by Dudley Pope
Ramage put his hands flat on the table. 'I accept your decision.'
'Without a good reason, it will be dangerous. Can you think of a reason?'
'Stafford's illness becomes worse?'
Louis shook his head. 'An illness means a doctor, and a doctor is likely to suspect Stafford does not speak Italian, Doctors know Latin, don't forget.' He looked up at Ramage and began laughing. 'You were the last one to be taken ill— and you speak Italian well enough to pass for one. Fm afraid you are the one who has to take to his bed. It is the most natural reason, apart from being the safest.'
The prospect of faking an illness for a whole week was far from pleasing, but Ramage knew there was no other way. Louis was quite right because the stage had already been set: both the landlord and the lieutenant had seen him taken ill at supper; they both knew the Italian's foreman had been taken ill a few hours earlier. Why, the damned lieutenant-de-vaisseau would no doubt be anxious to hear how il signor was progressing when he returned from Paris with his satchel.
'We have to get the word to Jackson that there's been a delay. He'll be returning from England and expecting us back in Boulogne by Monday. And I must send another report: the Admiralty will be interested in what we've discovered from the lieutenant's satchel.'
Louis nodded. 'Passing messages is the least of our problems.' He thought for a moment. 'If all went well, Jackson should be on his way back to Boulogne tonight. I can arrange for your report to reach him so that he and Dyson sail for the rendezvous again tomorrow night. He'd be in England on Monday and back in Boulogne by Tuesday.'
'Good: I'll write the report now, and orders for Jacksoa'
‘The sooner the better,' Louis said, 'it's a long ride from here to Boulogne, the way my man will have to go. And don't forget he might be caught: don't be too - well, too explicit, I don't mean in your report to the Admiralty,' he added hastily. 'Just make sure that if my man is.caught and the papers read, no one can trace us here!'
Ramage jerked his hand up to his neck in a chopping motion. ‘The sight of a guillotine blade guarantees caution...’
CHAPTER TWELVE
By Tuesday afternoon the tension in Ramage's room at the Hotel de la Poste was as taut as the strings of an overtuned cello: if Stafford walked across the room in his normal manner he was told not to stamp; if he walked silently he was ordered not to creep about. Only Louis, who was free to come and go and anyway had his own room, escaped Ramage's irritation.
The feeling of being trapped in the room was illogical; Ramage admitted that much to himself as he alternated between the hard, upright chairs and the hard but horizontal bed. He slept badly because the lack of exercise meant his body was not tired, his muscles ached from disuse, and all the while the worry of the lieutenant-de-vaisseau's return kept his mind active. He knew all that well enough; he knew equally well that he had never had a cabin that was a quarter of the size of this room and, although he had occupied each one for months on end, he had never regarded any of them as small.
But immediately outside the cabins had been the ocean. Usually there were scores of miles to the nearest land in the Mediterranean, hundreds in the Caribbean, and thousands in the Atlantic. He had never really appreciated that freedom: just open the door, acknowledge the Marine sentry's salute, and a few steps up the companion ladder brought him on deck to look at a sea horizon. Not always a reassuring sight, admittedly, even in the Mediterranean and the Caribbean, since a summer storm in the Golfe du Lion stretched your seamanship to its limits and a Caribbean hurricane could take it beyond.
To pass the time, he had re-sailed every storm he had ever experienced while commanding his own ship. Not many, considering that it covered more than three years and the distance from Italy to Gibraltar and on to England, and from England across the Western Ocean to the West Indies, the length and breadth of the Caribbean, and back to England by a somewhat circuitous route. A couple of dozen gales, maybe double that number, since to a sailor they were as common and about as irritating as a shower of rain to a farmer gathering his harvest. One storm had been worrying, and that the one that caught the Kathleen cutter just after he had brought her westwards into the Atlantic through the Gut. The east wind had funnelled from the Mediterranean between the Atlas Mountains of Africa on one side and the mountains of Gibraltar and Spain on the other. For a few hours he had wondered whether the Kathleen would live through it. She had, since a ship can usually take more punishment than her men, and Ramage admitted to himself he had learned a lot (mainly that most of what he had learned as a midshipman and later as a lieutenant in big ships, had little to do with handling small ones), starting with the fact that following seas which looked like hills from the deck of a ship of the line seemed like mountains from the quarterdeck of the cutter.
And one hurricane. He had learned more about heavy weather in the forty-eight hours that its winds and seas had torn at the Triton brig that he would otherwise have learned in a lifetime at sea, and seen her masts go by the board. But the ship had stayed afloat - though that had been doubtful for what seemed like a lifetime. Yes, he had learned a good many lessons, though he would die a contented man if he never met another hurricane to put them into practice again, One lesson was as valid for a storm as for a hurricane, not to mention going into action or even taking a ship alongside a quay. It was simple enough - no reasonably trained and experienced captain with a well-found ship had much to fear providing his ship's company was well-trained and trusted him. The training part was obvious; the trusting less so. It had taken him several actions and a hurricane to find out what was probably the most important aspect of command.
Apparently its importance was not limited to being at sea; Stafford, who had served with him since his first command, was as cheerful shut up in this room as he would have been on the deck of the Triton brig running before the warm Trade winds and slicing her way towards the setting sun. He was exposed directly to his captain's bad temper - although only his captain would face the Admiralty's wrath if everything went wrong, all three of them would face the wrath of Bonaparte's men, and that in turn would mean being strapped down under the guillotine blade. Neither Stafford nor Louisi had more nor less to lose than Lieutenant Ramage: the only thing at stake was whether they could keep their heads firmly on their shoulders and get back, safely across the Channel...
Ramage vowed he would try to be less irritable in the future. The arrival of the lieutenant-de-vaisseau from Paris would ease some of the strain; his return from Boulogne on Saturday would see an end to it. On Saturday! The wait from Wednesday to Saturday would be twice as bad as this; what really mattered was Bruix's report. He found himself wondering for the hundredth time whether making the attempt on the satchel this time was worth the risk of wrecking everything for the attempt on Saturday.
Louis had reckoned it was; Stafford was indignant - or as indignant as he dared be - when Ramage had mentioned that a mistake with the wax seal of the Paris dispatch would endanger the whole operation. On Saturday, once they had read Bruix's dispatch, it would not matter if they jumped on the seal: by the time the satchel reached Paris and was opened at the Ministry of Marine on Monday, all three of them should be back on board the Marie and heading for Folkestone ...
Once again Ramage went back to reading Le Moniteur: Louis regularly brought in old copies that he found in various places: it had taken only fifteen minutes to read the latest issue, which was about as interesting as the London Gazette, although the bombast of some of the official statements was amusing enough.
He had decided a hundred times to abandon tonight's attempt; he had changed his mind a hundred and one times. So - and he was ashamed to admit it even to himself - they would make the attempt, providing he did not change his mind yet again. Judging by the increasing rate, he had time for half a hundred more changes of mind before the lieutenant-de-vaisseau flopped into his bed tonight, secure in the knowledge that his satchel was safely hidden ...
Supposing that Forfait did not bot
her to answer Bruix's questions about the 413 guns and the money for the workmen - or could not answer for a few days, until someone made a tally of the guns available and checked the money in the Treasury kitty . . .? The Admiralty in London would not give a tinker's cuss that there was a shortage of money - that was something faced every day by every ministry in every government in the whole world; but guns for the invasion flotilla's gunboats - that was different. Knowing that Bruix would get no more guns suitable for the gunboat was more important than knowing the rate at which new gunboats were being sent down slipways. Without guns, they were useless, since they were unsuitable for carrying troops, provisions or ammunition. On the other hand if Forfait said that no more guns would be available for, say, six months (until the foundries produced them, or the Army could be persuaded to hand some over and ship carriages could be made for them), then the Admiralty knew that for the next six months Bruix's only effective gunboats were those he had been able to commission.
You could go a stage further: Bruix would, left to his own devices (but of course the Minister or the First Consul might overrule him), probably finish the construction of those gunboats already on the stocks simply to get them out of the way, and then use all available extra carpenters and shipwrights (and sawyers and smiths, for that matter) to concentrate on building more barges - or if not more, then speeding up construction of those already started.
In fact you could very easily start getting quite sorry for Admiral Bruix's plight! The poor man was in the silly situation where he could build more transports for the Invasion Flotilla and carry an even larger Army of England across the Channel but, because he could not get the guns, he would have many fewer gunboats to escort them: the more transports he built, the less able he was to defend them.
It was some consolation that Lieutenant Ramage was not the only naval officer within fifty miles of the Channel who had problems, he reflected gloomily, but at least Bruix would not be strapped down on the guillotine if he failed.
Ramage was worried about Louis: from six o'clock he had been expected back to describe what plans he had made to ensure that the lieutenant once again had supper in the dining-room downstairs, but he had not arrived by seven o'clock, Ramage and Stafford had to return to their roles of invalids, undressed and in bed, waiting for supper. Both had to appear suitably ill, although the daily bulletin given to the landlard when he brought up their breakfast showed that Stafford was on the mend while Signor di Stefano made only slow progress. Fortunately the landlord himself had scorned the idea of calling a doctor: once Ramage had described the symptoms the landlord had clapped his hands and announced that the café where they had lunched was infamous for serving food that was bad, and that his wife had a family recipe for the medicine that would clear it all up tout de suite. He apologized that the Signor and his foreman should be taken ill in Amiens in this unfortunate way, but there was no need to worry. With every meal since then two small mugs of the medicine had appeared, a piping hot and evil brew of mint, rosemary and chicory for certain, and many other things that Ramage could not define but previously thought had their origins in drains. At every meal the two men had taken appreciative sips but, the moment the landlord was gone, poured the rest into old wine bottles which Louis had found for the purpose and took out of the hotel in his coat pocket to empty.
Louis arrived only a minute or two before the landlord and his wife came in with the supper trays. He had no time to report on his afternoon's work before the first course of his meal was served at the table, while the landlord's wife bustled back and forth between Ramage's and Stafford's beds, first with the mugs of medicine and then with bowls of broth.
Unfortunately for both men, part and parcel of the family remedy was a menu that went with the medicine: one which ensured that the patient received 'nourishing food'. This meant broth and bread, followed by boiled fish, for every meal, starting with breakfast.
Luckily Louis was treated as a trencherman, and the moment the landlord and his wife left the room after serving an enormous course he hurriedly shared it with Ramage and Stafford, making sure he was back at the table with a clean plate, and looking hungry, by the time they returned with the next offering. Only once, on the previous evening, had the plan gone adrift: they had forgotten to dispose of the medicine before the landlord's wife come back to clear the table. Amidst much clucking she stood by while Stafford and Ramage finished their mugs and, fighting to avoid vomiting, screwed up their face muscles into the nearest they could muster to appreciative smiles. Louis flattered her medical skill and incautiously - or so he claimed, though Ramage suspected an impish sense of humour - said they looked as though they could have drunk more.
As soon as supper was finished and the landlord and his wife had bidden them all good night, Louis looked quizzically up at Ramage. The tension throughout the meal had made it obvious that they were alarmed at his late appearance. Neither man had said anything during the brief periods when the landlord and his wife were out of the room between courses, Ramage from stubbornness and Louis for fear a man already under strain would lose his temper.
'It's all arranged,' Louis said. 'The lieutenant is here but hasn't gone up to his room yet. He -'
'How the devil is Stafford going to get the satchel?' Ramage snapped.
'- the lieutenant met an old friend and they are drinking together. He'll be going up to his room for a wash, and then go down to supper. After he has eaten, the friend and I join him for an hour or two playing cards ...'
'All right,' Ramage said, giving a thin smile of relief, 'but you had me worrying because you were late back.'
'I was drinking with the lieutenant,' Louis explained hurriedly, before Ramage's bad temper had a chance of returning. 'He saw me as he came in and greeted me like a brother. A comfortable ride from Paris, he tells me; a little tired but pleased to see me and his old friend. He has given the landlord strict instructions to have some good Calvados ready and the card table set up.'
He rubbed his hand across his chin and the bristles rasped: Louis never had more than twenty-four hours' growth of beard but, as far as Ramage could see, never less. It was impossible to guess when he actually shaved, unless he always used a blunt razor. Yet the Frenchman looked worried and Ramage waited patiently. Finally Louis said: 'We need to cut down the risks even more: we don't want anything to stop us getting a sight of Admiral Bruix's dispatch on Saturday, and we don't want to lose any time getting a copy of the dispatch to England ...'
Ramage thought for several moments, puzzled that the Frenchman should be so emphatic about something so obvious. 'Have you any suggestions?'
'Yes. To begin with, we should get your copy of the letter - or your notes - from the Minister out of this room as soon as possible. If you keep it here through the night until I can get it to Boulogne, you are holding on to evidence which can incriminate you. No one would search my room or suspect me; but you are different; a foreigner is always suspect . . .'
'But if the gendarmes became suspicious of me, it wouldn't take -'
'Even if they were, they are still only suspicious of an Italian shipbuilder,' Louis said impatiently. 'It would probably take two or three weeks to check on you. Your papers aren't forged - they are genuine, with an imaginary name written in. But if your room was searched and they found notes written in a foreign language, it wouldn't take long to get them translated. And then it would be so obvious what they were - and what you were! They would have no need to check. The only thing that could get you guillotined for certain within the week are those notes.'
The Frenchman was right. The first set of notes had been burned after he had written a report to Lord Nelson on Bruix's dispatch, and Jackson should now be on his way to Folkestone to deliver it. All he had to do tonight was make notes as soon as Stafford got hold of the Minister's reply, write out another report to Lord Nelson, and hide it somewhere until Louis could send it off to Boulogne to meet Jackson, who should be back by Thursday. The notes could be burned lik
e the first set, and the same procedure followed on Saturday night. Providing Jackson could get over and back each time, the operation could not fail: the Admiralty would have all the information it required, even if Ramage and Stafford were arrested on Sunday morning.
Louis agreed when Ramage outlined his intentions. 'As soon as you've finished writing your letter to Lord Nelson tonight and burned your notes, take the letter to my room. You'll find a loaf of fresh bread in the top drawer of the chest - I've just put it there with cheese and a bottle of wine: anyone finding it would assume I keep it in case I get hungry. Now, if you press the bottom of the loaf you'll find a slit in it that is deep enough to take your dispatch. Push it in and put the loaf back. It's the loaf,' Louis explained with a grin, 'that will take the dispatch to Boulogne. It will sit in a basket with a bottle of wine and some cheese - the courier's lunch.'
'Supposing he eats the loaf?' Ramage asked.
'He'll have three loaves - one for himself, one in case another traveller wants some, and a third which he is taking to his widowed mother in Boulogne. That's the one with the dispatch. The courier leaves for Boulogne tomorrow morning and again Sunday morning,' Louis reminded Ramage.‘That's all arranged.'
'But we'll be leaving on Sunday,' Ramage said, and then he remembered. ‘But we are supposed to be going on to Paris ...'
Again Louis grinned and shook an admonitory finger. 'You see, you haven't got into the habit of life in France! You English - if you want to go from Dover to London, you just climb into a carriage or mount a horse. Or board a wagon. No travel documents, no passports - all you need is the money to pay the fare. Of course, Bonaparte would tell you that you haven't “Liberté, Egalité, et Fraternité" . . .'
'I've no doubt he would,' Ramage said impatiently, 'but how do we get back to Boulogne on Sunday morning?'
'You ask Louis if he has arranged for new travel documents and a carriage.'
