Ramage and the Guillotine r-6

by Dudley Pope

  'And what does Louis tell me,' Ramage asked sarcastically, 'That he has also forgotten all about them?'

  'No, Louis would tell you that they'll all be here by Friday, along with a letter from the Port Captain at Boulogne asking the Signor to return urgently for more discussions - a request that makes you very angry, as the landlord will notice.'

  'How did the Port Captain know I was still in Amiens and not in Paris?'

  Louis thumped his hand against his forehead, then shook his head with exasperation. 'Remember, this is France! Any Frenchman could tell you. The police headquarters in Amiens know where you are staying. Any messenger trying to find you and knowing your route would simply inquire at thepolice headquarters in every big town.'

  Ramage began to feel a chill creeping over him that had nothing to do with the fact that the sun had long since set: he pictured the police of France as a great octopus bestriding the country, a tentacle reaching into every town, with the suckers representing villages and police posts along the roads, and although unseen, touching the lives of every man and woman in the country.

  Louis was watching him closely. 'I think at last you understand, mon ami,' he said quietly, and Ramage nodded.

  Stafford's grin was infectious. As he held out the letter after opening the seal on the cover Ramage saw that the Cockney was completely unworried: there was not a trace of perspiration on his brow, his hand was steady, and he had worked quickly but without hurrying. Deftly, Ramage thought; that was the word. As he took the letter, Ramage made sure he did not have to hold out his own hand too far for too long: he knew it was trembling slightly. He knew he would laugh a little too loudly if Stafford made a joke - in fact a laugh might well sneak out as a giggle.

  With great deliberation he put the letter to one side without glancing at it, drew the sheets of notepaper in front of him, placed the inkwell near his right hand and inspected the tip of the quill pen. Unhurriedly - although he knew the whole performance was for himself, because Stafford was completely absorbed with the watermarks in the paper used as an envelope - he unfolded the letter and began reading, almost skimming through it the first time. He found this was the best way of getting the 'atmosphere' of a letter written in a foreign language, relying on a second or third reading to yield the precise details.

  One thing was immediately so clear as to be startling: Citoyen Pierre-Alexandre-Laurent Forfait, Minister of the Marine and Colonies, was writing an extremely chilly reply to Admiral Bruix; far colder and more formal than Ramage would have expected, having read the Admiral's dispatch to the Minister. It might be Forfait's manner - in which case would the Admiral (who obviously knew him well) have written what was by comparison a friendly dispatch?

  He read the Minister's letter again more slowly, lingering over some of the phrases and examining them. Hmm . . . there was no doubt about it; the letter was intended to be cold. Ramage had the feeling that someone (presumably Bonaparte himself) was very angry with Bruix's request - repeated request - for money, while the Minister was alarmed at Bruix's warning that the full report on the Invasion Flotilla would prove disappointing to the First Consul when it arrived in Paris.

  Citoyen Forfait was more than alarmed; he was obviously a very frightened man. Ramage saw him as a nervous individual who understood the danger of standing between the First Consul and one of his admirals. When things were going well, it was a splendid position for an ambitious politician, since he received the praise and could hold on to as much as he wished before passing on the remainder to the admiral concerned. When things were going badly, Bonaparte's wrath - and from what Louis said, the Corsican had more than his share of his island's hot temper - landed fairly and squarely on the minister's unprotected head. From the tone of Bruix's dispatch Ramage guessed that the First Consul's original orders for the construction and commissioning of the Invasion Flotilla had been impossible from the outset. He pictured an anxious Minister nodding his head, bowing his way out of the First Consul's presence, and rushing off to give the orders to Bruix...

  Ramage glanced at his watch and realized that he was wasting time.

  Hurriedly he began making notes. Admiral Bruix's request for fifty-four guns at once for the gunboats already completed, and 359 more for the remaining gunboats that were ordered, 'had been noted.' However, Citoyen Bruix would have observed, the Minister wrote icily, that there was a general shortage of all sizes of naval guns, particularly 24-pounders, and the foundries were, at the First Consul's express order, working overtime. However, there were seventeen 24-pounder guns and carriages at Antwerp, and orders had been sent for them to be taken by sea to Boulogne. Since most of the coast between Antwerp and Boulogne fell within Citoyen Bruix's command, the Minister hoped that the British would not be allowed to intercept the vessels carrying them.

  The request for money was ill-timed, Forfait wrote, and the First Consul, when told of it by the Controller-General (since the request had to be made to the Treasury, 'there being no funds available at the Ministry'), had given instructions that Citoyen Bruix would be responsible for ensuring that the shipyards continued to give of their best 'even though accounts were outstanding,' and that the workmen did not leave their jobs. Any man that did - or threatened to - would be conscripted immediately. Citoyen Bruix was to issue a warning to that effect. In the meantime the First Consul waited 'with unconcealed impatience' for the complete report he had requested.

  Ramage handed the letter back to Stafford as he scribbled the last of his notes. He had been careful to copy whole sentences where necessary - he knew that although Lord Nelson might accept his word that as a precaution Citizen Forfait was putting out an anchor to windward, their Lordships at the Admiralty most certainly would not. Nor could he blame them, he thought, as he watched Stafford carefully folding the paper and beginning to heat the spatula again; Their Lordships would also find it impossible to picture Lieutenant Ramage and Ordinary Seaman Stafford juggling with candle, spatula and sealing-wax and reading the correspondence between Vice-Admiral Bruix and Bonaparte's Minister of Marine - in fact even Lieutenant Ramage was finding it hard to believe, though Will Stafford, Ordinary Seaman, seemed to take it in his stride.

  As soon as the letter to Bruix was sealed, Stafford put it back in the satchel and vanished from the room to return it to its resting place under the lieutenant-de-vaisseau's bed. Ramage took another sheet of paper and began his report to Lord Nelson. He had already decided that he must write it on the assumption that he might not get back to England to make a personal report: a euphemistic way of avoiding having to admit that the French might catch him and put his neck under the guillotine blade. He must also write it in such a way that if it was intercepted it would not reveal how the Minister's mail had been read.

  'An opportunity presented itself to read the reply made to the sender of the dispatch referred to in my first letter,' he wrote carefully. From that, Lord Nelson would know it was Forfait's reply to Bruix, since he had given both names in his previous report, which had already reached Jackson safely. He glanced up as Stafford slid back into the room, and then continued writing.

  Stafford sat down on his bed, wondering if he would ever stop feeling hungry. He stifled a belch, but tasted the medicine yet again. The damned Frogs: he had not trusted them the moment the Marie arrived in Boulogne, and nothing had happened since to make him change his mind.

  Marvellous how the Captain gabbled away in the lingo: he sounded as French as Louis, except when he was talking Italian, of course. To hear him and the Marchesa rattling on was an education - they talked so fast they certainly got their money's worth for every breath they took! It was funny how being shut up in this room was getting the Captain rattled. Unlike him - he was usually ... Stafford cudgelled his memory for a phrase he had heard one of the Captain's friends use: 'My deah Remmedge, y're disgustin'ly cheerful!' He usually was, too. In fact, when they went into action the more dangerous it got the more cheerful he became. Jacko once said that if the Captain ever died in ba
ttle, he would probably be laughing his head off.

  Stafford glanced across to see him writing, his face in profile against the flickering candle. He looked very strained these days. Dark patches under his eyes - squinting, too, so the two vertical creases between the inboard ends of his eyebrows look like the fairloads for heavy rope. And blinking, as he did when he was thinking hard and rubbing the upper of those two scars over his brow. If only he knew how well his ship's company knew all his little habits!

  The two vertical creases between the eyebrows, and the mouth shut in a straight line like a mousetrap meant someone had done something wrong, and stand by for a chilly blast, m'lads. Creases, mouth normal, blinking and rubbing the upper scar on the brow meant difficult situation and I'm thinking hard. Creases, mousetrap mouth and rubbing the scar meant get your heads well down everyone 'cos the Captain is about to explode. The exception was when they were going into action and the odds were not favourable (and that was the way the Captain usually went into action!). The creases, mousetrap and rubbing the scar vanished with the sound of the first gun; then the Captain's eyes fairly glowed, like polished chestnuts, and he would sling the same sort of grin across his face as he used when the Marchesa teased him.

  Stafford had never seen the Captain worried like this, though. Like a bear in a cage, those bears they have at Vauxhall Gardens, nasty-tempered brutes, and you could see that all they wanted was to be set free, so they could roam where they wanted, eating people from time to time or just growling like the Captain. Trouble was he had been talking French to Louis most of the time, so it was hard to know exactly what was going on. Sitting here and getting the satchel and opening the letters might seem difficult to the Captain, but as far as William Stafford was concerned it was a lot better than reefing a topsail in a high wind, or polishing brass and scrubbing decks on board a ship of the line at anchor at Spithead.

  There were not many other captains he would care to be with on a jaunt like this one; in fact Mr Ramage was the only one he could think of. All the rest would be stiff and sort of gritty, like dried sand on the deck after holystoning; the idea of having to share a room with a common seaman - well, demmit, sir! That was what made Mr Ramage the Captain he was: it all came natural to him - joking with the men, sharing a room with one of them when necessary, and all the rest that went with it. Dignity - that was it. Any of those other captains would lose their dignity if they did that; they would find the men getting familiar. It did not work that way with Mr Ramage, though; if anything, it worked the other way - he gained in dignity because he had the men's respect. Assured of himself, he was, as if he wore his assurance like a skin and never realized he had it, and because of that was not for ever scared of losing it. It was only whores who kept harping on their virginity.

  Funny how Mr Ramage watched that game with the wax seals: he seemed to think it magic. And opening a lock! Well, every man to his own trade - it always seems like magic the way he takes the ship into action. And every time he outsmarts the French - even old Mr Southwick, who had been in more battles than most men have eaten mince pies, reckons there's no one like him.

  Handsome, too. Face a bit on the lean side, and not a bit of spare meat on the carcase. Father owns a big estate so there must be a lot of money there. Good looks, money, a nice chap, and the Marchesa too. But the way he goes about things you would think he had nothing to lose if a French cannonball lopped his head off. Those two scars on his forehead - each was a memento of boarding a French ship with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. Each time he had ended up unconscious and covered in blood, the lads thinking he was dead. You would think that he would go more carefully with so much to lose, since he had so much to stay alive for. But no, show him a French ship and off he goes, breathing fire and smoke and taking a swipe with his sword.

  Stafford smiled to himself. Watching him sitting at the table, tapping his teeth with the feather of his pen, reminded him of a schoolboy trying to do his lessons! A good caning for you in the morning, my boy, unless you learn ten more verses of that Euclid. Though maybe Euclid was not a language - never heard of anyone speaking it. Come to think of it, it might be a sort of sums? He shrugged his shoulders, thankful that neither sums nor Euclid were needed to pick a lock or open a sealed letter.

  Although Louis was good the way he shared his meal the minute the old trout and her husband left the room, he was hungry. That damned medicine tasted so awful it stopped the rest of the food going down properly, like something nasty blocking a drain. Looks as though Mr Ramage has finished, Wipe the pen, screw the cap on the inkpot, fold the letter and reach for the sealing-wax . . . Stafford walked over to the table.

  'Top drawer in Louis's chest,' Ramage said, giving him the letter. 'A loaf of bread. It has a slit in the bottom of it large enough for this. Take the candle...'

  Late that night Louis woke Ramage apologetically. 'I forgot to settle one thing, and I want to send word by the courier when he leaves for Boulogne in the morning . . .'

  Ramage nodded to indicate he was fully awake and listening.

  'The Marie - we should be back in Boulogne by Sunday evening. If you want to sail at once for Folkestone, I'd better pass the word for Dyson to have everything ready.'

  'Can we get to Boulogne all right on Sunday? We can get a carriage?'

  'It's the best day of the week: few people travelling, so there's no trouble getting fresh horses. The gendarmes at the barrières have usually eaten a big enough meal and drunk enough wine to be sleepy in the afternoon.'

  'Would the Marie normally go fishing on Sunday night?'

  'Any night,' Louis said emphatically. 'We've always avoided regular sailings, so that if we miss a voyage or make an extra one, nobody notices.'

  In five days' time they might be on their way back to England. Was it too much to hope? 'Very well, we'll sail on Sunday night. And -' he hesitated, as if talking about it might make it happen. ‘I’ll write orders for Jackson.'

  Louis rubbed his chin. 'It would be a pity if we didn't get the third letter. Two out of three is better than nothing, but the one that'll cover you with glory -' he grinned amiably - 'is the third one.'

  'It'll be a very quiet glory - if only for the sake of you and your smuggler friends,' Ramage said, getting out of bed and rubbing his eyes. 'Put that candle of yours down on the table while I write Jackson's orders. Hope that loaf isn't stale by the time it gets to Boulogne.'

  'By the way,' Louis said, 'I won a lot of money from the lieutenant tonight: I've promised him a chance of revenge next Saturday night - providing you still haven't recovered enough for us to carry on to Paris.'

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In anticipation of the arrival of the fake letter from the Port Captain at Boulogne asking him to return for more talks, Ramage's slow recovery began on Thursday morning. When the landlord arrived with breakfast he was delighted to find Ramage sitting up at the table, pretending a shakiness he did not feel and claiming to be on the mend. By Thursday evening the landlord's wife, as she laid the table for the evening meal, was claiming a victory for her family recipe, encouraged by Louis.

  On Friday afternoon the landlord was knocking on their door and announcing as though he was the town crier that a special messenger had brought a letter from Boulogne for the Signor, and was waiting.

  Ramage went to the door, took the letter with a flourish, told the landlord to come in and wait, walked back to the table and sat down importantly. After breaking the seal he began reading, and sniffed with annoyance. 'Mama mia . . . accidente!'

  Louis jumped up from Stafford's bed as if in alarm. 'Is something wrong, Signor?'

  'Wrong?' Ramage banged the letter down on the table. 'That twice-damned Port Captain at Boulogne - who would think I spent two whole weeks with him, discussing everything from the price of workmen to providing saws and adzes? Now he wants me to go back for more talks. "Urgent," he says; "very urgent," and that is why he is sending a special messenger after me. Well,' Ramage said wrathfully,
noticing the landlord was obviously very impressed by what he was hearing, 'the Port Captain is lucky that I got no farther than Amiens; if I'd reached Paris I'd be damned if I'd travel back all that way. Even now, I'm not so sure that -'

  'Oh, please,' Louis wheedled. 'For the good of the Republic, Signor ... we need the help of men such as yourself: why, by using the methods you employ in your shipyard in Genoa -well, I heard the Port Captain's adjutant saying he reckoned it would halve the time they're taking at Boulogne and Calais to build the barges.'

  'It would indeed,' Ramage said, obviously undecided. 'But they expect me to bring my men up here and put them to work for a pittance. Charity - that's what the Port Captain expects. Hardly becomes the First Consul and the new Republic, I must say.' He gave a contemptuous sniff. 'If you want to build an invasion flotilla, then you need money, materials and men. Talk and promises never planked a ship -'

  'Well, they've sent a special messenger after you, Signor,' Louis said. 'That shows the importance they attach to you, doesn't it, Jobert?'

  'Oh yes, indeed,' the landlord said hurriedly. 'I knew it atonce - that is why I rushed up here the moment the messenger arrived.'

  'Very well, I'll be guided by you,' Ramage said in a voice that showed he was mollified. ‘I shall be well enough to travel by - well, no earlier than Sunday.'

  'Shall I tell the messenger, Signor?' When Jobert scurried down the passage Ramage said anxiously to Louis: 'What about the travel documents - there was only this.' He held up the single sheet of paper.

  'I expect the messenger has special instructions not to hand over the travel documents until he is sure you are going to Boulogne,' the Frenchman said lightly. 'Such documents would be worth a hundred gold livres to spies and other enemies of the Republic!'

  'Quite so, quite so,' Ramage murmured. 'One can't be too careful.'

  A few minutes later Jobert returned, holding a small packet. 'I signed a receipt for this, Signor,' he said in the sort of awed voice he might have used to confess that he had sold his soul to the Devil. 'The messenger is returning to Boulogne with the good news.'