Ramage's Mutiny (31 page)

La Guaira—he knew precious little about it. An open anchorage with deep water close to the shore, the port built on a narrow plain between two masses of rock … That could be almost anywhere. It was defended by the Trinchera Bastion on the eastern side and by El Vigia, a castle overlooking the port from a height of about four hundred feet. According to Southwick the anchorage was occasionally swept by enormous rollers from the north, coming two or three at a time; walls of water sometimes two miles long which wrenched ships from their anchors and tossed them up on the beach like driftwood.

And that, Ramage thought, is all we know about La Guaira, and entirely due to Southwick's habit of filling notebooks with details of places whenever he could find someone who had been there. It was the main port of the province of Caracas, and (in more peaceful times) fresh water could be obtained from a small reservoir which had been made some five hundred feet above the town by damming up a river. Southwick's notebook added that the main exports were cocoa, coffee, hides, dyewood and medicinal roots. A “particular cargo” comprising those mundane items and captured only by risking the
Jocasta
would make Admiral Davis explode with more flame and violence than had destroyed El Pilar …

Rennick was parading his Marines. They looked smart enough, and Ramage thought he detected a satisfied swagger in their bearing since they had blown up the forts. It would do no harm; they had a right to be proud of themselves and their officer. Although even Rennick did not know it yet, they would soon have to go below and take off their uniforms and put on seamen's clothing. Any sharp-eyed watcher on shore with a telescope would spot those uniforms and know they were not Spanish; moreover, some of the
Jocasta
's mutineers might be living in La Guaira, only too anxious to help their Spanish masters.

The Marines to wear seamen's clothes,
Ramage reflected, is about all I have decided about how we are going to cut out this merchant ship. Rennick has paraded his men, the gunner has been round inspecting the guns, Southwick and the bosun have checked over the tiller ropes and are now busy making sure that they missed nothing in yesterday's examination of sheets, braces and halyards. Aitken has the conn, and every one of them, from the First Lieutenant to the cook's mate, assumes that Mr Ramage has a completely foolproof plan for cutting out the ship, just as they were now convinced that he planned the
Jocasta
's capture to the last detail from the first moment he sighted the
Santa Barbara.

His plan at the moment was to haul down that Spanish ensign as soon as possible; the sooner the
Jocasta
was sailing under her proper colours the better, although for the time being, to avoid raising the alarm, because they were now barely a mile from the shore, the red and gold flag of Spain was streaming in the wind. The frigate was still
La Perla
as far as the Spaniards were concerned—at least at this end of the Main.

Everyone on board was cheerful enough—except Paolo. Since the funeral services he had been taking many vertical angles of every peak that Southwick clapped eyes on and had the height noted on the chart. Ramage doubted if Paolo's book of tables had ever been used so much as it had in the past hour or two. The Master was being deliberately harsh with the boy, beginning with the way he stood as he held the quadrant. “Balance yourself as the ship rolls by swaying your body from the hips upwards,” he had growled. “Don't move your buttocks; you look like a fish-wife walking down Billingsgate Hill!”

Now half a dozen seamen were hoisting up the grindstone: after the fighting across the
Jocasta
's decks there were many cutlasses with nicks in the blades which would have to be ground out, and Ramage shuddered at the thought of having to listen to the scraping once again. The cook would come up on deck soon, announcing to anyone who cared to listen that he had “to put a sharp” on his cleavers: cutting up salt tack always took the edge off them. He always appeared when the grindstone was set up; he always made the same announcement, and no one ever listened. But when they had boarded the
Jocasta,
Ramage had seen the cook join one of the boarding parties, a meat cleaver in each hand. He was a deceptive man, so thin he seemed to be starving, and normally so quiet that no one would guess he enjoyed nothing better than boarding an enemy ship.

Once again Ramage looked along the line of mountains. He had never seen a shoreline so constantly beaten by rollers; there was always a jagged line of boiling surf thundering into the foot of the cliffs, flinging up fine spray which hung as a heavy mist, blurring the slots and crevices. Yesterday he had occasionally seen small boats inshore, fishermen from the villages built wherever there was a gap in the cliffs or where a bend in the coast formed a sheltered bay and gave them a lee. They must be hardy men, working under a blazing sun with a heavy sea running most of the time. Presumably starvation faced them if a week of heavy rollers prevented them from launching their boats.

The
Jocasta
was making a fast passage: with this soldier's wind the hourly cast of the log showed she was making an effortless ten knots. During the night he had expected the stunsails to carry away at times as occasional but brief gusts came up astern without warning.

The Main was a strange and unpredictable coast, and he wished he had sailed it before. This curious light over the mountains, for instance: as the sun came up it had not washed the peaks in its usual pinkness; instead it had cast a cold, almost whitish light, bringing with it an almost frightening clarity and throwing harsh, sharp-edged shadows. Every crack and crevice, valley and distant precipice showed up in the telescope as though it was only five miles away, instead of twenty. In contrast, there had been a haze yesterday which, up in the Leeward and Wind-ward Islands, always warned of strong winds to come. Now today there was this clearness. It could mean anything or nothing. Southwick's notebook referred to
calderetas
sweeping down from the mountains, but gave no further details. Still, if they occurred only once or twice in a year there was no reason to suppose they would bother the
Jocasta
…

He was getting jumpy; it was as simple as that. He had been lucky at Santa Cruz and if he had had any sense he would be on his way back to English Harbour. Instead he was bound for La Guaira, commanding—as far as any onlooker was concerned—His Most Catholic Majesty's frigate
La Perla.
Only another dozen miles to go; already Pico Avila was looming up high, towering over La Guaira just as Pico de Sante Fé stood at the back of Santa Cruz.

He looked down at his clothes. Providing he did not wear a hat, they were similar enough to the Spanish naval uniform. Southwick, with his chubby face and flowing white hair, would hardly pass for a Spaniard but, he told himself, people usually saw what they expected to see: at La Guaira they were waiting for Captain Velasquez to arrive in
La Perla
…

Southwick walked up to report on his inspection: “The tiller ropes are sound, sir, and so are the relieving tackles. Hardly a new rope in the ship but nothing needs changing. Just as well, since there isn't a spare coil anywhere. We might get some from the
Calypso
when we meet her.”

“Very well. We'd better start getting ready for entering La Guaira.”

Southwick eyed him curiously. “Aye, aye, sir. We'll be anchoring?”

“I don't know yet, but the Spaniards will be expecting us to, so we have to have everything ready.”

“The men at quarters?”

“Yes, but hidden below the bulwarks. Guns loaded but not run out and boarders standing by.”

Southwick obviously had many more questions to ask, but he nodded and said: “Very well, sir, I'll see to it.”

Aitken, as First Lieutenant, had to know what was going on, and Ramage walked aft to where he was standing near the binnacle and gave him his instructions. “I'll take the conn,” Ramage said. “We'll be there in two or three hours.”

By now the grindstone was hard at work, one man working the handle, another pouring water into the trough through which the bottom of the stone turned, and a third moving the blade of a cutlass across the spinning wheel. He then sighted along the blade and, when satisfied, put it to one side, picking up another from the waiting pile.

The sun was getting hot; already the deck was uncomfortably warm and Ramage began pacing the quarterdeck. The glare from the waves as they surged past the frigate made his eyes ache and it would get worse as the sun climbed higher.

Paolo, having satisfied the Master that he could now work out the distance off by the vertical angle, was marching up and down, hands clasped behind his back, a frown on his face.

“Mr Orsini,” Ramage said, “you look worried. Are sines and tangents still bothering you?”

“Oh no, sir. It's my dirk. The blade is chipped and I was hoping I could put it on the grindstone before they stow it.”

“How on earth did you chip it?”

“When we boarded the
Jocasta,
sir. I was warding off a cutlass, and I think the blow made a dent in the edge.”

Ramage stared at the boy. “You boarded the
Jocasta
with your dirk?” he demanded.

“Why yes, sir: it's a
very
good dirk: the best that Mr Prater had. Aunt Gianna went with me to Charing Cross—Mr Prater is the best sword cutler in London—and told him she wanted the finest dirk for me.”

“I know all about Mr Prater,” Ramage growled, “but that dirk is not for fighting! Why, it's only a twelve-inch blade. I've told you before, use a cutlass.”

“But I had a cutlass as well, sir,” Paolo protested. “I was using my dirk as a
main gauche,
but I had to ward off one Spaniard's blade with the dirk and kill him with the cutlass.”

A
main gauche!
In the days when duellists paid little attention to rules, a man held a dagger in his left hand, hoping to use the sword in his right hand to swing his opponent round with a parry, leaving him wide open to a jab from the dagger. Paolo had learned duelling in Volterra; his tutor had obviously impressed on him the merits of surviving.

“Very well,” Ramage said, “you can have five minutes. But let the seaman put the dirk on the stone; you'll grind away half the metal!”

Aitken was going round the deck and as he called names from a list in his hand men went obediently to collect boarding-pike, tomahawk or cutlass. Ramage noticed that the first thing a man did was to examine the point or edge and some, with obvious grunts of disapproval, went over to the grindstone.

As soon as Paolo came back to the quarterdeck, his newly sharpened dirk slung round his waist, Ramage gave him a key: “You'll find a Spanish signal book in the second drawer of my desk. Bring it up here, and look through it. You'll find it easy enough to understand.”

If anything happened to Gianna, or she died without having a son, her nephew Paolo would be the next ruler of Volterra. Well, he was getting a good training in leadership. Perhaps Gianna was shrewder than he had given her credit for when she asked him to take Paolo as a midshipman. She knew better than anyone what was needed in a ruler of that turbulent Tuscan state, where treachery was a commonplace and, once the French were driven out, revolution would probably join it. He shivered at the thought of what Gianna would face when she returned to Italy. The way things were at the moment, with the French armies victorious from the North Sea to the gates of the Holy City, it was some consolation (for him anyway) that it would be a long time before she could go back to Volterra.

He shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts. For a few moments he had been among the smoothly rounded hills of Tuscany, and it was almost a shock now to find himself staring at the sharp peaks of the Main—peaks which made him feel uneasy for reasons he could not understand but which, from long experience, he knew he should not ignore. And yet, he thought helplessly, what was it that he ought not to ignore?

Men were stowing the grindstone as Southwick bustled up, pointing to a headland just coming clear of the land on the larboard bow: “I'm sure that's Punta Caraballeda, sir. About six miles this side of La Guaira. We'll sight two smaller headlands, Cojo and Mulatos, and then we're in the anchorage.”

Ramage nodded. Caraballeda was about five miles away. “We'll send the men to quarters as soon as Caraballeda is abeam. We can—”

He broke off and looked to the south. The wind was falling away and there was still a curious light over the peaks, a harsh white light as though the sun was trying to break through thin high cloud, but the only cloud in the sky was a scattering of balls of cotton. The
Jocasta
slowed perceptibly and the quartermaster looked anxiously at the dog-vanes on the hammock nettings. Each vane was made up of a number of corks with feathers stuck in them and suspended by thin line from a small staff, and they were no longer streaming out in the breeze; instead they were bobbing and jerking as the wind became fitful.

Ramage glanced aloft, then decided to follow his instincts even if it left him looking foolish. He reached for the speaking-trumpet. “We'll take in stunsails, topgallants and courses, Mr Southwick, and double-reef the topsails if we have time!”

The Master stood for a moment, obviously dumbfounded, his eyes going to the south, trying to discover the reason for the Captain's completely unexpected move. Then the habit of discipline took over as Ramage began bellowing the first of the orders.

“All the studding-sails—ready for coming in!”

Seamen stopped what they were doing and ran to their stations, a handful racing up the rigging. The suddenness of the order alerted them all that something unexpected was happening, and as Ramage continued his stream of orders the halyards were eased, tacks started and downhauls manned. Swiftly the studding-sails were lowered and the booms rigged in, slid along the yards out of the way.