Ramage and the Guillotine

'It will make it no problem at all,' Ramage said cheerfully, anxious to restore a better atmosphere.

'Good, but you must understand that the smack can wait because of - er, certain arrangements - made long ago, before the war, in connection with - er, certain contraband business ... and, er ...'

Simpson was having such difficulty that Ramage said helpfully, 'You want to be sure you can continue the operations long after I am back here.'

'Yes, exactly! I would appreciate it if you forgot all the details, should you have to write any reports for the Admiralty.'

'Agreed,' Ramage said. 'I shall be as anxious as your men to keep out of the hands of Revenue officers!'

Simpson stood up and held out his hand. 'Yes, our greatest danger - and I say "our" advisedly - is from our own cruisers. The French will be no problem. By the way, until you arrive in France, I must ask you to do exactly what the smacksman says, even though he may give you strange instructions. Their significance will become clear to you by the time you reach Boulogne,'

CHAPTER SIX

Although the new Army barracks at Shorncliffe were nearby, so few Scottish or Irish regiments marched through the streets of Folkestone that bagpipes were rarely heard in the town. Yet the deep-throated skirl of the Scottish and Irish pipes had a little in common with the thin and reedy yet lilting music coming from the Kentish Knock's bar parlour, in Piecrust Lane, one street inland from the harbour, so that passers-by paused to look in.

The young man standing by one of the tables and playing the pipes was plump and stocky with wavy black hair which fell over eyes now glazed from the effort of blowing and keeping the small bag full of air.

The tune, a strange one to English ears, was nevertheless haunting, and the dozen or so seamen in the bar had fallen silent, watching the piper, whose expression showed that the melody he was playing had momentarily carried his thoughts to a distant country.

Finally the tune ended and he snatched the bag from under his arm, cutting the notes off sharply. He sat down at the table, grinning at the three men already seated, and waving to other seamen who called their appreciation.

One of the three, a lean-faced, raggedly-dressed individual with thinning sandy hair, who was apparently more than a little drunk, pushed a mug in front of the piper. 'Have a pint of Kentish ale, Rosey, and play some more. Those Italian bagpipes kick up a nice tune.'

'You like, eh? Sono doloroso ... I so sad now; is a long time...'

'You'll go back one day; Genoa has been there a long time - no one will steal it.'

'You don't know Rosey's mates,' a Cockney said. 'Like pursers, they are; steal it bit by bit, so's no one really notices 'til it's all gorn!'

'Is true, Staff,' the Italian said. ‘This Bonaparte steal it all now, but one day we chase him out and go back, eh - Nick?’

There was a slight hesitation as the Italian (who until a few hours earlier had been noted down in the Muster Book of a ship of the line in Portsmouth as Alberto Rossi, born in Genoa, and rated ordinary seaman) used the name Nick: he was finding it hard to be familiar with Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, the man who had for so long been his commanding officer.

Now, in common with the other two men who, when sudden orders had been received from the Admiralty by the new telegraph linking Portsmouth and London, had travelled to Dover with him from the same ship in Portsmouth, he was doing his best to carry out Mr Ramage's orders. These wen simple enough: they were all - including Mr Ramage - to behave like fishermen or seamen from a merchantman while in England. Once they reached France they would receive fresh orders.

France! He was hot and nearly winded from playing the pipes, but the thought of landing in Bonaparte's own country chilled him. Not because the prospect of a fight with a bunch of Frenchmen was frightening: no, it was more the idea that Bonaparte's armies now strutted like peacocks over most of Europe - the Low Countries, Spain, most of the states in Italy, Austria, maybe even Switzerland. In fact it was easier to remember that they were not in Britain and Portugal. Perhaps some of those places round the Baltic - Sweden, for example - had not been invaded, but Rossi knew that the only possible reason was that they were too insignificant for Bonaparte to be bothered with. Russia? Probably too big ...

Will Stafford, born in Bridewell Lane, within the sound of Bow Bells, and apprenticed to a locksmith before going to sea, had a wide-eyed naïveté about some aspects of life which contrasted with a remarkable knowledge of other aspects, most of the latter picked up while working as a locksmith at dead of night and usually without the owner of the lock knowing or being charged. Yet Stafford had an instinctive understanding of people; he usually sensed moods in his shipmates and recognized the sudden stab of nostalgia in time to murmur a comforting phrase or divert the mood with a quick joke.

As he watched Rossi fold the pipes before putting them down on the table, he saw that the Italian was brooding and knew he had to be brought back from the past of the hills of Piedmont and Tuscany to the present of the bar parlour of the Kentish Knock, with its low ceiling blackened round the fireplace from years of wintry evenings and smokey chimneys.

'Them pipes is more musical than the Scotch ones,' Stafford commented. 'Ain't got so much body, though.'

'Accidente,' Rossi said, 'I never hear the Scotch, but pipes sono Romani!The Romans have the bagpipes first. These Scotch -' he waved, dismissed kings and clans contemptuously, 'they copy them. They eat the porridge and drink the whisky and blow hard.'

'Scots,' said the lean-faced man sitting on the form next to Ramage. ' "Scots" if it's people, "Scotch" if it's things.'

‘That's why it's called "Scotchland", eh Jacko?' Stafford said sarcastically. 'Anyway, I've heard the Irish had 'em afore the Scots.'

Jackson gave an easy laugh. 'Don't expect an American to explain that. Why -'

He broke off suddenly as he saw a man come through the door from the street and stop, peering round at everyone in the bar. The man saw Ramage and began sidling over towards him, but he had not moved six feet before Jackson, in one catlike movement, had left the table to intercept him.

'Hello, Jacko,' the man said nervously, half-expecting to see a knife, 'it's an right, I'm expected!'

Ramage, equally startled, signalled reassuringly to the American and looked at the man, his face unsmiling and questioning.

'You remember me, sir?' the man said almost slyly, keeping his voice low so that only Ramage and his group could hear him. 'I served with you in the Triton.'

Ramage gestured to him to sit down and said icily, 'You did too, by Jove. Dyson, isn't it?'

'Slushy Dyson, sir, an' I want ter say I'm sorry, an' thank you fer puttin' me on board the Rover.'

‘Two dozen lashes, I seem to remember,' Ramage said his voice still cold. 'I logged it as drunkenness, I believe, not mutiny.'

'Yes, sir; I deserved to 'ave been 'anged, an' I know it. Lucky you was the capting, sir; anyone else would've made sure I was strung up by the neck from the foreyardarm.'

Ramage began to realize that Dyson's appearance might not be a matter of chance: at first he had thought that the seaman's 'You remember me, sir? I served with you in the Triton,' had been an extraordinary coincidence - the normal thing for the man to say, and not the password arranged with Simpson. Now Ramage remembered Dyson's reassuring comment to Jackson, 'It's all right, I'm expected.' Had Dyson come from Simpson? One thing seemed certain: Dyson was no longer in the King's service!