Ramage and the Freebooters

'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 dear.'

'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 his 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 beautifuclass="underline" 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 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 ... turn ... rum...

'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 dear 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.