The explanation floated into his mind in the same insidious and invisible manner that the musty smell of the carriage upholstery entered his nostrils. The sense of foreboding, that he was being carried along helplessly in a strange current whose direction he could not begin to guess, had really started when he finally digested the orders and information given him by Lord Nelson. At first the prospect of landing in France had been exciting and not a little frightening, but the more he had thought about it the more it seemed an ominous journey into a long, dark tunnel.
His body gave a spasmodic twitch of annoyance as he sat up squarely, irritated that he had taken so long to understand. Not a dozen men in the whole of Britain knew that Bonaparte finally had a huge army ready which, given the order to sail, could leave every house in these hamlets a smoking ruin, and the fields - where sheep and cattle now grazed or men with weather-beaten faces were swinging scythes and sickles - littered with corpses of cavalry and infantry. The body of a burly Gascon from a regiment of Chasseurs who had fought the length of Italy and Spain could be lying beside a weaver in the Brabourne Volunteers who had been called to arms only a few hours earlier and killed by one of the first few shots he'd ever heard fired in anger.
He shrugged his shoulders and was once again thankful that he was the only passenger in the coach. The sighs and shrugs and grunts that he had been giving as he struggled to sort out his thoughts would have alarmed even the most phlegmatic traveller - and probably reduced a woman to hysteria.
He dozed off but was awoken almost immediately by shouting and the carriage coming to a stop. Thinking it might be a highwayman he looked sleepily through the window and saw they were on the high ridge above Saltwood. He opened the door and scrambled out, suddenly conscious that his whole body ached because rarely-used muscles were tired from bracing him against the swaying carriage. Just along the road several men were grouped round a capsized cart: a wheel had come off, spilling a whole load of cordwood. The men had to shift the cart before clearing a pathway through the logs, and Ramage cursed at the delay: already his mouth was dry and dusty - the snack at Ashford had done little more than emphasize his hunger.
The coachman, cooling down after delivering himself of a stream of blasphemy at the delay, had retired to his seat and was holding a bottle to his lips with an assurance born of long practice. The second coachman joined him and waited patiently for his turn.
Saltwood! Ramage suddenly remembered why the name was familiar. Some six hundred years ago, four knights had slept the night in the little castle which he could just see through the trees below. Then they had ridden on to Canterbury to find the Archbishop, Thomas à Becket, and cut him down with their swords.
Daydreaming as he waited, Ramage pictured them galloping up the hill from the castle, the early sun sparkling on their light chain mail. The quartet would carefully pace their horses to pick up Stone Street, the old Roman road running northwards in an absolutely straight line for ten miles before curving to the right to join Watling Street for the last mile or two into Canterbury itself. Surely there would have been pages and attendants for knights so close to the King that they heard his angry, 'Who will free me of this turbulent priest?' The history books were as silent on the point as they would be in a couple of hundred years' time about the British agent in Paris who was at this moment working in Bonaparte's headquarters. Yet people remembered the four knights long after they could recall the name of the King (was it Henry II?) and the reason why Becket had so enraged him that his life was forfeit.
A shrill whistle indicated that the men had cleared enough for the carriage to pass, and Ramage climbed in and sat back, feeling sleepier than if he had stood watch for a whole night. He woke with a start as the carriage suddenly swung to the right, and stared blearily out of the window to see the sun had almost set and they were now running down into the town of Dover, nestling in a valley below Dover Castle, the massive and menacing great citadel of grey stone standing four-square and high on the side of the Downs, its guns protecting the town and covering the harbour. Covering the seaward end of the Roman road known as Watling Street, in fact: the Romans were probably the first to make use of Dover as a haven, and they had built their road straight to London, nearly seventy miles with only a few small bends, and the surface still good today - except where local folk had stolen the small, rectangular stone blocks to build their own homes.
As the carriage clattered down the steep hill Ramage found himself thinking more about the Romans. They would have sailed for England from France using landing places which eventually became Calais and Boulogne, Étaples and Wimereux, the very ports in which Bonaparte's invasion flotilla was now assembling.
They would have landed within a few hundred yards of where Dover now stood, pitched their tents for the night, and then marched off up Watling Street. Over the years Dover - they called it Dubris - became so important that they built a stone pharos, on top of which they burned bonfires at night, and which was still standing, the oldest lighthouse in the country. Claudius's invasion in ad 43, and William the Conqueror's in 1066 . . . Well, the country was better prepared now to resist whatever Bonaparte would attempt.
Arriving at the castle that evening, Ramage found Lord Nelson in high spirits and surrounded by young post-captains and lieutenants. This bore out all the stories he had heard about His Lordship doing everything he could to promote the careers of deserving young officers.
The Admiral's temporary office was sparse and windowless, the walls whitewashed and the only furniture a long, deal table, half a dozen chairs and two forms. The light from two lanterns was reinforced by candles stuck in the necks of empty bottles, and Ramage saw that His Lordship was bent over a chart of the Strait of Dover. He glanced up and smiled when Ramage was announced and gestured to the chair opposite him across the table.
'Ah, Mr Ramage - come and meet these gentlemen!' He obviously had an affection for them: as he introduced each one, Lord Nelson made a little joke about some aspect of the man's personality. One otherwise meek and mild looking captain whose name Ramage did not recognize suddenly gave an almost Satanic grin when His Lordship said, 'He's almost as bad as you, Ramage, when it comes to stretching or even disobeying orders. Still, he's been as lucky as you have - so far.' With that the grin vanished and the captain and Ramage avoided each other's eyes: the Admiral's warning was unmistakable.
With the introductions completed, Nelson eyed the canvas pouch that Ramage was carrying. 'You've brought your notes, I hope?' When Ramage nodded, the Admiral said: 'These officers form part of my Squadron, and they'll be interested to hear what you learned from the latest issues of Le Moniteur. There's no need to discuss your orders, though,' he added quickly.
Ramage took his notes from the pouch. 'There is a pattern, sir . . .' He took a page and put it on the top. 'It seems they want us to believe they intend landing in Sussex and Essex, but not in Kent. They mention the Sussex coast in connection with the invasion twenty-three times and Essex nineteen times, while Kent is named only three times. Only one mention of London - and that in a reference to Bonaparte holding a victory parade. They refer to Colchester nine times and Ipswich seven, as if they want us to think of the east coast. No mention at all of Canterbury, Ashford or Maidstone, but with the exception of Hastings they refer to each of the main Sussex coastal towns - Bexhill, Eastbourne, and Newhaven, Brighton, Worthing and Selsey - a dozen times or more. No mention of Rye, either, which might be significant.'