"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.