission appointing him to the
Santa Barbara.

Ramage watched with his telescope as Wagstaffe shouted orders through his speaking-trumpet on the quarterdeck of the
Santa Barbara.
Swiftly men of the prize crew swarmed aloft and let fall the topsails, which were then hoisted and sheeted home. The brig gathered way and then turned north, away from the distant coast, and when she was a mile off Ramage nodded to Baker, now the second senior lieutenant: “Follow her and keep this distance astern.”

He waited until Baker had given the necessary orders and then went down to his cabin, where Aitken and Southwick were going through the roll of charts found on board the
Santa Barbara.
Some had been removed, and sent across to Wagstaffe, but Southwick hoped to find harbour plans.

“Nothing of interest to us, sir,” he grumbled. “No chart at all of Santa Cruz. The rest—Cumaná, Barcelona and the like—don't tell us anything we didn't know already. The Spanish don't seem very strong on charts.”

“Very well. We discovered more from the
William and Henrietta
than from this damned
guarda costa—
except that we now have on board the nephew of the Captain-General of the province as a prisoner.”

“The Captain-General's nephew, sir?” Southwick exclaimed. “The whole province?”

“Yes. He began threatening me. Said his uncle would punish me if I took him on shore and roasted him on a spit or made him walk off the end of the jib-boom!”

“I heard you remind him the buccaneers used to do that,” Aitken said. “He was terrified.”

“The
Jocasta,
sir,” Southwick said anxiously. “Did you find out anything about her?”

“No—except that she's in Santa Cruz. The Captain was very anxious to assure me she had already sailed for Cuba, and the lieutenant warned me we'd be blown to pieces if we tried to get into Santa Cruz. That's why he's so scared.”

“What now, then?” Southwick asked. “I see you've decided to head out to sea again.”

Ramage nodded casually. He could afford to be casual now he knew what to do. The Governor's nephew had not given him the new idea, but it had come as he watched the beads of perspiration forming on the young man's upper lip, almost as if the sheer terror it revealed had been the source of inspiration.

“Yes, we stay out of sight for today; then we sail up to Santa Cruz tomorrow and have a good look.”

“Had you any particular time in mind, sir?” Southwick asked sarcastically.

“Yes, towards dusk. It'll be cooler then. I don't want to put you to any effort during the heat of the day.”

Southwick gave a grin which revealed his relief. The Captain was functioning again; he had a plan at last. Southwick did not care what it was; the mere fact that it existed was enough. Well, he had to admit that he was a little curious, but obviously it had something to do with the
Santa Barbara.
Or maybe using the Captain-General's nephew as a hostage? Or both; the
Santa Barbara
to go in with a flag of truce to negotiate an exchange of the
Jocasta
for the nephew. That did not sound too likely: no Captain-General would dare agree to such an exchange.

Southwick heard himself asking diffidently: “You have a plan, sir?”

“No,” Ramage said, “just an idea. The
Santa Barbara
was on a two-week cruise against smugglers. She's due back in Santa Cruz by tomorrow night.”

He went to his desk and took the Spanish signal book from a drawer. He opened it at a page and showed it to Southwick. “Here are their signal flags, all carefully coloured by some loving hand. They use the same sort of numerary system, one to nine, and nought. And three substitute flags—these here. Give the sailmaker three men. I want him to make a complete set of flags and have them ready by tonight. We'll have to go up within hailing distance of Wagstaffe and get the dimensions. I want them to be the same size as those in the
Santa Barbara.
”

“Any special orders for me, sir?” Aitken asked hopefully, still ruffled that Wagstaffe had been put in command of the
Santa Barbara.

Ramage thought for a moment. “Make sure we have the second copy of our own signal book ready, and check through the
Santa Barbara
's charts. Make up a portfolio—borrow duplicates from Southwick, or make copies. And the spare set of our own signal flags—have them ready too.”

At first Aitken was delighted to have some task obviously associated with whatever idea the Captain had in mind; then he realized that “we” could also mean the
Calypso.
But why a second set of charts? Either the Captain was teasing them or whatever he had in his mind was exactly what he had said, just an idea.

“And cutlasses and pikes,” Ramage added. “Get the grindstones up on deck and sharpen everything. But keep an eye on the men—we want some metal left.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Aitken waited in case there were more orders, but Ramage had nothing more to say.

J
ACKSON LED his men round the deck, pointing here and there, and Stafford and Rossi spattered small pieces of slush—the thick greyish fat that the cook skimmed from the top of the water after boiling salt meat—and smeared it into the wood with their feet. The American then sprinkled sand. They had already covered half the decks.

“What a game this is,” Stafford grumbled. “It'll take weeks to get these decks clean again. An' the brasswork—just look at it. Amazin' wot a few hours' soaking with salt water can do.” He stopped for a moment and pointed to the bosun and his mates. “Look! Cuttin' off lengths of old rope and fraying the ends into cow's tails!”

He shrugged his shoulders and resumed his scuffing of the specks of slush, but all three men stopped a few minutes later at the sight of the cook, a bucket in his hand, following Southwick.

“A few drops here,” the Master said, and the cook dipped his hand into the bucket and then spattered blood over the deck by the break of the gangway on the starboard side.

“‘Ere! Whose blood is that?” exclaimed a startled Stafford. “They just kill one of the officers' sheeps,” said Rossi cheerfully.

As the cook followed Southwick, pouring a mugful here, spattering with his hand there, one of the bosun's mates walked past with a length of rope and tucked it round a belaying pin at the mainmast, careful that the frayed end hung down. He walked back a few paces, inspected it and then went back and slid the frayed rope across the deck with his foot to dirty it. Jackson gestured aft as the cook passed him: “Look, it's drying fast. Soon loses that nice rich red!”

“Looks like a slaughterhouse!” the cook said nervously. “There'll be a lot of scrubbing to do when all this is over!”

By now the purser had come on deck, followed by seamen carrying bundles of shirts and trousers. “Ah, come on cookie,” Southwick said. “We've got to do this next job very carefully!”

The seamen began spreading the clothes on the deck and the cook, holding his bucket carefully against the rolling of the ship, began sprinkling them with blood.

“Wipe your hand on some of them,” Southwick instructed. “Not too much, make it look realistic. Now, how many shirts are there? Only 25? Come on, Mr Purser, we need another couple o' dozen!”

The purser went below again with his men, muttering under his breath, and as Ramage walked up to inspect the work Southwick said: “The purser's wondering how he'll be able to sell these as new!”

“He won't—you'll list them as destroyed in action!”

“Ah,” Southwick said. “I'll tell him that.” Action—he guessed that the
Calypso
was supposed to have been in a fight with the
Santa Barbara.
Was Wagstaffe to fake some damage to the brig as well?

Ramage continued his inspection, walking slowly round the deck, hands clasped behind his back. By now the bosun's mates had fitted more tails of frayed rope and Jackson's men had almost completed their task of making the decks look filthy. Aitken came from forward after supervising the seamen sprinkling more salt water on the brasswork.

“I never thought to see this, sir,” Aitken said cheerfully. “The Captain, First Lieutenant and Master of one of the King's ships doing their best to make her look like a hulk!”

“Like a neglected slaughterhouse,” Ramage commented. “Give the grease a few hours to soak into the wood, and time for that blood to darken …”

The First Lieutenant paused for a few moments, hoping Ramage would say more, but he continued walking forward and Aitken called to the seaman with the bucket of salt water: “The brass rods protecting the glass in the Captain's skylight: go up to the quarterdeck and douse them again.”

He looked round the ship, proud of the morning's work yet dismayed and appalled by it. In the days since the
Calypso
left Antigua, he had kept the ship's company busy holystoning, scrubbing and polishing, making up for a year's neglect by the French. The metal surface of most of the brasswork was now smooth enough to take an easy polish with the brickdust; the last dirt had been scrubbed and holystoned from the grain of the deck planking and the last grease stain removed. Now—in a couple of hours—it had been transformed so that even the French would be impressed. All the ship lacked, he thought sourly, was the reek of garlic and the stench of unpumped bilges and you'd think she was back in French hands.

Captain Ramage had specified exactly what he wanted: dirty decks, gritty with sand, ropes with cow's tails, unpolished brass-work, bits of food lying around in the scuppers, bloodstained decks … Well, he had it now; the
Calypso
looked like a ship which had fought a desperate battle, lacking only damage by round shot.

There had not been a word of explanation: Captain Ramage had said nothing to Southwick—who, as far as Aitken was concerned, seemed to have been born without any curiosity at all.

Not a word to his First Lieutenant, not a comment to Baker or Kenton. Of course he did not expect the captain to confide in third and fourth lieutenants, but a passing comment might have revealed more of what he had in mind.

There was enough heat in the sun now to speed up the work: the water dried almost immediately on the brasswork, leaving a fine crust of sparkling salt crystals; the drops and blobs of blood were turning a rusty brown and he wished he was over in the
Santa Barbara,
still a mile ahead. The peak of Pico de Santa Fé was gradually lifting on the larboard bow, but high clouds inland drifted across to hide the tip from time to time. If he was over in the
Santa Barbara
it would be up to Wagstaffe to reduce the
Calypso
to a shambles …

The dirt, the frayed ropes' ends, the dulled brasswork offended him. His mother had been a great one for the scrubbing brush, whether it was cleaning the grey stone floor of the kitchen or the backs of her young sons standing shivering in the high-walled yard as they were doused with buckets of water for their weekly bath. The kitchen table, the bread board, occasionally the carpet—all were scrubbed with a cheerfulness belying the effort needed.

The great rolling hills of Perthshire seemed a million miles away; the village of Dunkeld on a hot summer's day was colder than the chilliest night in these latitudes. The people of Dunkeld would never believe him if he said that for much of the day men never stood still on deck if they could avoid it because the wood was too hot underfoot; that a man off watch who stretched out on the deck for a nap was liable to wake up to find his shirt striped with pitch from the caulking. They would nod politely when he told them this accounted for the seamen's phrase “taking a caulk,” meaning having a nap. They would be equally polite when he said that the sun heated metal so that it became uncomfortably hot to touch. They would nod politely, but they would not believe a word of it. Likewise it would be just as hard describing snow or frost to people born in the Tropics.