Ramage and the Freebooters (32 page)

‘Your Excellency…?’ Wilson prompted.

‘Oh – well, won’t you stay for a drink? And you, my Lord – surely you can spare ten minutes?’

Wilson glanced at the lieutenant, unwilling to spoil any move, and Ramage said politely: ‘You’ll forgive us if we make it just ten minutes, Your Excellency? We have a lot to do.’

‘Of course, of course.’

He shambled across the room, removed his right hand from where it recorded his heart beat, and used it to tug the bell pull so violently that the long strip of red silk braid tore in half six feet above his hand, the tasselled end dropping back across his face.

‘Damnation!’ he snorted, pulling it away. ‘The Tropics! Everything just rots in the heat and damp!’

‘I wonder if the bell rang, sir?’ Ramage inquired innocently.

Sir Jason hauled his lips apart in a brave smile.

‘I’m sure it did – rang it so loudly the clapper’s probably broken!’

Ramage smiled but Wilson, fascinated by the lieutenant’s easy grace, just watched the two men. However, he realized that Sir Jason was learning extremely quickly and, shying from Ramage, he turned to him.

‘You are coming to my ball this evening, I trust, Colonel?’

‘Of course, Your Excellency – social occasion of the year, what?’

‘So nice of you to say so, Colonel. I trust the orchestra has been rehearsing.’

‘Of course sir,’ Wilson assured him. ‘The bandmaster’s had ’em hard at it for the past fortnight – since you gave the order.’

‘And Colonel… I really
do
hope none of them get drunk again: it was so distressing last year and – oh, Lord Ramage, I’ve just realized you haven’t received an invitation! You sailed so quickly and I had no idea when you would return.

‘The Governor’s Annual Ball is tonight – and you’ve just heard Colonel Wilson call it the social occasion of the year. Can I persuade you to leave your ship for a few hours?’

Ramage, thinking hard from the moment the Governor first mentioned it, realized it was a good opportunity to meet the island’s leading people. And the drunker they were, he thought grimly, the more he’d learn.

He bowed slightly, ‘I’m honoured, Your Excellency.’

‘At seven, then?’

‘Thank you, Your Excellency,’ and he seized the opportunity to add. ‘Since the invitation is unexpected and time so short, you’ll forgive me if I return to the ship at once and make myself ready? There are several things I must do. Colonel Wilson…?’

‘Me too,’ said the Colonel, hauling himself up from the chair. ‘Hadn’t realized how the time had gone.’

‘Please don’t rush away,’ the Governor protested, irritated to find that almost every remark he made was taken as an end of the visit.

Again Ramage smiled. ‘Duty calls, sir: while neither of us bear the responsibilities that Your Excellency does, our masters in Whitehall…’

‘Quite – indeed, I understand. Until this evening, then.’

With that they took their farewell, and as the carriage clattered down the hill, Wilson said: ‘Well, that went off better than I expected!’

Ramage laughed like a happy schoolboy who’d just evaded a beating from the headmaster. ‘The credit’s all yours, sir.’

‘Mine?’ Wilson shook his head.

‘You discovered we had an ace – the “Senior naval officer upon the Station” – and His Excellency had to think of a way of making sure I didn’t play it.’

Wilson remained silent until the carriage reached the Careenage, where one of the
Triton’s
boats waited, and then he said unexpectedly: ‘Have you ever thought who our worst enemies are in a war?’

‘Yes,’ Ramage said promptly. ‘Politicians seeking cheap victories to announce in Parliament – cheap in terms of money but usually costly in lives. Then bureaucrats – among them colonial governors. Then aged generals and admirals who should have retired long ago but hold on to power because their pride won’t let them miss a chance of glory, even if they lose the battle. There are a few more. The French come about tenth on my list, the Spanish about fifteenth!’

Wilson gave the first real laugh Ramage had heard from him: a laugh that began well below the highly polished leather belt struggling to hold in his stomach and rumbled and fought its way up to his throat.

He thumped Ramage’s knee with his first.

‘Seditious talk to a senior officer, young man; but I enjoy it! I’ve a feeling you’re going to catch those privateers in a matter of days. I’ll be sorry in one way because it’ll mean you’ll be on your way – but you’re a breath of fresh air in this God-forsaken island.’

The carriage stopped by the
Triton
’s boat and as Ramage turned to thank Wilson he looked up at the mottled face, the drinker’s nose, the bloodshot eyes, and wondered if he’d ever misjudged a man so much in his life.

Jackson was waiting on the quay several yards from the boat, obviously wanting to say something he did not want the other men to hear. Ramage looked questioningly.

‘Evening, sir. I wanted to mention Maxton…’

Ramage looked puzzled, then suddenly remembered months ago asking the West Indian seaman where in Grenada he’d been born, and he’d said Belmont. Glancing at the boat’s crew he saw Maxton sitting there. He had not seen his family for many years and he had neither applied for leave nor deserted. Ramage felt angry with himself and, nodding to Jackson, called Maxton, who leapt on to the quay.

‘Sah?’

‘Your family – where do they live?’

Maxton pointed to a group of huts on the far side of the lagoon.

‘Over there, sir.’

‘Do you want some leave?’

Maxton nodded, too excited to speak.

‘Go now, but report back on board by dawn tomorrow: you can’t have longer at the moment because we may have to sail suddenly.’

Still Maxton was too excited to speak. Ramage felt in his pocket for a guinea.

‘And you’ll need this.’

The incessant chattering of dozens of people, the air of the room seemingly solid from a damp heat, men’s faces glowing red and shiny with perspiration, women’s normally pale cheeks now pink despite fans fluttering like birds’ wings – Ramage envied the bright-eyed chameleon clinging to the wall beside him, head poised, tail stiff and watching everything with an air of cool detachment.

The orchestra – strong on brass and percussion but excruciatingly weak on strings – were now resting for a few moments, the brass restoring themselves with large mugs of beer. And Ramage, his uniform hot and sticky, feet swollen from so much walking and his shoes seeming too small, felt none the better for a gargantuan supper where the Governor pressed his guests to just one more slice of cold turkey than they wanted and two glasses more champagne than was wise.

Ramage had anticipated becoming bored with the ball within fifteen minutes of arriving; but despite his earlier overbearing manner, the Governor was now treating him as a guest of honour. As soon as he had arrived – half an hour later than politeness dictated, because Southwick kept him busy with various problems on board the
Triton
– the Governor had seized him by the arm and insisted he made a grand tour of the enormous drawing-room which, divested of most of its furniture, this evening served as a ballroom.

And he had introduced Ramage to every guest with the phrase ‘I want you to meet my young friend Lord Ramage – son of the Earl of Blazey, you know.’

Ramage was not sure which annoyed him most, the untruthfulness of the ‘young friend’ or the ‘you know’ which carried the implication that, although Sir Jason did, the person being introduced would not.

But the Governor’s way of displaying his social trophy was proving useful: within twenty minutes Ramage had met the Lieutenant-Governor, judge, leading plantation-owners and businessmen, ship-owners (Rondin among them, cool and remote, rich and intelligent enough to remain detached) and their wives and daughters. The women had several things in common – an irritatingly simpering manner and, as they were being introduced or spoken to, an equally irritating habit of coyly glancing sideways at sisters or daughters. They were, Ramage thought sourly, just about the sort of people one would expect to find at the Governor’s Ball and behaved and talked with a dreary predictability.

All the efforts of the guests to keep cool were unsuccessful: the atmosphere was stifling – the difference between a Grenadan ball and a London ball, he realized, was that here perspiration replaced personality – and Ramage wished he could set half a dozen seamen swabbing down the whole room (and most of its occupants) with a few gallons of eau de Cologne.

The lighting, far too garish and hard on the older women’s complexions, contributed to the heat: in addition to the great chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and winking their cut-glass eyes as the candles flickered, there were enough silver candelabra on small tables to satisfy the greed of any pirate looting a cardinal’s palace on the Spanish Main.

Mosquitoes whined about his face and swarmed round the candles, occasionally dropping as they flew too near the flame and scorched their wings. And more chameleons and lizards ran along the ceiling and down the chandeliers with easy grace – unlike, he thought sourly, the Army officers in their garish and superbly impractical uniforms who by now were lurching drunkenly rather than walking and risked staggering a pace or two forward when they attempted a gallant bow.

The orchestra was tuning up, the violins plinking in preparation for the next dance. Ramage, standing with the Governor and being polite to yet another plantation-owner’s fat wife, was conscious of just one person left that he had to meet.

‘My Lord,’ the Governor said, moving on, ‘if Mrs Bends will forgive me for tearing you away for a moment, I’d like you to meet my wife’s companion and private secretary, Miss de Giraud…’

Ramage smiled politely at Mrs Bends and turned to the Governor and the tall woman now standing with him. For a moment she was a blur and to save himself Ramage hurriedly looked at the Governor: anything to stop the fire suddenly flooding his whole body and fight off the dizziness.

As the Governor’s yellow teeth moved up and down like a horse nibbling grass, Ramage could think only of her golden skin, high cheekbones, large eyes glinting black like sparkling gems, lips full and rich, the smile friendly – or was it gently mocking? And if so, mocking him or the Governor? Or was she – well, until he looked again he couldn’t be sure; but he was already certain she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

She knew she was beautiful, accepted it without arrogance, and the knowledge gave her a proud dignity. Or was it serenity? Or just straightforward confidence in her femininity so that, unlike these other stupid women, she could look a man straight in the eye without blushing, simpering, being coy, becoming tongue-tied, gauche?

He realized there was almost complete silence in the room: not just that the Governor had stopped talking, but so had nearly everyone else: he sensed they were all watching.

Something white fluttered from Miss de Giraud’s left hand and dropped to the floor. The Governor moved but Ramage was quicker – he picked up a silk glove and gave it to her.

‘Thank you, my Lord.’

She gave a graceful curtsy. Yes, the eyes were mocking – but gently so; her accent was entirely English; there was none of the blurring of words, the dropping of the final ‘g’, the sing-song lilt of a West Indian – yet it had the same depth and warmth. But somewhere in her ancestry there was coloured blood – perhaps Indian – that would account for the long, straight hair, high cheekbones and eyes…

As Ramage stood tongue-tied – he remembered just in time to bow – the Governor unwittingly came to his rescue.

‘Miss de Giraud has been my wife’s companion and secretary for the past year, my Lord; but I’m afraid I monopolize her services! She’s become our “Lord Chamberlain” and “Comptroller of the Household” as well, and I doubt there’s a governor in the King’s service who wouldn’t envy me!’

‘Not a single man, Your Excellency, let alone a governor!’

‘No, indeed not! Why, she’s considerably better at drafting my despatches than I am! When I was in India it took ten men secretaries to keep my desk clear of papers – but Miss de Giraud achieves that alone, as well as running the house.’

Still the smile; no blushing modesty and feeble protests. But Ramage pitied the Governor: he was an unlucky man that could appreciate only Miss de Giraud’s efficiency as a secretary.

‘His Excellency makes me seem formidable – a positive dragon!’

Before Ramage could think of a reply the Governor said gaily, ‘Well now, let’s dance.’

Signalling to the master of ceremonies Sir Jason looked round for his wife, waved to her and left Ramage with the admonition: ‘I’ll leave Miss de Giraud in your care!’

They both watched the Governor walk across the floor and, just as he reached his wife who was sitting amid a group of women gossiping behind waving fans, the orchestra struck up and the master of ceremonies cried, ‘Please take your places for – the cotillion!’

It was a dreary dance but at once several women, obeying the master of ceremonies’ directions, lined up on one side of the room and an equal number of men on the other.

Ramage, who hated dancing and was bad at it, regretted the fact for the first time in his life – this woman would be a superb dancer, accustomed to being partnered by men who spent every other evening dancing. The sort of –

‘You have a partner waiting, my Lord?’

For a moment he thought guiltily of Gianna but heard himself saying: ‘I was hoping it would be you, but I dance abominably and hardly know the cotillion. Anyway, you are already taken for this dance?’

She waved her programme and said with disarming frankness: ‘No – when Sir Jason told me you were coming I kept several free.’

By avoiding looking at her, Ramage felt his confidence slowly returning.

‘But you didn’t know I’d be so late.’

‘No?’ she laughed and showed him the programme. The first half dozen dances, which Ramage had missed through arriving late, had names pencilled against them. The rest were blank.

‘You took a risk. For all you knew I might have had a wooden leg!’