Governor Ramage R. N. (26 page)

Ramage jumped up, startled. At the back of the beach the Marines waited, and Appleby was at the water's edge.

In the silence that followed, as the raft came to a stop and several seamen leapt into the water to secure it, helped by some of Appleby's men, Southwick bellowed: “Drummer—the Governor's Salute!”

The little drummer, a look of intense concentration on his face, shy but proud of being the centre of attention, marched a few paces across the raft, turned and marched back, playing a spirited tune on his drum amid many twirls and flourishes of the drumsticks. Yorke, Southwick and the two Frenchmen now stood to attention and saluted, broad grins on their faces.

As soon as the raft was secured, Southwick roared to a startled Appleby: “Stand by: the Governor is landing! Why aren't your Marines presenting arms?”

The master's mate quickly caught on and shouted an order to the Marines, then ran back up the beach and seized a short, thick branch of a tree which had been worn smooth and polished by wind, sea and sand. He marched back to the raft and, with the branch over his shoulder as a mace, stood at attention.

Southwick walked three paces to stand in front of Ramage, saluted again, and said in a stentorian voice: “Sir, your island awaits….”

Gravely Ramage returned the salute. “There's no gangway,” he said with mock haughtiness. “However, our cause is just: I will get my feet wet.”

He bowed deeply to Mme St Brieuc and Maxine. “Ladies, permit me to confer on you the freedom of the island!”

With that the mock ceremony was over; as seamen helped the women on shore, Ramage jumped down from the raft to question Appleby.

“We've seen nothing, sir. I did a reconnaissance myself last night with the corporal. I also sent men along the beach each way but there was no sign of boats or huts. So we just hauled the raft into shallow water and secured it.”

“Very well,” Ramage said. “From now on the Marines have the responsibility of guarding the passengers.”

With that he signalled to Jackson. “Get three men and cut down some of these big palm fronds and make some sort of shelter for the ladies. The sun will be unbearably hot soon. Pick a spot that the breeze can get at.”

Just at that moment one of the seamen gave a howl and hopped out of the water on one leg, cursing and swearing at the top of his voice.

A shocked Southwick was beside the man almost immediately, bellowing at him to be silent, and blushing at the thought that the women had heard the words which were simple, strong and unambiguous.

“What's the trouble?” Ramage demanded.

“Says his foot hurts, sir.”

“Not used to walking on land?”

“Says he trod on a lot of sharp nails—by jingo, sir, he's got black spots all over the sole of his foot!”

“Sea urchin spines!” Ramage snapped. “Doesn't he have the sense to look out for them?”

But the man had never seen them before, and when Ramage saw how many there were along the beach just under the water, he shouted to all the men to stop and listen.

“Look down into the water,” he shouted. “Can you see those small brownish-black discs on the sand—some of them three or four inches across? They're sea urchins. A small ball with hundreds of short spines sticking out all over like a porcupine. If you tread on one the spines stick into your foot and break off.

“They hurt like the devil for half an hour. After that it's not too bad. After a day or two you can forget ‘em. But you can't get ‘em out once they're in; if you probe around you break them up and they'll probably go poisoned. So leave them—they'll vanish eventually. It's a different story for Mediterranean urchins, but this is the Caribbean. And while we're at it, this is Snake Island but there are no snakes: the name comes from its shape. All you have to worry about are sea urchins in the water, and mosquitoes on land. And Mr Southwick and me. Right, carry on and be careful.”

Southwick said quietly: “There is a way of easing the pain, sir! I wonder if you—”

“Yes, I know,” Ramage said impatiently and added, lowering his voice, “The relief one gets from doing it is far less than the agony I'd experience in shouting at the top of my voice, in front of the ladies, that if you piss on where the spines are stuck in it'll take the worst of the sting out.”

“Quite, sir,” Southwick said, his face red. “I'd better keep an eye on the men with the provisions. The other raft will be here in a few minutes.”

He pointed seaward to where the bosun was conning the smaller raft carrying the muskets, carpenter's tools and powder in barrels. Seamen were hunched along two opposite sides wielding paddles.

Ramage nodded. “We'll see if the bosun thinks Appleby can get back to the ship with the other raft before the wind springs up. We might as well ferry over as much food as we can. This island doesn't look as though it has much to offer. And we had better bring some water.”

“Aye, it looks parched, and no streams on the chart. Not the place for them,” Southwick said. “Probably a fresh-water well for the village, but—”

“If there's a garrison, they aren't going to offer to fill our casks….”

The bosun was able to manoeuvre his raft in to the beach close to the big raft, and Ramage was thankful that there seemed to be a regular current crossing the outer reef on which the two wrecks were perched and which came to within fifty yards of this beach, so all that was needed was some vigorous rowing at the last moment.

Within fifteen minutes Appleby and the bosun were heading back for the
Triton,
and with them was the mate of the
Topaz.
Yorke had given him instructions to collect some particular provisions.

Finally, with the last raft unloaded and the men carefully stacking muskets, shot and powder well back from the beach, Ramage had time to sit down on a rock and take stock.

Even though it was not yet eight o'clock, it was obvious that everyone's attitude towards tropical heat was about to change radically. The land was hot and humid; it was the kind of heat which had been there for centuries, as if during every moment of daylight the rock and earth soaked up and stored the sun's scorching heat like a vast oven. At sea there was no heated land; they had the full advantage of the cooling Trade winds.

For Ramage it was a welcome change after months at sea; there were compensations, like the mixed-herbs smell of the land, rich and intimate, and from where he sat he could see several frangipani bushes covered in white flowers. The rich perfume contained memories of all the erotic sensations he would ever know, but he did not go over to smell it. The memories were strong enough without any reminders.

The birds sang in clear tones, never shrill, always joyful and always a delight. At sea one forgot the sheer pleasure of watching the birds—he stared at a little dark green velvet hummingbird by a shrub, its wings working so fast they were almost invisible, and the bird motionless as it hovered. Then a sudden jink as it moved to investigate another part of the bush. Above it there was a golden-yellow flash as a troupial found all the human beings too alarming and fled along the beach.

He was torn between getting more stores on shore from the ship and setting up a base which he could probably defend, and going off for a reconnaissance of the island. He couldn't be in two places at once, but he did not want to trust anyone else with either job.

Jackson! He suddenly remembered a remark his cox'n had made a year or two ago in Italy when they were struggling over the Tuscan countryside, trying to avoid Bonaparte's cavalry who were busy invading.

“I was with Colonel Pickens at Cowpens, sir,” the American had said, thinking that sufficient explanation as to why he knew a lot about soldiering. Well, the devil knew who Colonel Pickens was and what he was doing at Cowpens, but Jackson had obviously been a useful rebel during the American War.

Ramage called him over.

“Jackson, there's one village—maybe a small town—on this island, San Ildefonso. It's two or three miles from here, over these hills.”

Ramage gestured to the north-west and bent down, drawing in the sand with his finger.

“There's an almost landlocked bay—entrance just beyond that headland—which forms the middle of the island. The village is on the east side, like so.” He drew a small circle. “I want to know more about the village: if there's a garrison; if there's a quay, and any ships in; if there's a fresh-water well—and so on. How long—”

“Three hours, sir, if I can have a couple of hands,” he said even before Ramage had time to frame the question. “Three hands, sir.”

“As many as you want.”

“I'd like Stafford, Rossi and Maxton,” he said promptly, “and, sir, can I suggest something?”

When Ramage nodded, he said: “The Marines, sir, an' those red coats … Can't they just wear shirts and trousers? You can see the red two miles off, and in this heat….”

“You're speaking from experience about the red?”

Jackson grinned sheepishly. “Yes, sir. Many's the time I've sighted a musket on a Redcoat….”

Such is the absurdity of war, Ramage thought: now he's fighting for us and warning me about the red cloth.

“Very well, I'll deal with that. Take what weapons you want and be back as soon as—”

He thought a moment. There was no hurry. Better Jackson made a good job of it. “No, don't rush. Be back by sunset. Draw some rations and water from Mr Southwick.”

Twenty minutes later Ramage saw the four men vanish into the low scrub at the back of the beach. Only two of them had muskets; the other two carried cutlasses, with pistols in their belts. It made sense: their task was to look and quit, not stand and fight.

He walked to the frangipani, pulled off several blooms, and went over to the palm-frond shelter in which the St Brieucs and St Cast were sitting.

“From the gardens of the Governor's Palace,” he said to Maxine, giving a deep bow as he presented the flowers with an elaborate flourish.

“Please congratulate the gardener
en chef,
” she said. “Oh—the
parfum—
smell it, Mother!”

St Brieuc said, “Thank you for our palace, too. No palace of stone and marble could be more welcome than this palace of palms!”

“We'll have something better ready for you by this afternoon,” Ramage said.

“Believe me, its permanency is not important,” St Brieuc said, “since we certainly never even expected to see land again. My wife was just commenting that she has never experienced such a fascinating 24 hours as those just past.”

Ramage turned to her. “I'm sorry we've had you climbing in and out of wrecks like that, Madame, but it was unavoidable.”

“Please do not apologize,” she said, “I have enjoyed myself so much. And so has Maxine! This life we do not understand, but that does not mean we are not interested!”

Ramage bowed. “Unfortunately I can't make any promises for the future….”

“Mr Yorke told me about you deciding against burning the wrecks—I understand completely,” St Brieuc said. There was a slight emphasis on the last word; a slight but significant inclination of the head.

Ramage found Southwick keeping the men busy rolling casks up the slope of the beach to the line of bushes, where there was both shade and concealment.

Suddenly a seaman yelled and sat down, clutching his foot. The devil take it, Ramage thought, not more sea urchins! He walked over to the man, looked at the foot and realized Snake Island had prickly pear cactus. Sticking in the man's foot was the land version of the sea urchin: a small green disc with spines radiating from it, like a flattened dandelion clock.

“Just give it a tug,” Ramage said. “Mind you don't get the spines in your fingers.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the seaman said patiently, and Ramage felt he was being reproached for not including the prickly pear in his earlier warning.

By now Appleby was halfway back to the
Triton
with the raft. The sun was lifting high over the horizon but the breeze had not come up, and Ramage saw there was a chance they would reach the brig before it arrived. If only he could get a raft-load of provisions from the ship early each morning before the wind came up, he could last out here almost indefinitely.

Suddenly a thought struck him. He was loading casks on to a raft, whereas most of them, if they were pitched over the side, would float and eventually end up on the beach by themselves. Fishermen on Snake Island—if there were any—might find them but they would soon spot the wrecks anyway, so there was nothing to lose by pitching at least some of them over the side and letting the waves and current do the work. It was too late today, but as soon as the carpenter's crew had made a proper shelter for the St Brieucs, and a galley, they could make a rough boat which half a dozen men could use to get out to the wrecks each day.

A few minutes before noon, when the heat of the sun made men find shade before they stopped to talk, Southwick reported that the casks of provisions and water had been landed safely and stored at the back of the beach, covered with a topsail to serve as a tarpaulin, and the sail in turn covered with palm fronds to conceal it from prying eyes.

For the spare muskets, powder and shot, the seamen had collected small, flat rocks—there were plenty of them littering the ground—and built what looked like a large oven, between the provision store and the beach, for use as a magazine. It reminded Ramage of the donkey shelters so familiar in Italy. Branches served as roof beams, with canvas over the top, to weatherproof it. The men were now lining the walls and floor with canvas to keep out the damp.

Southwick was particularly pleased with its position; he had chosen it, Ramage was glad to note, midway between the provision store and the beach, so the Marine sentries guarding the store and the beach—which Ramage had decided was to be the place where everyone would live—did not have to march out of their way, and would pass it twice for every once they passed the store.