Ramage & the Guillotine (30 page)

“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 …”

“Why is it called a guillotine?” Ramage found himself asking, fascinated by Louis's narrative. “Did a M. Guillotine invent it?”

“Not exactly. A few years before the Revolution a member of the Assembly called Dr Guillotin (there was no final ‘e') proposed a resolution that a way of executing people should be found which was swift and avoided the risk of mistakes by an executioner. His motives were of the highest. The College of Surgeons were consulted about the swiftest and most painless method, and the decapitating machine with a falling blade was designed. When it was adopted for executions it was named after Dr Guillotin, who still lives in Paris. I heard he had a quarrel with Citizen Robespierre and was imprisoned during the Revolution, though I believe he has been set free by now.”

“‘Ow does it work?” Stafford asked, and Ramage knew he shared the Cockney's fascination, although it was unlikely Stafford shared his fears.

“Well, you saw how it looks: a vertical frame in which the blade falls is built at the end of a bench on which the victim lies, his head protruding over the end so that the neck is exactly below the blade.

“The neck rests in a shaped piece like the lower half of a pair of stocks, and there's an upper piece that is clamped down when the victim is in position. Some guillotines have a fixed bench so that the condemned person—who of course is bound—has to be lifted on to it. The newest ones have a
bascule
which pivots on an axle like a seesaw between vertical and horizontal.

“The guillotine blade (which is very heavy) has a diagonal cutting edge and is hoisted up by the
bourreau
—the executioner—who hauls on a rope. The rope is attached to the upper side of the blade, goes up through a pulley at the top of the frame, and comes down to a cleat at the side. There's a basket to catch the head, and a long basket to one side of the
bascule
for the body.

“Now, this is what happens at an execution: the
bourreau
's assistants—they are called
valets
—seize the man. His wrists are tied behind his back, and his ankles are secured. The
bascule
is swung up vertically and the man is pushed against it. It is just the right length, so that he is looking over the top edge at the frame and blade.

“The
valets
push his shoulders so that he swings over with the
bascule
like someone lying on a seesaw, and is now horizontal, his neck resting in the shaped piece. The upper piece is clamped in position as though he has his head in the stocks, and the
valets
jump back out of the way in case they get their fingers nipped by the blade.

“The
bourreau,
who has already hoisted up the blade, flips the rope off the cleat and the blade falls so quickly the eye can hardly follow it. There is a thud, the head falls in the basket, and it is all over. The body is pushed sideways into the other basket and the
bourreau
hoists the blade again. It is kept well honed, although towards the end of a busy day it gets blunt and—”

“That's enough, Louis,” Ramage interrupted. “My neck feels sore already, and if Stafford can't picture it by now he never will.”

“You must admit it's interesting, sir,” Stafford said. “You ever seen anyone get turned orf at Newgate?”

“No. I know it is regarded as great entertainment, but somehow I …”

“Oh, it's not too bad,” Stafford said enthusiastically. “It's worse when you know the condemned man. Saw a cousin o' mine turned orf, once. Stood there a couple o' hours I did, waiting. Then as they fetched him out, St Sepulchre's church bell began tolling, the parson began saying the funeral service, an' that was that. Born to be cropped, my cousin was.”

“Cropped?” Louis asked, puzzled at the word.

“Yus, ‘Knocked down fer a crop.' That's when the judge says the cramp words.”

The Frenchman shook his head, mystified, and Ramage looked puzzled. “It's slang, yes, but what does it mean?”

“Mean yer don't know, sir?” Stafford said disbelievingly. “Well, the cramp words is what the judge says when he knocks—when he sentences yer ter death. An' sentencing a man to death is—well, it's putting the noose round the neck and cropping ‘im on collar day.”

“Collar day?” Louis exclaimed. “Mon
Dieu,
what English is this?”

“The noose fits like a collar,” Stafford explained crossly. “Honest, Louis, yer don't speak English very good, really.”

“I do my best,” the Frenchman said wryly.

When Jobert and his wife brought up their supper promptly at seven o'clock there was still no sign of the
Lieutenant-de-vaisseau.
Louis came in while the food was being served and as he sat down he said casually to the landlord: “I hope the Lieutenant won't be too late tonight; we have a card tournament arranged.”

“Ah, we do not know what has delayed him. His other friend—the one you were playing cards with on Monday night—called in a few minutes ago. He said he did not want to miss another exciting evening.”

His wife made a disapproving noise and Louis raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Gambling,” she sniffed. “Such a waste of good time!”

“The citizens must choose how they divert themselves,” the landlord said reprovingly. “They work hard for the Republic, and they deserve some relaxation.”

The woman muttered something Ramage and Louis couldn't catch, but her husband turned to them apologetically. “My daughter—she is upset. She has not seen much of the Lieutenant on his last two visits. I keep telling them that it is not often we have citizens in the hotel with whom the Lieutenant can relax, but …”

Louis was quick to make profuse apologies to the woman. “This is our last night here,” he concluded sadly.

She sniffed. “You have not settled your account yet, Citizen,” she said acidly.

“Mon Dieu!”
Louis muttered, and helped himself to more soup.

As soon as they had finished eating and Jobert had cleared the table, Louis followed him downstairs to settle the bill. He returned fifteen minutes later, cursing the landlord for a thief.

“There is a special charge for the ‘medicine,'” he said angrily. “And they've charged for a full meal every time you and Stafford had a plate of broth. The ‘medicine' is …”

“But you paid?” Ramage interrupted anxiously. “We don't want—”

“Don't worry, I made just the amount of fuss a French landlord would expect another Frenchman to make, and I made him reduce the bill by twenty per cent. He would have been suspicious if I'd paid the full amount!”

“No sign of the Lieutenant?”

“No, the landlord is quite worried and his daughter in tears. He has never been as late as this. The girl is sure he has been thrown from his horse and is lying dead in a ditch.”

Ramage took out his watch. “Just before nine o'clock. I hope she's not right!”

“Tonight of all nights,” Louis said grimly. “I thought everything had been going too well.” He rubbed his bristly chin in a characteristic gesture. “Of course it could be the fault of Admiral Bruix …”

Ramage said nothing. From the time they had told the landlord that they would be returning to Boulogne on Sunday morning, he had known that the one thing that could wreck all their plans was the Admiral being late with the report. He might not finish it until late Saturday evening, and the Lieutenant would get orders to ride direct to Paris without stopping—a hard ride but not impossible. The Admiral might not finish it until Sunday, and even then the Lieutenant could still arrive in Paris in time to deliver it to the Minister on Monday.

Come to think of it—and he cursed himself for not paying more attention to the point—there was really nothing in Bruix's earlier letter that promised the Minister that the report would be sent off from Boulogne on Saturday. It was all his own assumption—that because the weekly despatch to the Minister was always sent off on a Saturday, the special report would be treated in the same way. Yet the fact that it was a special report could mean that it would be dealt with specially: sent off to Paris as soon as it was ready, rather than have it despatched in the regular way.

All this damned waiting, being cooped up in this room for a week, that damnable medicine, too, most likely for nothing. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. He glanced up at Louis and knew the same thoughts were crossing the Frenchman's mind.

“If we can think of a reason to tell the landlord for staying longer, are those travel papers all right?”

“Yes, only the date that they were issued is written down, and they are for a single journey from Amiens to Boulogne. There is no final date, but they are valid for one month.”

“I'll have to have a relapse. Hmm, no,” he finally decided, this was an occasion when he would take advantage of being an officer. “I think Stafford will have a relapse. With a couple more blankets on his bed, he'll pass for feverish.”

The Cockney looked up at hearing his name, a puzzled grin on his face.

“I was telling Louis that if the Lieutenant doesn't come tonight, we'll have to stay here until he does. We'll need a reason—and you look a bit feverish.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Stafford said cheerfully, and then his face fell. “It don't mean more of that medicine, do it?”

“I won't hear a word against it—Louis says they've charged us three times the price of brandy for it.”

“Ah, ‘tis too expensive for the likes of me,” Stafford said quickly. “I'll make do with broth.” He looked keenly at Ramage and recognized the worried look. “Is it dangerous, staying on ‘ere, sir? I mean, would you rarver go somewhere else and ‘ide? Louis is bound to know a safe house. I can ‘eave this case an' bring you the satchel.”

“Heave this case?”

Had Stafford been a girl, Ramage would have said he suddenly looked coy as he said: “I always tell a clerk ter put down ‘locksmith,' sir, but—well, a'fore the press-gang took me up I sort o' worked in Bridewell Lane on me own account, like.”

“At night, you mean,” Ramage said helpfully.

“That's right, sir.” He grinned when he realized that Ramage was pulling his leg. “We can keep a watch on the ‘Tenant's window each night. When we see a light we know ‘e's ‘ere. When the light goes out we know ‘e's gorn fer ‘is grub, an' our Will is up the drainpipe and darn again with the satchel a'fore you can say Jack Ketch.”

Ramage envied the Cockney's nonchalance. “Heave the case,” he reminded him.

Stafford's jaw dropped for a moment, and then he grinned again. “Our slang, sir, ‘Heave' is—well, you'd call it burgle. A ‘case' is—” he thought hard for a moment, “well, it's the place wot gets burgled. Like the Italian word.”

“Casa?
But that means ‘house.'”

“Exackly,” Stafford said triumphantly. “Yer see …”

His voice tailed off as all three men's eyes went to the door.

There were heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Two men … the landlord was speaking, although it was impossible to distinguish his words. They reached the corridor, and still the landlord was talking. He sounded anxious. Another guest who was doubtful about the quality of the rooms? Then the coarse laugh of the Lieutenant.

Louis sighed with relief and sat down at the table.

After Louis had gone downstairs to join the Lieutenant, Ramage decided to write the first part of his report to Lord Nelson, so wording it that he could then copy the facts and figures from Admiral Bruix's letter without delay. Louis's concern the previous Monday night about having incriminating papers in the room had been justified, though Ramage was more than worried that he was himself becoming obsessed about it.

As previously arranged, Louis came back into the room after an hour, ostensibly because he had forgotten his purse but actually to tell Ramage that supper was over and they were just settling down to play cards, and Ramage had to fight with his own impatience and nervousness to let five minutes pass before nodding to Stafford.