Governor Ramage R. N. (30 page)

“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 bit 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 may 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 people 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 his 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.”