Ramage & the Guillotine

by Dudley Pope

  “Very well, you arrived in Boulogne, made your inspection, and decided you and your men can help build the barges and gunboats—even improve and speed up the methods being used. But you are not satisfied with the wages or conditions you have been offered, so you want to return to Paris—you came by that route—to visit the Ministry of Marine and negotiate better terms.

  “Now, we have to account for my presence. I am—” Louis’s mouth curved down in a wry smile, “I am a representative of the Committee for Public Safety, making sure you do not get up to mischief! Of course you do not know I am your guardian; you think I am a representative of the Ministry of Marine. Yes, that story would go down well with the gendarmes; I wink at them confidentially and show my papers and whisper a few words about Italians so they think they are helping the Committee. Well, how do you like my little plot?”

  “Well enough,” Ramage said slowly, “except that it will not stand up to a moment’s investigation in Boulogne or Paris. If the gendarmes checked with the shipyard—”

  “No arrangement we can make will stand such checking,” Louis said emphatically. “The best we can do is to have such a good story that they accept it the moment we tell it, and accept our papers. There is no problem about papers, and our whole purpose is to have a story that is slightly unusual yet completely probable: something only just outside the limits of their experience, yet well within their comprehension. There is not a man between here and Paris who wouldn’t understand and believe the story I am suggesting.”

  “Supposing we met someone who knew you?” Ramage said doubtfully.

  “What if we did? That is the advantage of choosing the Committee of Public Safety for me: they work secretly and use the most unlikely people—Joseph Le Bon was once a priest! And we have the papers”—he pointed to the packet he had put on the beds—”with the correct heading and stamps.”

  “You certainly have a variety of stationery.”

  “We need it. Although the French government does not harass us when we smuggle French goods to England—they are only too glad to get English currency—they do not approve of us smuggling English goods into France. They demand a heavy Customs duty. So we pay enough to keep people quiet, but for the rest we need documents so we can deliver our goods without difficulties. A mason with a cartload of stone, a charcoal burner with logs, a farmer selling a load of hay—they all need documents, and if they are going to another town they need passports so that the cases of whisky and bales of wool underneath will not be discovered. Liberty, Fraternity, Bureaucracy—they were the watchwords of the Revolution. The pen is mightier than the sword,” he said sarcastically.

  He picked up the quill pen and tapped his teeth with it. “Now, how does my plan sound to you?”

  “It sounds excellent,” Ramage said, “but you’re taking an enormous risk!”

  “If anything goes wrong,” Louis said cheerfully “we’ll all ride in the same tumbril, and can cheer each other up.”

  Ramage thought for a moment. “Well be away several days. The Marie from Folkestone will be going to the rendezvous each night … I’d better send a report to England. I’ve found out how many vessels there are in Boulogne, and what each type can carry. It’s little enough, but I’d better—”

  “You’d better pass over every important scrap of information as you get it,” Louis interrupted grimly. “It’ll give Dyson and your two men something to do with the Marie. But be careful of giving too many details of our proposed journey, just in case …”

  “I’ll just mention that I have to leave Boulogne for a few days. Look, I’ll write it now, and you tell Dyson that Jackson and Rossi will be down to join him in the morning, and they are to sail for the rendezvous tomorrow night.”

  Louis nodded. “Who actually delivers the report in England?”

  “Jackson. He can transfer to the Folkestone Marie, deliver it, sail in her the following night and be back here in Dyson’s boat the next morning.”

  “Very well,” Louis said, “it was fortunate I brought a pen! Now, let’s get these passports and other documents completed, then I’ll leave you to write your report.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE two-wheeled postchaise normally carried only two people, with plenty of room for their luggage. There were grubby but comfortable cushions should they wish to sleep, and many pockets in the faded green leather upholstery in which could be stowed flasks, warm clothing, books for those hardy enough to read, and the cautious traveller’s pistol, still the most reliable insurance against highwaymen and footpads. Louis had slipped all their travel documents into one such pocket, explaining later that French people were so accustomed to having a lot of papers that they became blase.

  Although the carriage, a cabriolet, was open in the front so that the passengers had a good view of the road and countryside, it smelled stuffy, a mixture of mildew and boiled cabbage. Louis sat on one side and Ramage on the other, with Stafford in the middle, so that no matter which side an inquiring gendarme opened the door, Stafford would not be expected to speak. Having told the coachman all about the two Italian passengers—with suitable winks and hints—Louis ensured that he would be able to describe various things of interest along the road without arousing suspicion.

  The large number of shops and houses that had been damaged or destroyed in the town of Boulogne had not been obvious in Ramage’s earlier walk round the port area. He assumed at first that it was the result of bombardment by British ships; then he saw that much of the damage could not have been caused by gunfire from seaward because other buildings or hills were in the way.

  As the carriage rattled along the narrow cobbled streets and out through the town gates, Louis explained that it had happened in the early days of the Revolution: houses and shops owned by people accused of being anti-Revolutionary or pro-British were looted and then destroyed. Both Boulogne and Calais had suffered for their age-old association with the British, Louis said in a low voice, careful that the coachman could not hear. Even the shouted accusation of a jealous rival was enough to start the mob burning a shop or warehouse. And churches, convents, charitable institutions—all were wrecked in the first few weeks of Revolutionary enthusiasm.

  The sun was just coming up over the horizon to reveal a cloudless sky as the ‘chaise reached the open countryside and passed the hamlet of Samur. Ramage felt uncomfortable in his new clothes, although they were a passably good fit. The white kerseymere breeches would have benefited by an hour’s attention from a good tailor, but the boots fitted and the worsted cotton stockings were comfortable enough. The coat was tight under the armpits and the skirt was (by London standards) unfashionably long, but the light grey was just the colour an Italian man of affairs would choose for a visit to France. It seemed strange to be wearing a round hat after so many years with a three-cornered one, but they were popular in France, according to Louis.

  The damage to property was not confined to Boulogne: in even the smallest village there was usually at least one shop or cottage destroyed; in the larger villages and towns the churches had suffered too, and those left standing often had a sign in front, painted in Revolutionary colours, saying “This is a Temple of Reason and Truth.” Louis pointed out the English convent at Montreuil which had been destroyed and was now just a heap of ruins, with bushes and shrubs growing where once nuns walked and worked and prayed. Most of the ruined houses nearby belonged to British families who had formed a flourishing little colony under the ancien régime.

  Soon the journey established its own rhythm: at each barriere the coachman would call the amount of the toll and Louis would pass it out to the attendant; at each post Louis alighted to inspect the new horses, usually complaining (on principle, apparently) at the condition of at least one of them. Most of the people they passed along the road were poorly dressed. Few men were less than middle-aged and most much older, which was to be expected in a country where conscription was strictly enforced, but it had another effect for which Ramage was not prepared:
in the few fields that were cultivated women were doing most of the work.

  He saw an old woman leading a pair of donkeys while another, her skirts hitched up to her knees, guided the plough; a mile down the road two young girls led a horse pulling a cart laden with cordwood. He had also seen several boys, fifteen or sixteen years old, begging quite openly, and Louis had explained that most such youths refused to learn a trade, knowing they would be conscripted the moment they reached eighteen, and were already dreaming of the martial glory that Bonaparte promised them.

  The whole countryside showed one effect of the Royal Navy’s strict blockade: almost every forest, wood and copse had been chopped down; even isolated trees in the hedgerows had been felled and one had fallen across a cottage, where it had been left. Ragged stumps, like rotten teeth, showed Bonaparte’s hunger for timber to build his invasion barges and repair his ships, although it was significant that there was no sign of the arch-shaped two-wheeled timber carriers, no train of horses hauling trunks along the roads, no trees newly felled and lopped and waiting for transport. Whatever timber was now being cut into planks at the sawyers’ pits at Boulogne and Calais must have been carried a long distance—by sea from the Biscay ports or Spain? It was unlikely that many ships would get through from the Baltic, Ramage thought; the blockade was too effective. But hauling trunks a couple of hundred miles along roads such as these would take weeks.

  Shortage of wood was not just a lack of planking; far more critical would be the lack of compass timber, the wood that grew in natural crooks and curves and which was vital for constructing frames and rounded bows and tapered sterns. He realized that that alone would account for the box-shaped barges; that alone meant that no master shipwright could build a bow or stern that would allow a vessel to get to windward: apart from the bow having to butt through the water, like a goat trying to get through a hedge, every wave would try to push it aside …

  Even though the ‘chaise’s wheels were large and reasonably well sprung they could do little to disguise the big potholes which jarred each man’s spine; soon Ramage was just staring numbly at the countryside until, at Montreuil, they rattled over a bridge across a river which Louis said was the Canche. The name was vaguely familiar and Louis tried to provide clues. It flowed through Hesdin to its source somewhere near St Pol, he said. Hesdin? And then Ramage remembered: Agincourt was ten miles or so to the north-east and Crecy the same distance to the southwest. Crecy-en-Ponthieu, to give it the full name. Had the great forest nearby—which they would soon pass—fallen to the axe to supply the boatyards along the coast? Bonaparte would have no reason to be sentimental about Crecy, where the English longbow-men defeated the French cavalry in 1346 …

  At Nampont the horses were changed again and later, as they skirted the old forest, Ramage noticed that only slender saplings and undergrowth stretched as far as he could see. From Nouvion—barely five miles from the actual battlefield of Crecy, Louis told him—the land was flat and uninteresting until the Frenchman pointed to the outskirts of a small town ahead: Abbéville, he said, his voice flat and expressionless.

  There were three gendarmes at the guardhouse covering the roads from Montreuil and Hesdin and, with pistols tucked in their belts, unshaven and cocked hats askew, they slouched over to the ‘chaise. TWo stood back while the third held out his hand for the documents, which Louis handed him with a polite greeting, answered by a non-committal grunt.

  After a cursory look at the papers he muttered something to the other two men and went back to the guardhouse. Louis glanced at Ramage and nodded his head slightly, then climbed out of the carriage, followed by Ramage, who signalled to Stafford to stay where he was.

  Almost at once there was a peremptory shout from the guardhouse. “He wants all three of us,” Louis growled, and beckoned to Stafford. Inside the guardhouse there was a small, high desk behind which the gendarme was perched on a stool, his cocked hat now on a hook behind him and the papers spread open across the top of the desk, each held down by a small stone.

  “Which of you is Citizen Peyrachon?”

  Louis reached across to fold his two papers, jerking his head as if Ramage should not see them. “I am Citizen Peyrachon, and you know better than to leave Committee papers lying around like that,” he snapped.

  The effect on the gendarme was startling, and Ramage saw that even he lived in terror of the Committee of Public Safety. The man slid off the stool as though it had been kicked from under him, and with what seemed to be one single movement he had his hat on his head and was offering Louis his papers, placating a member of the secret police.

  “Of course, Citizen!” he said hastily. “I have not checked the papers of the other two but …”

  “I vouch for them, but check their papers; you have your duty to perform,” Louis said sternly.

  The man snatched the first passport. “Citizen di Stefano?”

  “I am Signor di Stefano,” Ramage said pompously.

  The gendarme slid a piece of paper across the desk towards him and dipped a quill in a bottle of ink. “Would you please sign your name?”

  With a flourish Ramage wrote “Gianfranco di Stefano,” and passed the pen to Stafford, who wrote his assumed name beneath with all the assurance of a skilled actor.

  The gendarme straightened his hat and compared the signatures with those on the two remaining passports. He ran a finger down the travel documents, folded them all and handed them back to Louis. “Cela suffit, Citoyen,” he said, “have a good journey.” Louis took the documents and with a curt grunt turned on his heel and walked back to the carriage, as if he had bestowed a favour on the gendarme.

  The coachman whipped up the horses and the ‘chaise clattered through the cobbled streets of Abbéville. It was a wretched and gloomy town, depressing in its squalor. Many of the houses were wooden and bare of paint, with planks hanging down loose and obviously too rotten to hold any more nails. A number of houses had their windows and doors boarded up. The whole town looked as though half its inhabitants had fled several years ago at the rumour of an approaching invader and never returned. And that, Ramage realized, remembering Joseph Le Bon, was almost what happened except that the enemy had been their own people, and Abbéville had been ravaged by fratricide, not war.

  As they reached the square Louis pointed up at a long balcony which ran the length of the first floor of a house, and then imitated a woman primping her hair and adjusting her hat, and Ramage knew that it was from there that the women of the town had watched the execution which had been delayed for their benefit by Joseph Le Bon. Louis stared ahead as the carriage passed the place where his wife had been beheaded.

  Once through the square the ‘chaise swung inland after running parallel with the coast for eighty kilometres and followed the valley of the River Somme. Nine miles beyond Abbéville they reached Ailly, and while the horses were being changed Louis pointed out the Red Cap of Liberty perched on top of the weathercock, which swung in the wind a point either side of south-west, reminding Ramage of a patient schoolmaster shaking his head in reproof.

  A few miles farther on Ramage and Stafford saw their second symbol of the Revolution: Flixecourt, a village otherwise indistinguishable from most of the others on the Paris road, boasted its own Tree of Liberty. The damp air—probably helped by night mists from the River Somme—had rusted the metal trunk and branches, as though Liberty at Flixecourt had passed the autumn of its days and was now well into winter. Louis laughed bitterly at Ramage’s comment and said: “It began rusting the day the blacksmith finished making it!”

  The coachman reined in at Picquigny for the last change of horses before Amiens and, to Ramage’s surprise, began cursing the postmaster, swearing he would never reach Amiens before the curfew with such spavined and broken-winded beasts. Louis climbed out to add his voice to the protest. Two gendarmes strolled over to listen and were promptly involved by Louis, who invited them to note that the postmaster’s villainy would be the cause of them reaching Amiens after
the curfew, but they refused to become involved. With that Louis reached inside the ‘chaise and took out his papers, beckoning to the gendarmes. There was a whispered conversation, with much nodding towards Ramage, who caught the phrase “Committee of Public Safety,” and a few moments later both men walked over to the postmaster and told him peremptorily to provide good horses. The postmaster nodded sullenly and went back to the stable, signalling the coachman to follow him. “Choose for yourself,” he mumbled, “I cannot help it if the horses they provide are broken-winded. It happens to all of us at a certain age, and these horses are no exception.”

  An hour later, with the sun setting behind them, they saw Amiens Cathedral high above the city, the sun’s last rays turning the stone of the tall spires into pinnacles of pink marble. And then, with an almost startling suddenness as the sun dropped below the horizon, the city was in shadow; the Cathedral spires became menacing and stark grey fingers towering over narrow streets. Somewhere below them would be jail cells and police headquarters, guillotines and Trees of Liberty. Although France was at war, Ramage knew by now that the enemy the French people were still incited to fight in almost daily exhortations was not the English but almost every aspect of their lives before the Revolution: anything connected with the ancien régime, and a lot more besides.

  The Church—although according to Louis there was talk of Bonaparte allowing the priests some freedom after recently signing the Concordat with the Pope—was obviously still a major enemy, and perhaps the hardest for the Revolution to fight (although by now the one from which it had least to fear), since both Church and priest had until a few years ago been so much part of people’s lives. Charitable institutions were also the enemy; their almshouses and hospitals had been destroyed or taken over. Anyone faintly connected with the aristocracy had long since fled abroad or taken a tumbril to the guillotine and, Louis had told him, so had many people whose only connection with the aristocracy had been proud boasts of high-born relatives, boasts made before the Revolution and frequently imaginary, intended only to impress the neighbours.