Ramage & the Guillotine (26 page)

The rest of the letter was a subtle recapitulation of all the earlier requests that Bruix had made to Paris and seemed to be hinting to Forfait that he should prepare the First Consul for a disappointing report. Bruix said he would welcome by return an answer to his request for a total of 413 guns and carriages because, if only a portion was forthcoming, he would sooner transfer the workmen from the gunboats to the transports which required no guns. This was not to say, he added warily, that he considered the Invasion Flotilla could be protected by fewer gunboats than already decided on; simply that he was anxious to make the most economical use of the available workmen. He was also waiting for money to pay the carpenters and shipwrights whose wages were now eleven weeks in arrears. There were signs that many workers, particularly foreigners, were leaving the yards, which in turn were demanding payments which had been owing for several months.

Ramage reached for pen, ink and paper, and hurriedly noted down the main points of the letter, taking particular care not to make any mistake with the numbers of vessels or guns. He slid Bruix's letter back across the table to Stafford and, after folding his own copy, tucked it down the front of his shirt. In the meantime the Cockney was heating his spatula over the candle flame, having refolded the letter inside its cover.

“If you'll hold it ready, sir,” he said. “Just make sure the edges are hard up against each other—that's it. I'll ‘andle the spatchler an' ‘otting up the wax as long as you keep the letter firm.” He touched the palm of his hand with the blade, winced and shook his head, putting the metal back in the flame. “Take a bit more yet.”

He was utterly unconcerned; that was what impressed Ramage. No nervous twiddling, no silly jokes to reassure himself. Yet Stafford was smart enough to know that one mistake could result in them all being captured as spies, and he had seen enough guillotines in the past few days to have no illusions …

The Cockney picked up the cloth. “Just about right, I reckon,” he said, wiping the soot from the blade and sliding it beneath the letter. “No, sir, don't press down—just ‘old it still.”

Watching the wax carefully, he moved the blade away for a moment and then slid it under again. He crouched over the seal like a cat about to pounce, hiding it from Ramage's sight. Suddenly the spatula was tossed aside again and Stafford was blowing hard at the seal.

He then stood upright and reached for the satchel. “Any of these other letters interest you, sir?” When Ramage shook his head he put them back in the satchel and pointed at the despatch. “Pick it up and look if you want, sir; the wax has set now. All ready for the Minister, it is!”

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 open 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.”