'I had a meal before I left Dover. I'd like-' he glanced at his watch and slipped it back in his pocket, 'five hours sleep. Could we have a talk at six o'clock - over an early breakfast?'
'Of course, of course! But give me a hint of what it's all about, m'boy; otherwise I'll never get to sleep again!'
Ramage laughed, though he was so weary the room was beginning to blur. 'I need some help from the smugglers, and I thought you might introduce me to them.’
He woke next morning to a sudden clinking of metal and sat up in bed, trying to remember where he was, to see the curtains being drawn back. The sudden light made him rub his eyes and a voice said, 'Them metal rings is noisy, m'Lord. There's a tray with hot tea and biscuits on the table beside you. I'll bring up a jug of hot water in a moment.'
The man was dressed in servant's livery but a long, wide scar across his left cheek had tightened the flesh to make the face sinister. Ramage pictured the man without the scar, and the features seemed familiar.
'Remember me, M'Lord? Raven, Mr Treffry's butler.'
Memories came tumbling over each other: boyhood memories of holidays spent in Aldington, scrambling along sunken lanes with rabbit nets and Raven handling his ferrets, and galloping across the rolling fields to Kingsnorth on a pony his uncle selected for him. Exploring thick woods of oak and beech and ash, and being frightened by the silence and shadows in the undergrowth; using one of his uncle's fowling pieces and getting an occasional partridge.
'Yes - you used to take me fishing in the river down by the mill. We used to catch roach and cook them on a bonfire. But...'
'I didn't have this in those days,' Raven said, touching the scar. 'Changes a man's appearance. You've collected a couple, too,' he added, tapping his forehead, where Ramage had two scars above his right eyebrow. 'Clean cuts, like from a sword. m'Lord?'
'Boarding parties,' Ramage said. 'What happened to you?'
'Misunderstanding with a Revenue officer a few years back,' he said briefly. 'I'll fetch up your hot water, m'Lord. I've unpacked your bag and set out your razor. Your linen's been washed and should be dry in half an hour - it's hanging over the kitchen stove. I took it down last night. Your fresh clothes is hung up.'
Ramage muttered his thanks and remembered the sealed orders in his coat pocket. He had not bothered to read them, and he waited until Raven left the room before jumping out of bed and reassuring himself that the seal had not been broken. Not, he realized, that the orders would give away any secrets - Lord Nelson made sure of that.
He stripped off his nightshirt and tossed it on the bed. It was chilly, and every muscle in his body seemed to ache, but five hours' solid sleep - much more than he could usually manage at sea - had refreshed him. Raven had hung up his uniform - well, he would not be wanting that for a while. He would wear the grey breeches and brown coat, and take an old pair of trousers and a jersey with him.
He walked over to the large window and looked down over Romney Marsh. It was as though a great wedge of low and utterly flat land measuring a dozen miles by almost twenty, with Dungeness its apex, had been arbitrarily stuck on to the high land stretching from Hythe through Aldington and in a gentle sweep on to Appledore and finally Rye.
From anywhere along this ridge - his uncle's house was right on the edge of it - one could look right across the Marsh to the Channel, which formed the distant eastern horizon. Even in the early sunlight the Marsh seemed mysterious and brooding. He had forgotten just how flat it all was. The canals and drainage dykes, which also served as hedges, now seemed as they reflected the rising sun like narrow ribbons of shiny metal criss-crossing the green fields and spanned here and there by small, hump-backed bridges which allowed the sheep to move from one meadow to another.
If there were few villages, there were fewer towns: he could just make out the buildings of Dymchurch round to his left, their west walls just black shadows, with Old Romney almost due south and the long point of Dungeness - known locally as 'the Ness' - beyond.
Fifteen minutes later, washed and shaven, he joined his uncle at the breakfast table. Rufus Treffry was a stocky man of sixty who did not carry an ounce of fat. His face was round and cheerful, and although his once sandy hair was now thin, his eyebrows were bushy, bristling out over startlingly bright blue eyes.
While Raven served at the table with a remarkable economy of movement, Treffry said: 'How is my sister, and that sailor she married?'
'Both very well. They didn't know I'd be calling, otherwise they would have sent greetings.'
'And what's the news from Dover Castle? They expectin' Bonaparte?' He spoke lightly, but Ramage detected his concern.
'Everything is quiet in Dover. I don't think there's more news than is reported in the newspapers.'
Treffry grunted doubtfully as he helped himself to fried eggs and thick slices of gammon from the dish Raven was holding. 'One day they'd have us believe Bonaparte is due any moment, and the next they're laughing at him!'
Ramage grinned at the cross, almost aggrieved tone of voice and, catching his uncle's eye, glanced at Raven, indicating he would say more when they were alone. For two or three minutes the men ate in silence while Raven replaced the covers on the hot dishes and left the room.
'Well, what's all the mystery, m'lad?' his uncle demanded.
'I have to get to France in a hurry - and perhaps return in even more of a hurry ...'
'What's wrong with landing by boat at night from one of the King's ships?' Treffry asked, his voice showing he accepted there was a reason and was merely curious.
'I'd probably land all right from a cutter, but the chances of getting away again - a rendezvous has to be arranged, and depends on weather. And I have to send reports back to England...'
Treffry frowned. 'Is this some sort of spy business?'
There was no harm in him knowing that much; indeed, there could be no other reason for visiting France. 'Yes, I have to try and find out one or two things, and send some reports back. Then I can come home again! Do you know anyone who can help?’
'I know some folk who could help if they had a mind to,' his uncle said cautiously, 'but they've no reason to love authority: the Revenue men make nothing but trouble for them.'
Sensing a reluctance on his uncle's part, Ramage said: 'Surely running foul of the Revenue men now and again doesn't turn them against the King, does it?'
'Dear me, no,' Treffry said agreeably, 'but you must remember that the war has made their - ah, profession - ten times as dangerous. So many of our own Navy ships at sea, and all on the watch for anything suspicious.'
'Very well, so smuggling is ten times more dangerous,' Ramage said sourly, 'but I'll wager it's also twenty times more profitable, thanks to the war.'
'Very probably,' his uncle said, his eyes twinkling, 'and no doubt Bonaparte's douaniers want ten times bigger bribes. I must admit I know very little about it; I must be one of the few around here not involved. I hear some of my neighbours grumbling at the risks their men run, and they usually send me a case or two of brandy at Christmas, Easter and Michaelmas. Still, when I see a string of packhorses being led across my land in the middle of the night, I must admit I look the other way; and when I see a shielded lantern shining from a high window facing the Marsh I assume it is a curate working late on his church accounts, although no doubt the Revenue men would claim it was a signal to smugglers that the coast was clear for their packhorses to make a delivery.'
'I'm not judging them,' Ramage said hastily. 'I just want their help!'
'Yes, I know all that, my lad; but I'm trying to warn you it's not going to be as easy as you think. First, you have to understand these men haven't been smuggling just for the last seven or eight years - since the war began. No, they've been smugglers all their lives, and their fathers before them. They-'