Governor Ramage R. N. (34 page)

Jackson, carrying the lantern, quickly found the shells.

“There's one, sir, and there's the other. That's where yours was lying. You can see the impression in the earth—it's deep. Wonder there wasn't a scorpion under it.”

Three flame helmets in a row. All with the pointed end facing inland, towards the root of the tree, and the round top towards the sea.

“If you were using them to show a direction,” Yorke said, “I assume you'd point them that way.” He pointed towards the tree.

A tree and three shells in line, each shell two paces—he stepped it out—from the next one, the shells pointing in the same direction.

You see the three
and hear the sea …

Which three? The three headlands or the three shells? In a logical sequence, one would need to see the three headlands, and then “hear the sea” in the shells. But the poem certainly did not sound like that …

… and remember me.
Then three by three
beneath the tree.

“Three by three”
must
refer to the shells, and the one in the first line meant the headlands. But, he thought, exasperated by the whimsicality of the poem, what do the last two lines
mean?

Three by three … well, the first three must be the line of shells. But what other symbol of three showed where to dig?

“Well,” Yorke said impatiently, “have you made up your mind where to dig?”

Ramage swallowed hard to avoid making a brief and bitter reply. Yorke's tone implied it was only Ramage's tardiness that kept the men's spades from the treasure.

“Yes,” he said, “and you have the honour of digging the first spadeful.”

“Oh thanks!” Yorke said, his old enthusiasm bubbling again. “Hey! Stafford! Bring me your spade!”

Yorke spat on his hands with a flourish. “I'm never sure what that does, but all the best labourers do it. Now,” he said, “where do we start?”

“I've no ideas,” Ramage said. “We've got to start somewhere!”

Yorke looked around at the area lit by the lantern. “It'd take a few days to clear the soil here to the depth of a man …”

“I know; that's why I was hoping we'd get another clue ‘Three by three …'”

“Three paces from the shells?” Yorke said hopefully.

“Which way, and measured from which shell?”

“Yes,” Yorke said. “It doesn't sound like our piratical poet to leave it so vague.”

Ramage gestured to Jackson. “Start the men digging a narrow trench along here.” He indicated a line through the shells. “Two feet deep.”

To Yorke he said, “We have to move the shells. We'd better set up some sticks showing where they were.”

Within fifteen minutes the seamen were digging vigorously, and from the intersection of lines of sticks stuck into the ground at the edge of the light thrown by the lantern, it was easy to see where all three shells had been.

Within an hour the seamen had cleared a trench some eighteen feet long from the tree to well beyond where Yorke's shell had been placed. There was just earth and small stones—the soil, heavy and red, was spread thinly over the rocky island.

As the men stood back from the trench Yorke said: “How about making a geometric pattern?”

“Why not?” Ramage said. “It's a matter of chance. We'll start with a line perpendicular to this trench. Jackson! Same length, which means nine feet either side of this point, where we found the first shell, making a cross.”

Yorke gestured to the perspiring men, faces shiny in the dim light of the lantern, their bodies making grotesque shadows. “The grave-digger scene in Hamlet,” he said. “‘Alas poor Yorick …'”

“How old d'you think that tree is?” Ramage asked suddenly.

“No idea. A casuarina, isn't it? Use them out here to shelter houses from the wind—plant a row of them. That means they grow quickly, like firs. A hundred years? No more.”

“That means the tree probably has nothing to do with all this.”

“Almost certainly. Why?” Yorke asked.

“I've been wondering about these shells. After all, anyone could kick them around, and that would spoil the whole thing.”

“I wonder when anyone last stood here?”

“I agree, but how could a pirate be sure that bushes would not grow here and hide the shells?”

“Don't forget he was trying to
hide
his treasure,” Yorke said.

“Yes, but I wonder why?”

“Oh—being pursued … or used this island as a base, then suddenly his ship's destroyed—a hurricane for instance … Marooned here and dying of starvation—or even old age. Buries his treasure and before he dies he carves the poem somewhere …”

Ramage nodded. “That sounds quite possible. Henry Morgan was around here a hundred years ago. ‘The Brethren of the Coast'—wasn't that his gang?”

“Yes. He was Governor of Jamaica, too, wasn't he?”

“I think so. Still, Jamaica was remote then. I suspect that in those days the Governor wasn't quite the law-abiding person we think of now!”

“A shell!”

The yell came from a seaman, and Ramage bellowed: “Don't touch it!”

Jackson seized the lantern and ran to where the man was working at the landward end of the trench.

“I didn't pick it up, Jacko,” the man said excitedly. “Look, there it is!”

Jackson crouched down with the lantern and Ramage could see it clearly. It was a flame helmet, and it pointed directly at the tree.

Ramage looked at Yorke. “Geometry!” he said, “or trigonometry. Or just a man that liked patterns!”

“The direction it's pointing,” Yorke said. “It must be significant!”

“Jackson—a new trench,” Ramage snapped. “Start here and go in a straight line to the foot of the tree. With a bit of luck you'll find more shells.”

He turned to face the seamen. “File past in a moment and look at this shell. As you dig a new trench from here to the tree look for more shells. Try not to dislodge one if you find it. Or if you can't stop yourself in time, see which way the sharp end is pointing.”

Like a bunch of small boys let loose on a row of ripe strawberry plants, the seamen marked out a straight line and began digging again.

“I begin to have a faint hope,” Ramage said quietly to Yorke, his words hidden from the men by the noise of their cheerful chattering.

“When I find I might be within a few feet of a million pounds in treasure trove,” Yorke said, “I have no difficulty in fanning faint hope into a roaring furnace!”

The two men stood, each wrapped in his thoughts, each glancing from one seaman to another, each willing one of the men to leap up with an excited shout.

He's a cool one, Yorke thought to himself as he watched Ramage, who was blinking occasionally, his face a sharp profile against the lantern light beyond. In the past couple of weeks he's fought off a French privateer that damn nearly captured the
Topaz,
survived a hurricane and become the ruler of a small island. The curious thing is that whatever he's doing, he looks as though he's completely at home and perfectly accustomed to it. Bringing the
Triton
alongside the privateer, handling the brig in the hurricane, having rafts made ready when both ships hit the reef, taking over on the island, acting as jailer for the Spaniards, a graceful host to the St Brieuc party, managing the seamen from both ships—and a congenial friend to Yorke himself. It was an impressive list.

As leader of a treasure hunt, he had imagination, patience and determination and behaved as though his profession in life was hunting for treasure….

One of the reasons why Yorke enjoyed being with Ramage was that his sense of humour seemed to expand and grow sharper the more serious the situation. Perhaps when everything was going perfectly, with no problems or crises on the horizon, Ramage might become a humourless and boring companion.

Probably not boring, because he had that essential curiosity—almost nosiness—about life and everything that comprised it that always made him stimulating company. Flame helmet shells, odd and archaic—almost bizarre—words in English and Spanish that he delighted in using not to show off but because he assumed everyone else would share his delight in them; information about local customs, picked up on his travels.

He seemed to Yorke a lonely man. Lonely on board, of course, because the maintenance of discipline required all captains to be lonely, but probably lonely in his private life as well, if only because the chances of finding people who understood his complex personality were slim.

Yorke had the feeling that the St Brieucs wished Ramage was their son, or perhaps their son-in-law. They often spoke of Maxine's husband, but casually, as one might refer to a favourite horse. A bond of the physical body, not the soul. Maxine never mentioned him at all. She might be breaking her heart over his absence, or it might not be as unwelcome an absence as her husband might hope. Had Maxine fallen in love with Ramage? He felt a twinge of jealousy but did not know the answer.

Everything here revolved round Ramage, but what was his future? Witty, charming, impatient, brave to the point of foolhardiness, and almost damnably handsome. With his family's wealth and position, Ramage could live an enjoyable life in England but like his father and grandfather, he had gone to sea. After what had happened to the old Earl, any sane youngster would have resigned his commission. For him the dangers to his life came as much from men like Goddard as from hurricanes or battles. He must really love the sea because—

A seaman yelled and Yorke pulled himself together and glanced across at Ramage. He was standing transfixed, his mouth open and his eyes out of focus …

Like Yorke, Ramage's thoughts had been far from Punta Tamarindo.

“Flame helmet, sir!” Jackson called briskly. “Same depth as the last one and pointing in the same direction.”

Yorke joined Ramage where Jackson was bent over with the lantern.

Ramage pointed. “Spaced the same distance apart. Two paces. And …”

He gestured along the first trench, and then from the first shell in the second trench to where they now stood.

“The third shell should be here …”

He walked two paces.

“Jackson!”

The American grabbed a shovel and began scooping the earth away in layers, careful not to disturb a shell if he came across it.

After a few minutes he suddenly stopped, dropped the shovel and began scooping with his hands. He glanced up.

“It's here, sir.”

The silence was frightening. Yorke had the feeling that every man believed for the first time that he was standing inches from a fortune.

Ramage signalled to the Marines to go over to the tree.

“Jackson, Stafford,” he said as he joined the Marines. “I want you Marines facing outwards, kneeling and ready to fire, and beyond the light of the lantern. Your job is to guard us against an attack by outsiders. Keep absolutely quiet and don't look back at the lantern, because you'll lose your night vision. Get your backs against bushes or a big rock, otherwise you'll be silhouetted against the lantern. Challenge twice, then fire if you get no reply. Any questions? Carry on.”

Ramage took his pistols and gave them to Jackson, and said quietly: “I'll be occupied with this digging. Stand beyond this tree, and cover us. I can't think any one of the men will be silly, but if there's treasure, the sight of gold can upset a man. Hide yourself somewhere within range. No need for anyone to know where you are. Mind the Marines, though …”

With that, Ramage said to Yorke: “Any suggestions where we dig now?”

Yorke looked bewildered. “Along the present trench—or, rather, continue the same line, I imagine.”

“Perhaps,” Ramage said softly, and Yorke thought almost triumphantly, “but I like triangles—they have three sides! Project the line of the first three shells and then the line of these three and you have two sides of an isosceles triangle. Almost two sides, rather. Look”—he swept with his hand—”how about that for the apex?” He was pointing to a spot five feet from the trunk of the tree.

Without waiting for an answer he walked to the spot, sighting along both trenches. He ground a heel in the earth and then beckoned to the nearest seamen.

“Dig here. A big hole. Pitch the earth well clear.”

To Yorke, he said: “I'm going to make a guess, which is a silly thing to do at this stage.”

Yorke waited, and when Ramage said nothing, prompted him. “Well? Why not turn it into a bet—then one of us stands to win
something!
”

“I was hoping you'd say that. Let's bet on the age of this tree.

“Fifty years,” Yorke said promptly, “And fifty guineas backs my guess.”

“Ah,” Ramage said. “Can I bet that it's more than a hundred—or more exactly, dates from when the treasure was buried?”

“Done,” Yorke said.

Ramage was reminded of quiet days at home in Cornwall, watching a dog digging at a rabbit burrow. The determined dog panting with excitement; the earth flying up between its back legs. Already the hole had taken shape; already the excavated earth was making small heaps.

He walked over to the diggers. The hole was now in shadow and two feet deep. He could see wooden veins which were the roots of the tree, and hear the occasional thud and judder of a spade bouncing off a thicker root.

Then they were down to three feet and the roots were thicker and closer, springy and harder to cut. They were going to need axes—and daylight. He gave the orders to stop digging and picked three men to go back to the village for axes, first calling to the Marine sentries to let them pass.

“We've lost a lot of sleep,” Ramage commented to Yorke, “but so far we haven't got anything except experience.”

Yorke did not reply. He was feeling depressed. The prospect of digging under the tree seemed hopeless. Although he would never have said anything to Ramage, he began to think the treasure hunt was over. It had been great fun and a test of their wits, but somewhere a series of coincidences had entered into the game.