Governor Ramage RN

Chapter Thirteen

That night Ramage tried to sleep on the hard ground, fitfully slapping ants that crawled over him and mosquitoes that landed after flying round with an intimidating whine, and thought again of the graves.

Another half an hour spent questioning Roberto had left him no wiser. The Negro had told him all he knew, and it was precious little. There had been one piece of information which could be significant or utterly irrelevant; vitally important or of no consequence.

"Are the Spaniards short of drinking-water?" Ramage had asked.

"Oh no!" Roberto had been surprised. "No, comandante, they have plenty. The well at the village is big and deep and the water is sweet. The teniente, they say, washes all over twice a day."

If they weren't short of water in the village, they wouldn't be trying to sink wells elsewhere ... Yet the village was some three miles from where Jackson had found the graves.

Graves: he must think of them as trenches - graves summoned up a particular picture that might influence his thoughts and prevent a possible explanation coming to mind.

To start from the beginning again: why would a man dig a big hole?

To bury something; to look for water; to look for something that someone had previously buried. Hmm, Ramage thought to himself, I'll soon have myself convinced they're looking for Captain Kidd's hidden treasure; gold looted a couple of hundred years ago from the Spanish Main.

Looking for water seemed the most likely, once you agree that three miles is a long way to carry water - it would have to be in small barrels on the backs of mules or donkeys. Barrels leaked; water evaporated in the heat. Donkeys were probably scarce.

Yet would the Spanish really put a battery on this side of the island?

Extra water made sense if the Spanish were really interested in Snake Island, and they ought to be. If an enemy held Snake Island, with its enclosed bay large enough for a fleet to anchor even in a hurricane, it could dominate Puerto Rico. There was no port on the east coast of Puerto Rico. San Juan was far off along the exposed north coast, with a seventy-five mile beat to windward from there to the eastern end of the island. Snake Island was to Puerto Rico what Plymouth was to England, a good safe anchorage for the fleet and well to windward of what it was trying to protect. Perhaps the Spanish had finally woken up to this and the party of Spanish soldiers was making a preliminary survey.

He sat up and slapped off several ants in the darkness, and wondered if there was any point in moving somewhere else to sleep. The Spanish soldiers were far enough away and busy enough to be left for the moment, but he dare not risk leaving them for another day. If fishermen spotted the camp, rafts or wrecks, the alarm would be raised. He felt secure enough, however, now he knew exactly how many Spanish soldiers there were: his own camp was guarded by twice as many better-armed seamen and Marines.

But a ship with provisions or reinforcements might arrive any day. And a ship would certainly spot the wrecks and probably the camp. Could he surround the Spaniards and make them surrender? Could seamen get through these bushes quietly and up that hill in broad daylight? Prickly pear cactus digging into the soles of their feet ... No! Good seamen, every one of them; but apart from the Marines, Jackson was the only one trained for fighting on land. He must ambush them on the track leading to the hill.

The slaves would probably start digging early. Damn, he had to find out now, and organize the men. He scrambled up, not sorry to leave the hard earth and the hungry ants.

One of the Marine sentries patrolling the camp knew where Jackson was sleeping, and in a minute or two Ramage was kneeling beside the American and whispering: "Where's Maxton and that slave?"

Jackson gestured to his right. "Just over there, sir, by that bush."

"Come on!"

Jackson was on his feet in a moment, slipping a cutlass belt over his head.

"You won't need that!"

They found Maxton, who was sleeping beside Roberto.

"Roberto," hissed Ramage, "what time do the soldiers leave the village with you in the morning?"

"Just before daylight, comandante."

Damn, Ramage thought, how long is "just before"? Try another tack.

"How far had you gone yesterday before the sun came up?"

"We reached the place where we were digging just before the sun came up, comandante!"

Ramage gave up: neither a Spaniard nor a Negro paid much attention to time; for a Spanish slave, time had no relevance at all. Early, anyway.

"Where do you think they will be digging tomorrow - at daylight?"

"That same hill, comandante. We've been digging there for many days. Many trenches."

"So I can be sure of finding them there at daylight?"

Ramage sensed, rather than saw, even though it was not a very dark night, that Roberto stiffened. Ramage thought he sensed fear and wariness.

"You're not taking me back, comandante?”

Ramage chuckled softly and touched the man on the shoulder reassuringly. "No, Roberto; you have been freed. Would your friends like to be freed?"

"Oh, yes, sir! Then they kill the teniente!"

"Why kill him?"

"A bad man, sir; every night he likes to have a slave tied to a tree and whipped."

"Punishment for thieving?" Ramage asked curiously.

"Sometimes, sir; but if no one has done anything wrong, he tells the guard to lash anyone to the tree!"

Ramage nodded his head slowly in the darkness. He could almost picture that lieutenant. Yet he was the only man on the island who knew about the trenches, and who might know when a ship was due with provisions.

"Jackson!"

"Here, sir."

"How many men will we need to ambush that party on the track before they get to the hill?"

"Twenty if you want to avoid bloodshed, sir; ten if it doesn't matter."

"Did you notice any good spots for an ambush? We don't have time to make much of a reconnaissance in the dark."

"No need, sir; I know just the spot. Made a note of it as we left. Just beyond the fork, sir. It's ideal."

"Very well; let's find the corporal."

Jackson gave a stifled groan. It was a masterpiece in its way. If Ramage had been liverish and reacted angrily, Jackson could have blamed the groan on an aching back; if Ramage was in a good humour he might well accept it as showing Jackson's contempt for Marines as land soldiers and choose seamen instead.

Ramage decided he was in a middling temper. He ignored the protest and decided to take eight Marines with twelve seamen to make up the rest of the party. The price Jackson must pay for his groan was to choose the seamen, tell them off for the duty, and have them mustered outside the camp at four-thirty, armed and equipped.

After finding the Marine corporal, giving him his orders and warning the sentries to call him at four o'clock, Ramage went back to the hard patch of ground by a large boulder where everyone in the camp knew they could find the captain in the dark, and flopped down. He'd never get any sleep tonight.

It seemed the very next moment that he was wakened by the sentry's hoarse voice whispering, "Captain, sir!"

He'd hardly sat up as the sentry left, before two men materialized from the darkness, one on each side.

"Morning, Governor."

One of them was Yorke, greeting him breezily and, as far as Ramage could make out as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, fully dressed with a cutlass belt over his shoulder and carrying a musket.

"Morning," Ramage mumbled sleepily. "Bit early for social calls. Ah, Jackson?"

"Aye, sir. Glass o' lemonade and some biscuit, sir. Best I can muster. Lemons nice and fresh, though; clean your mouth out nicely."

"Thank you. Perhaps you can get a glass for Mr Yorke."

"He's already had one, sir."

"You have, by Jove!" Ramage exclaimed. "What gets you up so early?"

"Early bird catches the culebra," Yorke said airily. "Going out on a duck shooting party."

"By God you're not!" Ramage exclaimed. "The sound of a shot will..." he broke off and laughed. "All right, I'm not awake yet. Sorry you didn't get a written invitation to my-"

Ramage drank the lemonade, using it to wash the dry biscuit down. The Navy Board's biscuit was best eaten in darkness: then one had neither sight nor sound of the weevils which, though perhaps nutritious, did not look appetizing.

"Well?" Ramage growled at Jackson.

"All the men ready, sir. The corporal's mustered the Marines."

"Come on," Ramage said to Yorke. "We'll inspect them. How did you know about all this?"

"The bustling before midnight. I had my spies make inquiries, and arranged to be called at the appropriate hour."

"With lemonade," Ramage said.

"Of course."

The corporal had the Marines standing in a double file and Ramage hissed at him just in time to prevent a stentorian bellow bringing the men to attention.

Ramage took the corporal's arm and steered him a few paces from the men.

"Corporal, this is going to be a completely silent operation. Any talking that's necessary will be in a low whisper. If any man makes a noise - and that includes stumbling and swearing - I'll have him flogged. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Now tell each man individually. Whisper it!"

While the corporal passed from one man to another, hissing like an infuriated snake, Ramage inspected the seamen.

Six carried muskets and six had pistols stuck in their belts. The musketeers also had tomahawks tucked in their belts, while those with pistols carried cutlasses.

Almost inevitably, Ramage noticed, Jackson had chosen Rossi, Stafford and Maxton. But there were thirteen men.

He stood back and counted again.

"Jackson! How many men have you?"

"Er - twelve, sir."

"Count them!"

"I know, sir, it looks like thirteen."

"Looks? It damn well is. I mean, there damn well are!"

Bowen's voice said apologetically out of the darkness: "I invited myself along, sir. I thought you might need a surgeon. Gunshot wounds and that sort of thing..."

His voice trailed off lamely as he sensed Ramage glaring at him.

Ramage realized that Yorke had already been quick to slip behind him, perhaps guessing there was going to be trouble, and he was irritated at the way Jackson, Yorke and Bowen seemed to be taking over the operation.

"Mr Bowen," Ramage said sarcastically, "in planning this expedition I considered whether I would need coopers, caulkers, carpenters, cooks, topmen, fo'c'slemen or loblolly men. I decided we could do without them. I also considered whether we would be plagued with croup, canker, black vomit, malaria or clap. I decided we wouldn't, so we do not need a surgeon."

"Aye aye, sir. I apologize. I'll go back to the camp."

Bowen sounded so crestfallen that Ramage relented.

"Well, you'd better stay with us now you're here," he said huffily. "I don't want you blundering round the camp in the dark waking everyone up."

With that he went over to the Marines, inspected them closely, warned them again of the need for silence and then gathered Jackson, the corporal, Yorke and Bowen round him.

He was in a bad temper. He'd slept heavily and it always took him time to wake up properly, and almost invariably he became bad-tempered. To be honest, he was jumpy at the prospect of unaccustomed soldiering. But now was not the time for honesty. He could indulge in the only pleasure open to a leader - being bad-tempered.

"We'll be in two parties, seamen and Marines. I shall command the seamen, and since Mr Yorke has graced us with his presence, he can command the Marines.

"That doesn't mean, corporal, that you aren't responsible for any clumsiness or stupidity on the part of your men. Mr Bowen will also go with the Marines," he added as an afterthought: Yorke and Bowen were smart enough to make sure the Marines did the right thing.

"No muskets or pistols to be loaded until we are in the ambush position. No talking. I want to avoid any unnecessary killing so use common sense. The Spanish lieutenant must be taken alive. Any questions? Carry on then."

He went over to the group of seamen, followed by Jackson.

"Right, follow me. Walk in pairs. And if you trip up and break a leg, do it quietly!"

Jackson automatically went ahead as their guide, walking in a loping stride, not fast and not slow, just confident, the gait of a man who knew where he wanted to go and knew he could get there. From the way Jackson covered the ground he seemed to belong there, like a fox. Yet he also seemed to belong in a ship.

It was still dark - as dark as an ordinary tropical night ever was. The Southern Cross to the south, in this latitude, four quite undistinguished stars. The Plough ahead of them to the north, and the Pole Star, a bare eighteen degrees above the horizon. All the other familiar constellations were brighter than they were in northern latitudes, as though they were nearer.

A seaman stumbled behind; some small animal scurried away; a land crab scampered across the track. Soon Ramage thought he could see a little farther; the blackness had a hint of grey and his eyes seemed out of focus. From long experience he recognized the first hint of dawn. The track was curving to the left. Ramage hoped the Marines would do a good job, if only to show Jackson.

Now the muscles in the front of his shins were hurting - they were unused to walking far on land. He started thinking of blisters on his heels; a thought banished by the thought that a musket ball in the gizzard would be a more likely ailment before the sun set again.

Jackson had slowed down to let him catch up.

"The fork's about thirty yards ahead, sir."

Ramage waited while the two files of men caught up and stopped.

The land on the left of the track sloped gently upwards towards the saddle; on the right it was level.

He decided to put the Marines farther along the track, nearer the village, so that the Spaniards passed them on their way to the trenches and were captured by the seamen. The advantage was that if the Spaniards bolted from the seamen's ambush, they'd run back along the track towards the village and be trapped by the Marines. Would the Marines have enough discipline to let the Spaniards pass the first time without opening fire? With Yorke and Bowen among them he knew he could depend on it. He explained it to Yorke and the corporal, and then they filed off into the deep greyness.

Ramage was pleasantly surprised at how quietly they moved: they were out of earshot almost as soon as they were lost to sight. The Marines, like the seamen, would stay on the left, or western side of the road. That way each would know roughly where the other force was and, more important, neither would fire - if shooting was necessary - towards the hill.

Quickly he and Jackson led the seamen into the bushes and positioned each of them two or three yards back from the track. Each was shown where the man on either side was stationed; each was warned what could happen if anyone forgot.

Finally Ramage walked along the track with Jackson to take up his position. He found a large, straggling divi-divi bush which would hide both him and Jackson, and sat down, sore-footed and tired, with the American beside him. He took one of the two pistols from his belt and, after checking it was not loaded, squeezed the trigger to make sure the flint was sound. It made a good spark. From his coat pocket he brought a metal powder horn and shook a measure of coarse powder into the barrel, using the rammer to push down a wad on top of it. Then he took a lead ball from his pocket and turned it between finger and thumb to make sure it had no dents or bumps, that it was perfectly spherical and would fly true. He put the ball in the muzzle and rammed it home firmly with another wad on top. Finally, using the fine powder at the other end of the divided powder horn, he held the pistol tilted to the left and shook a small amount of powder into the pan. Carefully he made sure the touch hole running from the pan into the bore of the gun was full of priming powder, and then flipped the steel down to cover the pan. He blew gently to get rid of loose grains of powder, and put it on the ground beside him while he loaded the other pistol.

Finally, with both pistols loaded, he was able to relax. It needed only a slight movement of each thumb to cock the hammers; it needed only a gentle pressure on the trigger to fire.

As they sat there, cautiously and silently fighting off attacks by the now only too familiar red ants, whose bites were like jabs from red-hot needles, Ramage and Jackson looked along the track, watching as approaching dawn extended the visibility. They could identify a particular bush five yards away, and then within minutes distinguish details of its leaves and branches. The overall grey of land and sky began to turn into pale but individual colours: the yellow blossoms of a shrub here, white blossom of a different shrub there. The green of odd blades of coarse grass, then the deeper green of bushes.

Jackson nudged Ramage's knee, and then Ramage too heard a distant clink of metal and voices; faint but deep, a descant even, and musical like distant murmurings. He realized it was the sound of slaves quietly singing and chanting as they walked.

He felt no tension now, only relief that his decision to believe the slave Roberto was likely to prove a right one. Now the only risk was that they'd arrive at the ambush before there was enough light to see properly.

Jackson seemed to guess his thoughts, whispering: "The track slopes downhill for a mile, sir. That's why we can hear them so well. They won't be here for fifteen or twenty minutes."

It seemed a long, long wait as it became gradually lighter. Ramage was surprised how noisily he breathed. On board the ship he had not noticed it, but out here, in the dawn silence, the air seemed to hiss and snort as it went up and down his nostrils. He tried breathing only through his mouth, but his throat began to dry and he was afraid of starting to cough. His heart seemed to be beating abnormally loudly. His stomach gurgled. The devil take it, was his body always as noisy as this?

The singing had faded for a few minutes and he worried in case the Spanish officer was taking the men to a new site, but Jackson explained that the silence was due to the road curving as it came up the hill, and masking the sound. Then Ramage could hear them again, suddenly louder.

Quickly he stood up with a pistol in each hand, and a moment later heard twigs breaking to his right: a careless seaman, but no matter; the singing of the Negroes should help drown any such noise.

Then he swore under his breath as he remembered he hadn't warned the seamen that he would challenge the Spaniards in Spanish: he suddenly had a mental picture of the seamen firing at the source of any Spanish voice.

Jackson, sensing his sudden tension, whispered a question and Ramage explained.

"It's all right sir," the American said, "I told them before we left the camp."

Ramage felt both relief and irritation - the American seemed to think of everything.

The Negro singing became louder and Ramage could see a cluster of men walking along the track towards him, three or four abreast, not in formation. The nearest were wearing hats - Spanish soldiers. After a gap, two or three men, then another gap. They were spread out over a much longer distance than that covered by the seamen; a column twenty yards long. The seamen were spaced a yard or so apart. He should have thought of that...

It was not yet fully daylight. Dawn had reached that deceptive stage when small boulders seemed large, bushes took on the shape of mythological beasts and all clouds looked stormy.

He had made the mistake so it was up to him to sort it all out...

And here came the first men ... twenty yards ... fifteen ... two tall and one short ... ten yards ... muskets over their shoulders, strolling rather than marching ... five yards...

Ramage stepped out in front of them, a pistol in each hand. His stomach shrivelled ... it seemed to be so vulnerable. A man behind the leaders might fire at them with a pistol.

The leaders stopped suddenly, startled. Their bodies seemed frozen as if each had managed to stop just in time to avoid treading on a snake and was now too frightened to move.

Those behind bumped into each other; a querulous voice said: "Que pasa?"

Ramage spoke in Spanish clearly and sharply.

"Let no one move. A hundred English guns are pointing at you from the bushes. Let the teniente come to the front!"

Nothing happened.

A Negro moaned; an eerie, frightened and frightening moan.

"If the teniente steps forward, he will be safe. If I call my men to find him, many of you will probably be killed, including the teniente."

Ramage felt like giggling. Creating a hundred men in the bushes by a quirk of his imagination and a flick of his tongue was great fun; like this it would be easy to manoeuvre armies.

Still there was no movement.

Ramage moved a step forward and gestured with his pistols to the middle of the three leaders, cocking each one, the twin clicks loud, sharp and ominous.

"Is the teniente with you?"

"Si señor."

"Oh, he just lacks cojones, eh?"

"Si señor - no! No, señor!"

Ramage conjured up a bloodcurdling laugh.

"He soon will, if he doesn't step forward!"

With that he saw men moving aside and a tall, slim man walked to the head of the column. He stopped before he was abreast of the three leaders and stared at Ramage.

"Who are you?" he demanded querulously in Spanish.

Ramage turned to Jackson and said in English: "Remove his sword. Don't be too gentle."

The Lieutenant protested in the peevish voice of a shrewish young wife. He protested but, Ramage noted, not too much.

As soon as Jackson was holding the sword, Ramage said to the Spaniard: "Tell your men to lay down their arms."

He did so with remarkable alacrity as Ramage watched warily. Muskets came from shoulders and were put on the ground. Other weapons, which he could not recognize in the dim light, were dropped.

"Tell the slaves to stand still and the soldiers to walk forward and stand ten paces behind me."

As the Lieutenant gave the order Ramage stepped back off the track and, led by the three in front, the soldiers began walking.

Suddenly there was an urgent, high whistling noise and as Ramage jumped back, startled, there was a flash and bang of a pistol going off almost beside him and something snakelike writhed for a moment on the ground in front of him.

A few feet away, among the group of soldiers, there was a dreadful gurgling and Ramage realized it came from a soldier lying on the ground, a long stick-like object clutched in one hand. Then, with his ears ringing from the sound of the shot and dazzled for a moment by the flash, he saw that Jackson had fired. The whistling had come from the tail of a whip wielded by the Spanish soldier and intended to strike him down.

"Stand still," he shouted in Spanish. "No one move, or you all die!"

What a splendidly melodramatic language is Spanish, he thought to himself as he called in English down the track: "Mr Bowen - there's work for you here."

Then, realizing he was needlessly handling everything with only Jackson's help, he said briskly: "Tritons! Take the soldiers prisoner!"

As the seamen rustled from the shrubs he called to the slaves to stand still.

Five minutes later, with it getting lighter every second, the Lieutenant was standing to one side with Jackson behind him on guard, a pistol in each hand. The Spanish soldiers were in single file, each man tied to the next by a rope from one ankle. The slaves were in a group, chatting excitedly.

Bowen walked up, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"It's no good, sir, he's dead."

"Too bad," Ramage said, remembering the whistle of the whip and trying to guess what it would have done to him if the thick tail had hit him. He walked back to the dead man and picked up the whip.

It was the vilest thing Ramage had ever seen, designed as an instrument of torture, a means of punishment, a weapon. One heavy blow could cut a man almost in half. The whole whip was made of finely plaited leather; the handle, some five feet long, was as thick and rigid as a broom handle and then tapered to the tail, which was at least eight feet long, and little thicker at the tip than a piece of thin codline.

He loosened the dead man's grip, picked up the whip and found he was trembling with rage as he remembered the slave Roberto describing how the teniente sent for a slave if none was due to be flogged for punishment. He heard the echo of the teniente's querulous voice a few minutes ago. He remembered the teniente's reluctance to leave the anonymity and safety of the column and come to the front and accept his task as leader.

Bowen sensed his rage, gestured at the whip and said quietly: "It's a habit that's catching, sir."

Ramage pitched the whip away.

"Thank you," he muttered, and started walking back to the camp, calling orders to the corporal for bringing in the prisoners and slaves and burying the dead man.

Back at the camp he washed and shaved and had breakfast alone. The whip episode had left him in a fury. He imagined soldiers whipping slaves out of sheer boredom, or for slight infractions. The Navy's cat-o'-nine-tails was hardly a toy but it was used for punishment only in specific circumstances. Only the captain of a ship - or a court-martial - could order its use. There were some bad captains - like Pigot of the Hermione, who was so addicted to the cat his crew mutinied and murdered him - but such men were rare, and held in contempt by their fellow captains.

By comparison to these whips, the cat-o'-nine-tails was a bundle of shopkeeper's string; by comparison a flogging round the Fleet - the harshest sentence, apart from death, that a court could award - was merely painful. With this whip the lowest soldier could, with one or two blows delivered as a whimsy, punish a man as severely as a naval court-martial. With three or four blows he could kill, and from what Roberto had said, he was only blamed because it meant a slave less to work.

Ramage was not looking forward to interrogating the contemptible teniente, who was being guarded by the inevitable quartet of Jackson, Stafford, Rossi and Maxton. He had thought some time ago that he might be accused of favouritism, because he often gave them special tasks, but the quartet was popular among the men. They had been with him in so many situations, ranging from the desperate to the bizarre, that each knew how the other's mind worked. In emergencies this saved valuable seconds.

Ramage tucked a pistol in his belt, jammed his hat on and strode across the coarse grass and prickly pear to the provisions dump, where Jackson had the prisoner. The sun was getting heat in it now and the glare made him frown. The dry air reminded him of the smell of hay.

He found the four seamen standing round the Lieutenant, who was sitting on a tree stump the picture of petulant dejection. At Ramage's approach he tried to stand up, but Ramage told him to remain seated - he wanted to avoid any of the usual polite formalities.

"Your name?"

"Teniente Jaime Colon Benitez."

"Your regiment?"

"The first battalion of the Regiment of Aragon."

"What are you doing on this island?"

"Commanding a platoon of men."

"Obviously. What were your orders?"

"They are secret," Colon said contemptuously, as if while sitting on the tree stump he had recovered his courage.

"Very well," Ramage said, apparently accepting the reply. "Where is the headquarters of your regiment?"

"San Juan - at El Morro."

"The rest of your battalion is stationed in the fortress?"

"Yes. A few platoons such as mine are detached."

"When did you arrive here at Culebra?"

"Three weeks ago."

"With your orders?"

"With my orders."

"Since which time you have dug graves."

"Graves? How absurd!" Colon was contemptuous again, as though the word summoned up thoughts of tradesmen and other things with which no one of Colon's breeding would associate but which an Englishman like Ramage could not understand.

"Trenches, then."

"I'm not prepared to discuss it."

"Of course not," Ramage said easily. "Because of the nature of your orders."

"Precisely. They are secret."

"But I can find them at your quarters - the house in the village - and read them."

"Oh no you can't!" Colon exclaimed triumphantly. "They were verbal. The Colonel was most emphatic that nothing was put in writing. Because of the need for secrecy," he added, his voice dropping conspiratorially.

"Ah yes," Ramage said sympathetically. "It is dangerous to confide matters of such secrecy to paper."

"It certainly is!"

"Very well. Let me see now, I want to make sure I have all your details correct."

He repeated the man's name, regiment, and the fact he was based at El Morro, in San Juan.

Colon nodded and said: "That is correct. You speak Spanish very well - with the accent of Castile."

Ramage inclined his head in acknowledgment, and then said: "My apologies: there are one or two other details I need. Then no more questions."

"I will do my best to accommodate you," Colon said airily.

"Thank you. When is the next ship due with provisions from Puerto Rico?"

"I can't tell you that."

Ramage nodded his head regretfully. "Now, the last question: of the trenches you have dug, which is in the prettiest position - the most tranquil?"

"What an absurd question!"

"But important," Ramage said gently.

"Well, I don't really know. None is in what a civilized person would call an arbour."

"Nevertheless, you must express a preference."

"Well, I haven't one, I hate them all," Colon said impatiently, as though bored with trenches as a topic of conversation.

"I must press you to answer," Ramage said, with a slight edge to his voice. "Just one."

"No! Not even one."

"Well then," Ramage said, in a more reasonable voice, "may I ask which place in the whole island you regard as the most tranquil, trench or no trench?"

Colon gave a contemptuous wave with his hand. "The whole place is ghastly; I hate it."

He stamped his foot and said almost hysterically, "I hate it! I hate Puerto Rico! I hate the Tropics!"

"Do you?" Ramage said sympathetically. "Well now, you are putting me in a difficult position. I wish you'd just tell me of a tranquil place for a trench."

"Do be quiet about trenches!" Colon said peevishly.

"Graves, then," Ramage said.

Colon's eyes opened wide. "I don't like the way you said that!"

'"Graves'?" Ramage repeated with feigned surprise, shaking his head. "What's wrong with that?"

"You said it in a threatening manner."

"You can't accuse me of threatening you," Ramage said in a hurt voice, "I'm trying to arrange that everything is as you would wish it for your removal."

"My removal?"

"A polite euphemism for death," Ramage said flatly, and Colon fainted.

"Quick," Ramage said to Jackson. "Have you a piece of line or a belt? I want a garrotte."

" 'Ere," Stafford said, holding out a length of cord. "Can I be carrotter, sir?"

"There'll be no garrotting as such, but you can pretend. Tie a knot in one end and keep running it through your fingers. Look fierce!"

"Aye aye, sir."

"Look," Rossi said, taking the line expertly and tying one end in the form of an eye. "Put your left wrist in there. Now - the line goes over the head of the victim; up comes your left wrist; a jerk back hard and upwards with the right hand, so; knee in the back, like thees, as you jerk; and -"

"Rossi!" Ramage said, grinning at the Italian's professionalism and enthusiasm, "give it back to Stafford, he's coming round."

Colon moaned weakly and Ramage signalled to Jackson and Rossi, who lifted the man up, shook him and sat him back on the tree stump.

It was, Ramage noticed, the charred stump of a tree that had been hit by a bolt of lightning.

"Do you feel better?" he asked.

"You murderer!" Colon blurted.

"I'm not - yet!" Ramage said, and Colon fainted again.

"Gawd," Stafford grumbled as the Spaniard slid to the ground, "I'd 'ave to be quick to give 'im the carrot."

"Garrotte," Jackson said automatically as he bent over Colon. "By the way, sir, what do we want to know?"

"About the trenches. Why he's digging them. He says his orders are secret."

"Does he speak English, sir?"

"I didn't ask him, but he probably does."

"If he does, why don't you leave him with your barbaric crew?”

"None of that, Jackson!”

"No, sir, we won't touch him; but I guarantee he'll talk. In fact we'll have him singing."

Ramage nodded. "No violence, though."

"Guarantee not to touch him, sir."

"No need for guarantees; just remember, 'moderation in all things'!"

"Aye aye, sir; my grandfather always said the same thing."

As soon as Colon recovered and had been propped up on the stump of the tree once again, Ramage carefully arranged his face to look as brutal and ruthless as possible, and said icily: "Do you speak English?"

"A little."

"Now you have one last chance to tell me about the graves."

"Never," Colon said, with little conviction, and added despairingly, "They are not graves."

"I am busy," Ramage said haughtily. "I take my farewell. My men will deal with you."

The effect on Colon startled Ramage and the seamen: he gave a tragic and despairing moan, slid forward from the stump face down on the ground, his hands clutching at Ramage's feet.

"No," he whispered, "I cannot tell -"

Ramage, embarrassed, hurriedly stepped back, glanced at Jackson and said with as much melodrama as he could muster: "Farewell, señor, if you cannot tell, you cannot live..."

With that he turned and hurried away.

Only a fool never knows fear, he thought; but I'm damned if I can understand a man too craven to hide or control it. Colon believes he has only a minute or so to live. So far as he knows, I've given orders for him to be killed. A minute or so isn't long to clench your teeth, stand up and perhaps shout defiance. It's something you owe yourself, and surely it makes the going easier than weeping and tearing your hair out.

He hadn't gone twenty yards towards the camp before he began worrying about Jackson. Would the American be able to make Colon talk? Supposing Colon kept up his refusal? Was he prepared to die with the secret? Because that wretched example of foppery held the key to ... to what?

He stopped walking and stared at the distant horizon, his eyes out of focus and his mind racing.

Whatever Colon was up to with his gang of grave-diggers and platoon of armed sextons was absolutely no concern of his, except for the potential threat of the soldiers to the men of the Triton and Topaz. His only responsibility was the present safety of the two ships' companies and subsequent rescue.

Back at the camp Southwick was ready with reports on the day's activities so far: Appleby had gone off with the raft and was more than halfway to the wrecks; carpenter's mates from both ships had gone with him to find suitable timber for building a boat; his calculations on the provisions landed so far, and based on the regular Navy issue, showed that they had food for three months.

Ramage walked with Southwick round the provisions store, hidden under its tarpaulin and palm fronds, nodding to the Marine sentries, and then went on to inspect the magazine. The men had made an excellent job of building it, using the same method as Cornishmen had used for centuries to make their drystone walls.

In a couple of centuries' time, Ramage thought, someone is going to examine the remains of this little magazine and, knowing nothing of the hurricane, the Triton and the Topaz, wonder how a small building using such a remote system came to be erected on Snake Island. A building with such a tiny doorway that the men or women who used it would have to have been midgets...

At that moment he saw Jackson approaching; looking cheerful, almost smug.

"I think he's ready to tell you all about it, sir," Jackson said in reply to Ramage's inquiry. "I can't speak Spanish, as you know, but he made himself understood."

Ramage glanced at Colon and saw his dejected, hunchbacked walk, the reluctant, foot-dragging steps. "What did you do to him?"

"Well, sir..." Jackson began sheepishly, "we didn't lay a finger on him..."

Ramage eyed the seaman, and then laughed. "Lieutenant Colon will tell me all about it."

Jackson's face fell. "Honestly, sir, we didn't touch him. Just a bit o' play-acting by Staff and Rosey."

A few moments later Colon was led up by a gleeful Stafford, Rossi and Maxton.

Southwick looked curiously at Colon. He had shown little interest in Ramage's description of the morning's ambush, but that was his way of showing disapproval at not being put in command.

Colon had eyes only for Ramage and began speaking as soon as Stafford signalled him to stop walking.

"I wish to tell you," he said, words tumbling out as if he was trying to make an urgent plea as the guillotine blade fell. "I will tell you everything. But I want a guarantee. Your word of honour-"

"A guarantee about what?"

"That they won't garrotte me!" he said, pointing to the seamen. "Slowly," he added with a shudder. Stafford's pantomime seemed to have been extremely effective. But again Ramage thought of this man sending for a slave to be whipped for his pleasure.

"You aren't in a position to demand guarantees. Tell me about the graves."

"Not graves!" Colon exclaimed almost tearfully, as though using the word to describe the trenches would eventually change their purpose. "Trenches."

"Holes," Ramage said, suddenly exasperated. "You shouldn't waste time fussing about the precise choice of words. Tell me about the holes."

"I want a guarantee."

Not at all sure he could muster a bloodcurdling laugh without breaking into a giggle, Ramage merely said contemptuously, "A beggar doesn't make demands."

Colon stared at the ground. Ramage looked directly at Stafford, let his eyes drop to the cord the Cockney was still holding and then looked back and forth along the ground in front of Colon.

Stafford understood the signal immediately and began to walk around, slapping the cord impatiently against his leg and whistling cheerfully through his teeth. He looked the picture of an impatient killer, as though, as he might phrase it, in a hurry to use the "carrot".

Colon glanced up nervously, looking first at Stafford and then at Ramage, who said nothing. Apart from the sharp slapping of the cord against Stafford's leg, his whistling, and the distant boom of waves hitting the outer reefs, there was silence.

To Colon, though, it seemed to be a silence filled with terrifying fantasies; he was perspiring and pale, clasping and unclasping his hands.

"The orders you received," Ramage prompted.

Colon looked up and Ramage was reminded of an animal trapped in a snare.

"You can guess," Colon said.

Ramage was puzzled for a moment and then wondered if there was more to Colon than he thought. Was the man hoping Ramage would guess, so that he would not actually have to use words to reveal his orders? A legalistic interpretation of "reveal"? Ramage decided that as long as he found out what the holes were for, he didn't give a damn, so he gave Colon a little help.

"I presume you were looking for something."

"Of course."

"The only things of value likely to be on this island are water and pirate's treasure."

Suddenly Colon became animated: his head came up, his shoulders straightened, both arms came up as though he was greeting a long-lost friend.

"Precisely! And there is plenty of water in the village..."

"So you are looking for treasure."

Colon did not answer; instead he grinned happily. Ramage was too excited now for the long-winded method he'd been manoeuvred into. Treasure! Presumably treasure looted from the Spanish Main, so who would be in a better position to know about it than the Spanish!

"You have a map?"

Colon shook bis head.

"You're not just digging at random?"

Colon nodded.

Is this clown being legalistic again? Ramage wondered.

"You are digging at random?" Ramage asked.

Colon nodded vigorously.

"Anywhere on the island?"

Again Colon nodded.

"You'd better find your tongue," Ramage said. "Don't forget that now I have guessed about the treasure, you aren't revealing that!"

This seemed to reassure Colon.

"Anywhere," he said. "Just selecting likely places and digging-"

"Are the holes all the same depth?"

"Oh yes, no more than the height of a small man."

"Why that limit?"

Colon shrugged his shoulders. "Orders. The Colonel said it wouldn't be deeper than that."

"How did he know?"

Ramage had the impression that Colon was slowly becoming conspiratorial in his manner; as though he had secretly abandoned the Colonel and the service of Spain, and was giving clandestine help to the British.

"There was a report."

"What report?" Ramage said angrily, getting impatient as he levered the facts out of Colon a few words at a time. "Come now, tell me all you know, otherwise you'll be pegged out to dry like boucan."

His exasperation gave his words just the right ring; Colon went white again and Ramage expected him to faint. Pirates and privateersmen haunting the Caribbean islands pegged out raw meat to dry in the sun to preserve it, calling it "boucan", and became known as boucaniers, or buccaneers.

Ramage turned to Jackson and said in English: "Use your cutlass to clear some of this-" he pointed to the low shrubs. "Level a space about seven feet long and five feet wide. In front of this chap."

Jackson gave an impressive salute and began a series of low, sweeping strokes with the cutlass blade.

Colon watched, as if hypnotized, and when Jackson had finished and kicked the branches clear, Ramage turned to the Spaniard and said abruptly: "Pegged out there. You were saying?"

"The report," Colon said hurriedly. "A family here, on this island. No taxes - they had not paid taxes. It was a long fraud on the government. The Intendente was going to put father and son in prison and confiscate their land. To save themselves the father offered to tell the Intendente about the treasure if the tax was forgotten."

"How did he know about treasure?"

"He is a descendant of a pirate. There are many such families."

"But treasure? Not every pirate family-"

"This one knew," Colon said contemptuously.

"How could the Intendente be sure?"

"A week in the dungeon at El Morro and everyone tells everything," Colon said. "That much I can assure you."

"We can do quite well here, and in less time," Ramage said dryly. "Now, tell me all you know about it.''

"Well," Colon said nervously, "treasure is buried here somewhere. They've known that in San Juan for scores of years. They've looked for a map and they've watched the people, hoping that the family that knew would one day start to dig."

"Did they?"

"No. In fact they didn't know the details. Only the depth."

"And what is the important clue?"

"I was going to tell you about that," Colon said quickly. "Everyone says it's important, but no one understands it."

"Say it!"

Colon recited:

"And no one knows what it means?" Ramage asked.

"No one!"

"What else should you tell me?"

"That's all," Colon said, and Ramage felt he was telling the truth. "That's all, and now you can kill me."

The voice was so lugubrious that Ramage laughed, and then realized Colon interpreted the laugh as agreement.

"I'll wait a while," Ramage said. "I may think of some more questions. By the way, the family that knew the poem?"

"They are still in jail at El Morro."

"And the other islanders?"

"They know nothing."

He gave Jackson instructions for guarding Colon and he and Southwick went back to the beach. There they found Yorke, St Brieuc and St Cast and walked along the beach with them. After describing the so-called clue he said, "You can all exercise your brains on that. As soon as one of you tells me what it means, we can start digging for the treasure."

"If it really is a clue," Yorke said doubtfully.

"I'm inclined to think it is," St Brieuc said. "The Spanish are not stupid. They're close to the treasure. If they believe it, then I think we should."

"They were digging on level patches," Yorke said. "That's something we can do anyway. There can't be so many in a hilly place like this. Plenty of flat fields, of course, but I think the Dons know it's a small flat area up in the hills. If we try those we don't waste time while we work on the clue. We want to get to windward of the treasure before the provision ship arrives."

Ramage had quite forgotten to find out when the ship was due. He excused himself and went off to question the teniente again. He found him much more cheerful, and quite prepared to talk. The next ship was due on the first day of the month. That was the regular date, though it was sometimes a day or two late.

While considering the problem of keeping Colon a prisoner without a building to lock him in, Ramage remembered that there were houses in the village ... Houses and a well.

The Marines and a handful of seamen could stay here in the camp to guard the provisions and magazine and the rest of them could move to San Ildefonso. The slaves seemed quite cheerful with their new status, which could be best described as freedom with limited liberty.