by Dudley Pope
He was not exaggerating: the red wax was adhering once again to both sides, and Ramage saw that Stafford had judged it perfectly, softening just enough of the wax to make it stick together but not enough to affect the impression of the seal.
The Cockney held the satchel open, but before Ramage had time to put the letter in he tipped the other letters out again, closed the flap and locked it. Then he put the satchel flat on the table and punched it with a clubbing movement, both hands clasped together. The blow was heavy enough to flatten the satchel, and as he opened the lock again and replaced the letters he said: “Worth knowing, that. If I’d ‘ad trouble with the seal, we could’ve put all the letters together so the seals line up, and then jumped on the satchel. That would’ve cracked all the wax. Wiv every seal broken, the clerks in Paris would reckon the Lieutenant’s ‘orse must ‘ave sat on the satchel. Not very bright, clerks isn’t.”
He lifted the candle to illuminate the inside of the drawer, took out his set of pick-locks, and picked up the satchel. “If you’d like to keep an ear open for anyone comin’ hup the stairs, sir, I’ll take the ‘Tenant’s bag back. We all right for time?”
Ramage looked at his watch. “Twenty-one minutes from the time I came in. Where did he hide the satchel?”
Stafford laughed dryly. “Very horiginal, our ‘Tenant. Hid it under the bed!”
It was nearly midnight before Louis returned to the room. Ramage and Stafford, lying on their beds, heard the Lieutenant-de-vaisseau and the smuggler stumbling up the stairs, joking and guffawing in the confidential and noisy manner of men who had spent the evening getting drunk together. Louis escorted the Lieutenant to his room, said good night with a flourish, and stumbled back towards his own room. Ramage heard the Lieutenant’s door shut, and a moment later their own door opened.
“How is the sick man?” Louis asked loudly in French.
“A little better, if you mean me. My foreman is much better—and hungry!”
“I thought so,” Louis said drunkenly, “wait a minute …”
They heard him stumble down the stairs again, to return with a jug in one hand, two bowls in the other and a loaf of bread tucked under his arm. Once he had pushed the door shut it was obvious he was as sober as when Ramage had left him at the table; the drunkenness was an act.
“Enough broth for both of you,” he said, putting it on the table. “With the landlord’s compliments. Now, how did it go?” he asked Ramage quietly. “I made sure the Lieutenant was drunk when he went to bed, just in case!”
Ramage and Stafford sat down at the table as Louis served the soup and broke the loaf into pieces. “The suckling pig was excellent,” he chuckled. “The Lieutenant was as appreciative as myself. He was critical of the sole—as became a naval officer, perhaps—and as a true Norman he approved the onion soup.”
Absent-mindedly he extracted two spoons from his pocket, handed them round, and sat down opposite Ramage. He was obviously anxious to hear their news but both Ramage and Stafford were too busy with the broth to pay much attention. Stafford finished the bowl and eyed the jug hopefully. “Some left,” Louis said. “More for you, sir?” Ramage shook his head and nodded towards Stafford.
Leaving Stafford to finish off the soup with noisy gusto, Ramage took his notes, smoothed them out on the table, and said in English: “Stafford did an excellent job: we—er, borrowed—the satchel for fifteen minutes. There were sixteen letters in it, and a despatch from Vice-Admiral Bruix to the Minister of Marine Citizen Forfait …” Ramage could not resist pausing to tantalize the Frenchman.
“Were you able …”
“Stafford opened the seal and—”
“But was he able to close it again?” Louis interrupted anxiously.
“—and after I’d read the despatch he sealed it again so that the clerk who applied the original wax would never know. Stafford has—like you—skills not normally found in a sailor.”
“The despatch,” Louis prompted.
“Ah yes—” Ramage tapped the paper, “most interesting. It seems that the Minister, on behalf of Bonaparte himself, has just asked Bruix nearly the same questions that the British Admiralty wants answering: how many of the various types of vessels forming the Invasion Flotilla have been completed and are ready for sea; how many will be completed in a month’s time; and the situation regarding the rest.
“Oh yes, and Admiral Bruix is having a great deal of trouble getting enough money to pay the carpenters and shipwrights at the various yards—all of whom are eleven weeks behind with their wages. And he is reminding the Minister that he has asked for more than 350 guns and carriages for the gunboats. They must be 24-pounders—”
“One for each gunboat,” Louis said.
“—exactly,” Ramage said, glancing at his notes. “Here we are—73 gunboats completed so far, and only 19 ready for sea. No guns for the remaining 54. Then he needs another 359 guns for the rest of the gunboats ordered by the First Consul. Then he says 23 barges have been launched but he has masts, sails and cordage for only 11 of them. All that bears out what we saw in Boulogne.”
Louis sucked his teeth. “More than four hundred gunboats ordered, and guns for only nineteen … Masts, spars and sails for less than half the barges launched, and probably four times more are ordered … That’s how this man Bonaparte seeks to challenge the British Navy, which has kept nearly every one of its ships at sea, winter and summer, for the past eight or nine years. Fill the gunboats with farmers’ boys and clerks from the counting-houses and send them across the Channel,” he said, mimicking the Bonaparte portrayed by English cartoonists.
Ramage felt a great sympathy for the man, and noticed that Stafford was watching him curiously. By Bonaparte’s standards, Louis was a traitor to France; but by the standards of men like Louis and the man with only one leg who was abandoned in the Alpine snows, it was Bonaparte and the new régime who were the traitors. What a dreadful position for men to be in, when they find their country’s official enemies are their only friends … As though all the jailbirds in Britain had suddenly seized control and, with their leader installed in St James’s Palace, then set about making the country a safe place for thieves, murderers, panderers, blackmailers and sheepstealers to live in—and, the bitterest irony, did it all in the name of liberty, equality and the brotherhood of man.
Louis pointed at Ramage’s notes, his finger emphasizing that they covered only one side of the page. “Is that all Bruix reported? Surely it is not enough for your people!”
Ramage grinned. “No, this is really only an acknowledgment of the Minister’s request. I had the feeling that Admiral Bruix wanted to warn Citizen Forfait that the full report when it comes will not make cheerful reading for Bonaparte: he more than hints that the First Consul should be tactfully prepared in advance … And he’s taking the opportunity to square his own yards, too, reminding Forfait that he has not received the guns, cordage, sailcloth and so forth that he has requested, quite apart from money to pay the workmen.”
“He’ll need all the excuses he can think of, if the First Consul finds he has fallen behind schedule with the new Invasion Flotilla,” Louis commented sourly. “And General Soult can abandon hope of ever getting a marshal’s baton if the Army of England is not ready, right down to the last button and musket flint. But—” Louis hesitated, obviously still puzzled, “what happens now?”
“The Admiral has asked the Minister to tell him by return—presumably he means by this same Lieutenant—when he can expect the 413 guns and carriages, and the money to pay the workmen. He says the full report on the Invasion Flotilla will take a few days to prepare and will be included in his next weekly despatch. So presumably it will be taken to Paris by our Lieutenant this time next week.”
Ramage waited anxiously for Louis to absorb the significance of the timing. It was better to let the Frenchman think it out for himself. While lying on his bed waiting for Louis to return from the orgy with the suckling pig, he had considered all of the alternatives o
pen to him. Thank goodness there were some: he was not forced into one course of action—except that in the last resort, if everything went wrong, then some time next Saturday the wretched Lieutenant-de-vaisseau was going to be left for dead behind a hedge on the quietest stretch of road between Boulogne and Amiens.
Louis was slowly arranging the crumbs on the table in a neat little pile. He looked tired and there was a sheen of grease on his chin, a patch he’d missed when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after finishing the suckling pig. Damn the pig; he was still so hungry his thoughts kept going back to it. Now Ramage was having to wait, and regretting the way he’d tantalized Louis over the despatch, though the Frenchman was not being deliberately slow. He was being thorough, if his past performance was anything to go by; like a good chess player he was calculating every move his opponent could make before deciding on his own.
He looked up and, with a gesture to Stafford, said, “I talk in French; I can’t think well in English.” He folded Ramage’s notes along the original creases and then ran the edge of the paper along the line of his jaw, the paper rasping on the stubble.
“First, we need to look into the Lieutenant’s satchel again when he returns from Paris on Monday, so we know when—or if—Admiral Bruix can expect his 413 guns and carriages?” When Ramage nodded he commented: “Your people should regard that information as more vital than knowing when the vessels will be completed, since without a gun a gunboat is useless.”
Ramage nodded again: so far Louis’s thoughts had run parallel with his own.
“Second, we need to look into the satchel again when the Lieutenant returns to Paris from Boulogne next Saturday, so we can make a copy of Admiral Bruix’s full report to the Minister. After that, your people will know as much about the Invasion Flotilla as the First Consul, eh?”
“Perhaps more,” Ramage said dryly. “I think the Minister will edit it carefully to safeguard himself before presenting it to Bonaparte …”
“It’s all politics,” Louis said gloomily. “The Admiral will write an honest report because he has probably done an honest job: he has built as many vessels as he could with the money and materials provided, and commissioned as many as possible. The men in Paris are responsible for the deficit—they did not supply what was needed. Forfait knows that he has not supplied the materials—because he has been unable to get them. The Treasury has not supplied the money—because it is not available. But the First Consul is certainly not going to blame himself for ordering more ships than was possible to build with the money and materials available: oh no, he cannot be wrong. Alors, there will have to be scapegoats—something that Forfait and the Treasurer know only too well. If Forfait blames the Treasury, he knows he makes a mortal enemy; likewise the Treasurer probably knows that he cannot throw all the blame on Forfait. So—” Louis gave an expressive shrug, “between them they carefully edit Admiral Bruix’s report. After all, he is a hundred miles from Paris, and at times such as these I imagine a man is wise not to be more than a hundred metres from the First Consul’s ear if he would remain in favour.”
The rasping of the paper on Louis’s jaw was getting on Ramage’s nerves. He gave a passable imitation of a Gallic shrug. “Politicians are the same the world over; it probably happens in London as well.”
“It even happens in every town hall,” Louis said bitterly, “only there they’re after money, not power. But we stray from our problem. Can we safely stay here another week—that is what we have to decide.”
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. I’m 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 Jackson.”
“The sooner the better,” Louis said, “it’s a long ride to Boulogne, the way my man will have to go. And don’t forget he might be caught: don’t be too—well, 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 tak
e 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 48 hours that its winds and seas had torn at the Triton brig than 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 Louis 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 …
