Ramage & the Guillotine

by Dudley Pope

  The crippled man hauled himself up with the clumsiness of pain and began hobbling towards the main door, but seeing Ramage and Stafford he waved his stick as if in greeting. He was tall, though his shoulders were now hunched; his hair was grey and his face lined, but Ramage guessed that pain and worry—or was it sadness?—had aged him more than the passing years.

  “Good morning, Citizen,” he said carefully, as though wanting to pass the time of day but wary and unsure, like a man half-afraid he was about to be accused of trespassing. Ramage thought of the two gendarmes near the main door. Perhaps they were more interested in visitors to the Cathedral than they seemed: a man attending church, albeit without there being a priest present, could be a man against the Revolution …

  Ramage shook hands and, guessing that the man could satisfy his curiosity about the Cathedral’s fate during the Revolution, waved towards the altar: “Things have changed since I was last here.”

  “You are not French. Italian, perhaps?”

  Ramage nodded. “From Genoa. I’ve been to Boulogne; now I go to Paris and then back home.”

  “Italy … at the pass of Mont Cenis—” the man tapped his wooden leg with his stick “—that’s where I left this leg.”

  Was there fighting up among the Alps? Who would be crazy enough to have a battle among the mountains? The man saw his puzzled look and said: “The snow—my régiment was part of the Army of Italy. We marched over the mountains in thick snow. Some of us were too weak to get over the pass.” He glanced at Stafford, uncertain whether to go on.

  “And the weak were left behind?” Ramage asked quietly.

  The man nodded. “If an arm or a leg freezes it dies, and if it isn’t amutated quickly gangrene sets in. It can set in even if it is amputated. I was lucky.”

  “They carried you in a wagon?” Ramage asked innocently, hoping to draw the man out.

  “They left me in the snow, just where I collapsed. There was a monastery nearby,” he added, almost absently. “After the Army had gone the monks came along the pass to see what had been left behind. Not looking for loot, you understand; they were interested only in saving lives. They found me—and seventeen more like me. They carried us back to the monastery. They couldn’t save my leg, but they saved my life. They had very little food, but they shared it with us—with eighteen atheists who up to a few hours earlier had belonged to the 24th Infanterie de Ligne. They nursed us and fed us and sheltered us. For the five of us that needed them, they made legs of wood, specially carved and fitted. It was five months before I was well again—and by then spring had come and the snow had melted and I could leave …”

  “So you returned to your régiment?”

  “With one leg?” He knew Ramage was encouraging him to talk and he smiled. “There was war in Italy and war in Austria—there was war almost everywhere; but there was peace in the monastery near the top of Mont Cenis, so I stayed and tried to pay my debt. I helped hoe and sow and reap the year’s harvest—it’s a very brief season—and I left the following spring, when the snow had once again cleared, just a year and a half after I first arrived. I got back to my home here in Amiens as winter began; it was a long walk for a one-legged man.”

  “But your family was glad to see you.”

  “I found that my family was dead.” Again that flat, expressionless tone of voice. “My brother and my wife had been denounced as anti-Revolutionaries and guillotined, and the shock had killed my old father.”

  “Who denounced them?”

  “The man who wanted our grocery shop,” he said simply. “He is now the prefect of Amiens and the most powerful man in the city.”

  “And you?” Ramage asked quietly. “What do you do?”

  The man glanced at the statue of the weeping child for a few moments, and then at the old women who were still kneeling. “I come each morning and pray; I pray as I did before the Revolution and I pray as I learned to at the monastery. I pray for the souls of those I loved, and I have one other prayer which I can reveal to no man.” No flourish, no drama; just a plain statement by a man no longer afraid.

  Louis had become an atheist at the Revolution; but now he prayed, too; he prayed that there was an after-life, so that Joseph Le Bon would be eternally punished. Had Le Bon worked here in Amiens?

  “I have met men who have prayed for Citizen Le Bon,” Ramage said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  The man’s eyes held his. “I’m sure you have; many true Normans say a prayer for him before they go to sleep at night.”

  The man had spoken freely because he was beyond fear. At first he had been cautious—probably because he saw no reason to invite trouble—but Ramage thought he would probably talk as freely to a gendarme. Such a man had nothing more to lose to a régime which had abandoned him in the snow of an Alpine pass and slaughtered his wife and brother (and, to all intents and purposes, stolen the family business). Fortune held none of his family hostage because now he had none to submit. With one leg chopped off above the knee, he must find it hard to make a living—Louis had said something about the wounded being reduced to begging once the Navy or Army had finished with them, the same as it was in Britain—so threatening such a man with the guillotine was about the same as offering him a swift release from his misery.

  Ramage glanced round at the great interior of the Cathedral. “I expected to find more damage …”

  The man smiled grimly. “You haven’t heard the story, then? It’s one of which we Normans are proud. When the Revolutionary Army arrived from Paris after sacking and looting the churches and châteaux along the route, the people of Amiens decided they were going to save their Cathedral. The tocsin was sounded, the National Guard of Amiens assembled, and with drums beating they met the sans-culottes, who had already begun their work—you can see the damage they did to some of the statuary.

  “Well, there was a pitched battle right here, where we are standing, and the people of Amiens drove them out and mounted guard over the Cathedral, to make sure no further damage was done. Eventually the Army left to carry out their evil business elsewhere, but the leaders in Paris learned their lesson: they could drive out the priests, chase off the bishop, steal the gold and silver ornaments—but they must leave us our Cathedral.”

  He looked round at the four old women. “Yes, you are right to be puzzled: how is it that in our city of 14,000 people—that is all that are left now—you find only four women and a cripple in the largest Cathedral in France and for which the people fought the Army? I’m not sure myself; I only know that the reason is complex. The Cathedral has stood here since 1220—it is Amiens; the city has grown up in its shadow. But since the Revolution the Church as an organization has been regarded as anti-Revolutionary.

  “Those that want to pray—well, they find it safer to pray in the privacy of their homes. A few, like those old widows—” he gestured at the women—”are beyond caring what goes on in Paris, or in the rest of France: the Revolution has taken their sons and grandsons, and they have nothing more to lose. They refuse to surrender the only solace left to them. You could say they refuse to give up the habit of a lifetime …”

  He held out his hand and as Ramage shook it he said, “They say Citizen Bonaparte has signed some agreement with the Pope, and we might be allowed to have a priest soon; perhaps even a bishop. But who knows—” he shrugged his shoulders. “At least they haven’t locked the doors of the churches, even though they watch us.”

  With that he left, and the only sound in the vast Cathedral was the click of his sticks and the muffled, dragging thump of his wooden leg. Somewhere out in the streets of Amiens, Louis, the man who had lost a wife at the hands of Le Bon, was talking secretly with men who, if they had not been bereaved, at least had good reasons for working against the present régime. Ramage understood then that an ally was simply someone who shared the same aim, even if his motives were different.

  Back in the Hotel de la Poste Ramage pulled off his boots and flopped back on the bed while Staffo
rd poured water into a basin to wash his face.

  “Whatcher make of it all, sir?” he asked, towelling his face vigorously. “The town, I mean. Gives me the creeps. Like being in a graveyard.”

  For all their long walk round the city after the visit to the Cathedral, they had been unable to talk for fear Stafford’s voice would give them away, and Ramage had been curious to know how it all seemed to someone with the Cockney’s straightforward and uncomplicated approach to life.

  “It’s about as I’d expect a city to be if an enemy was occupying it.”

  “That’s what puzzles me, sir,” Stafford said, hanging up the towel. “After all, wasn’t this ‘ere Revolution supposed to make it better for ‘em? In Boolong an’ ‘ere and all the places we went through, everyone ‘ad a face as long as a yard o’ pump water. Why, they’ve got as much food as we ‘ave in England but not one in five score can squeeze a grin an’ I don’t reckon none of ‘em knows how to laugh—”

  He paused a moment, listening to footsteps outside in the corridor: the sharp thud of booted heels and the jingle of spurs, the measured tread of a heavier man wearing lighter shoes, and what were obviously a woman’s footsteps. The men’s voices were little more than murmurs; the woman’s voice was excited. There was silence for a few moments, then a door opened and shut.

  The Lieutenant-de-vaisseau had arrived. M’sieur Jobert was taking him to his room and Jobert’s enamoured daughter was dancing attendance. What despatches was the galloping Lieutenant carrying to Paris?

  Ramage had asked himself the question ironically, but as he thought about it he felt a chill of real fear creeping through him: up to now, thanks to Louis, the whole expedition had been successful enough, but up to now it had not really started. It was six o’clock and the Lieutenant probably left for Paris by six o’clock tomorrow morning. Ramage had twelve hours in which he might be able to read the despatches—and twelve hours during which he or Stafford might be caught as a spy … or find that the Lieutenant carried not secret despatches from Admiral Bruix to the First Consul, but dozens of the dreary reports required each week by the French Ministry of Marine’s equivalent of the Navy Board. The frigate Junon reporting that a cask of salt beef marked “154” contained eleven fewer pieces; the sloop Requin reporting that seaman Charles Leblanc had deserted; the cutter Mignon asking for the third time for a bolt of canvas to patch her ancient mainsail. All navies floated in a sea of forms; it always amazed him that when a ship fired a broadside a thousand quill pens did not fly across the sea in place of roundshot.

  He heard Jobert and his daughter walk past the door again, no doubt returning downstairs to start preparing supper. The Lieutenant would be busy with soap and water, razor and comb, doing a self-refit after his long ride, making himself ready for supper.

  Supper! Would he, too, eat in his room? He certainly would! In a moment Ramage saw his plans shredded: the Lieutenant would have supper served in his room with the daughter (and the mother as chaperone). The patron might join him later, and after the ladies had retired to bed both men would probably settle down to an evening’s drinking and conversation. The wretched courier might not quit his room until he left the hotel in the morning to climb on board his damned horse and steer for Paris. Which meant that the risks increased a thousandfold: Stafford would have to wait for him to go to sleep and then break into the room (admittedly that would be easy) and then, while the Lieutenant slept, find the leather pouch and get it out. And surely the Lieutenant would put it somewhere safe. Even tucking it under the mattress at the foot or head of his bed (anywhere else would make an uncomfortable bulge with these thin feather mattresses) would be bad enough: Stafford would need a light, and even a shielded lantern increased the risk enormously since the smell of a smoky candle might well rouse a sleeping man.

  He sat up suddenly, as if physical movement would ease the tension, and Stafford glanced round. “You all right, sir?” he asked anxiously, seeing Ramage’s expression.

  Keep the ship’s company cheerful, Ramage told himself; don’t alarm Stafford, who has the most dangerous job. A confident man succeeds where a nervous man is bound to fail. At that moment there was a double tap on the door and Louis came in, a ribald greeting on his lips for the benefit of anyone outside. He shut the door carefully and grinned.

  “Was your tour of Amiens successful?”

  “Interesting—we weren’t doing anything in particular!”

  “Visiting the Cathedral, talking to a man suspected of being an anti-Revolutionary, having lunch in a café frequented by agents of the Church …”

  “We were being watched, then?” Ramage asked ruefully.

  Louis shrugged his shoulders and continued speaking in French. “No more than any other strangers walking round the city. The gendarmes are at every corner solely to keep an eye on everyone, and they report before they go off duty.”

  “How do you know what they reported?” Ramage asked curiously.

  “I have friends,” the Frenchman said with a wink. “But don’t worry, no one suspects you. As soon as you both left the Cathedral, the gendarmes checked that you were staying here and that your papers were in order. I’m only telling you so that you have an idea of how these people work. You are not used to a country where everyone is a potential spy, and where some men make a good living by acting as police informers.”

  He sat down at the table and reached for the wine bottle. “Well, our friend the Lieutenant has arrived.”

  “We heard him go to his room. He’s still there,” Ramage added gloomily. “I’ve just realized he may have his supper there, too.”

  “That would have made it difficult for Stafford, eh?”

  “Of course it would—and may,” Ramage said sharply, irritated by the Frenchman’s bantering tone.

  “On the contrary,” Louis said cheerfully. “Instead of the Lieutenant eating in his room and we eating in ours, you and I will be eating downstairs at the same table. You’ll be able to meet the Lieutenant—and the landlord’s pretty daughter. Who knows, you might make the Lieutenant jealous!”

  The Frenchman thought of everything. Ramage was both relieved and yet irritated: he hated being in another man’s hands. He had commanded his own ship for too many years to like having the initiative taken out of his own hands. In the past he had received his orders and was accustomed to the brief nod of acknowledgment when he succeeded and had always been ready for the blame if he failed. But here in France, here on enemy soil, his world was turned upside down.

  He had his orders, yes, and damnably difficult orders they were. Putting the success of his arrival in France in the hands of a smuggler—yes, that was unavoidable and had been anticipated by Lord Nelson. But being in the hands of another smuggler, a Frenchman into the bargain, for the rest of the operation: how could he ever explain that to his Lordship? Damnation, it was as much as he could do to accept it himself, even though he had absolutely no choice if he was to succeed. Well, success would be its own justification, and (he gave an involuntary shiver) if he failed the guillotine would make any explanations on his part not only unnecessary but impossible: the Admiralty would never know if it was the fault of Lieutenant Ramage, the First Consul or the fourth gendarme in the back row.

  An orchestra! He grasped at the idea but knew it was a straw. Louis, Dyson, the two seamen, Stafford and himself—they were an orchestra, and unless he accepted the fact he would make his life a misery. Louis’s part was making sure they did the right things in France; Stafford dealt with that part which—he could not suppress a grin—would land him in jail in London; Dyson and the two seamen looked after communications; and himself—well, he was the conductor. He waved his baton, having made sure everyone was playing the same music, and generally kept an eye on the whole thing, hoping no one would blow a wrong note or drop his instrument with a loud bang.

  For a few moments he felt better; then he found himself thinking once again that it was not a nightmare; he really was sitting in a room at the Hotel de l
a Poste in Amiens with a French smuggler and a Cockney picklock: on their efforts, cunning and skill might depend whether or not the British Government would know in good time if Bonaparte’s invasion plans were propaganda—a gigantic bluff intended to tie down Britain’s Channel Fleet—or a vast operation which would go into action in a matter of weeks, if not days. And which, he told himself coldly in an attempt to drive out the fears, could result in the French Army of England becoming the Army of Occupation. If life in Boulogne and Amiens were examples of what the new France did to its own people, it required very little imagination to think what the new France would do to old England. Old Britain, he corrected himself.

  “Supper is at seven o’clock,” Louis said. “Unfortunately our friend Stafford has an upset stomach and looks too ill to come down, so he will be free to get on with his work while we and the Lieutenant attack the soup—onion soup, the landlord tells me; his wife’s speciality. And I think you will have to retire to your bed when you begin to feel ill after the sole—the same symptoms as Stafford and due to something the two of you ate for lunch in that wretched café, no doubt. That will leave you free to inspect Stafford’s work while the Lieutenant and I attend to the roast suckling pig that you requested me to order specially—and which,” he said with a broad grin, holding out a hand as if to fend off Ramage’s protests, “and which is the reason why we are all supping together downstairs tonight: you ordered roast suckling pig and invited the rest of the guests in the hotel to your table.

  “The Lieutenant is the only guest, apart from ourselves. The landlord was very impressed with the generosity of his Italian guest: no doubt it will show on your bill,” Louis added impishly. “I am, incidentally, a connoisseur of suckling pig: I can tell in a moment if it has tasted anything but its mother’s milk; any innkeeper who tries to serve me a wretched little under-sized beast which had been fed on grain for a few days—well he had better watch out! I shall report in due course if I received value for your money!”