Ramage & the Guillotine

by Dudley Pope

  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 despatch 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 battle, 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 looked like the fairleads 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. Dig-nity—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 meat 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 barriéres 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 o
ne 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 at once—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.”

  “Thank you, landlord, thank you: it is a great inconvenience to everyone.”

  “Oh no, Signor, an inconvenience to you, without doubt, but for us it is a pleasure that you will be staying until Sunday.” He intercepted a glance from Louis and excused himself.

  Once the door had shut and they heard the man going down the stairs, Ramage handed the packet to Louis. “You’d better check this over.”

  The Frenchman opened it and took out several sheets of paper. He read them through and nodded. “All correct—and I can vouch for them being absolutely genuine. The documents, anyway; I don’t know about the three men named in them!”

  Ramage slept badly that Friday night. Stafford and Louis had drunk a lot of wine at supper, and while the Frenchman had not turned a hair the Cockney went to bed tipsy and snored with a violence that reminded Ramage of a small boy running a stick along iron railings. The snoring and an imagination running riot left Ramage tossing and turning in his bed, going over in his mind every possible danger and difficulty they would face before they boarded the Marie and sailed for Folkestone. Nor was sleep helped by the fact that in his imagination the room was now turning into a prison cell; he had been trapped in it for a week and the walls and ceiling seemed to be closing in. Even in the darkness he felt that they were squeezing him like a clothes press.

  Next morning at breakfast he told the landlord that he felt so much better that he was going for a walk; both he and his foreman needed some fresh air. The landlord hastened to suggest that the Cathedral square with its trees was a good place for a promenade. But the café, he said tactfully: he hoped the Signor would not visit it again …

  The day was sunny and under a cloudless sky the city of Amiens looked shabby but a little more cheerful. It would take many coats of paint on shops and houses, and the people would have to be wearing less darned clothes and at least one in a dozen needed to be smiling before Ramage would rate it more cheerful than the day he had arrived. The two of them walked until noon, when Ramage led the way back to their room feeling considerably better: within eight or nine hours he should be reading Admiral Bruix’s despatch; in twenty or so they should all be rattling along the road to Boulogne. Beyond that he dared not think.

  He was getting increasingly superstitious. Was it the effect of this damned room, was he losing his nerve? The knowledge that there was a guillotine in the north-western corner of the Cathedral square in the shade of a row of plane trees was depressing. The heavy blade was missing (presumably the executioner kept it at home, well greased against rusting) but it was still easy to see how it worked. Stafford had an unhealthy curiosity about the way the victim was “turned off,” and because Ramage would not let him betray his interest as they walked past, he checked after lunch with Louis.

  The Frenchman was neither squeamish nor superstitious about “The Widow,” pointing out that it was the régime that had killed his family, not a piece of machinery. He was proud of its sheer efficiency, pointing out that it was quicker and surer than the hangman’s noose used in England, far less crude and brutal than the garotte used in Spain, and more certain than the headsman’s axe previously used in France. It was not uncommon for a man to be alive ten minutes after being “turned off” on the gallows, he told Stafford, while the garotte suffocated a man very slowly. With “The Widow” it was over in a flash.

  When Stafford began to argue the point, saying that at Newgate prison they now had a special hinged platform on which the condemned man stood, Louis silenced him with a wave of the hand. “The noose or the axe depends on the skill of the individual executioner. If the drop is too short from the gallows, the victim strangles slowly; if it is too long, the noose just about wrenches his head off. If the axeman makes the slightest mistake, the axe can land across a man’s shoulders or slice off the top of his skull, as you mig
ht cut the top off a boiled egg.”

  “What you really mean is, the axeman might be drunk and miss his aim,” Stafford said contemptuously.

  “Yes, drunk, nervous—or just tired.”

  “Tired?” Stafford exclaimed, “Well, he oughter get a good night’s sleep first!”

  Louis said patiently, “Mon ami, you don’t understand. This morning you walked past the guillotine near the Cathedral, and I expect you thought of a man—or a woman—being executed there, with perhaps a crowd gathered round the platform.” Stafford nodded and the Frenchman continued: “Well, try and picture the whole of that square filled with an excited, screaming mob of Revolutionaries—thousands of them, all yelling for blood. Imagine tumbrils—like hay carts—coming into the square one after another and packed full of terrified men and women, young and old, with their hands tied behind their backs and all condemned to death. Imagine the mob yelling insults and threats, throwing stones and rotten fruit at the condemned, many of whom are praying loudly, or weeping, or shrieking with fear.

  “Imagine the gendarmes climbing up into the tumbrils as they come to a stop near the guillotine and pushing these people out. Because their hands are bound they lose their balance and fall, and from up on the guillotine platform, the bourreau—the executioner—is shouting at his assistants to hurry up as they lash the next victim’s ankles together …

  “Two hundred people have been executed by that guillotine in one day, Stafford, all the work of one bourreau. If he still used an axe, I think he’d have been tired after the first fifty. He’d be excited, and with all that crowd, no doubt he’d be drunk. With the guillotine, it hardly matters if he is drunk …”

  “Two hundred?” Stafford repeated unbelievingly.

  “Only two hundred, because Amiens is a small city. In Paris it was nothing for a single guillotine to execute five hundred in a day. What slows down the rate is getting the decapitated bodies out of the way …”