Back in the Hotel de la Poste Ramage pulled off his boots and flopped back on the bed while Stafford poured water into a basin to wash his face.
'Whatcher make of it all, sir?' he asked, towelling his face vigorously. 'The town, I mean. Gives me the creeps. Like being in a graveyard.'
For all their long walk round the city after the visit to the Cathedral, they had been unable to talk for fear Stafford’s voice would give them away, and Ramage had been curious to know how it all seemed to someone with the Cockney's straightforward and uncomplicated approach to life.
'It's about as I'd expect a city to be if an enemy was occupying it.'
"That's what puzzles me, sir,' Stafford said, hanging up thetowel. 'After all, wasn't this 'ere Revolution supposed to make it better for 'em? In Boolong an' 'ere and all the places we went through, everyone 'ad a face as long as a yard o' pump water. Why, they've got as much food as we 'ave in England but not one in five score can squeeze a grin an' I don’t reckon none of 'em knows how to laugh -'
He paused a moment, listening to footsteps outside in the corridor: the sharp thud of booted heels and the jingle of spurs, the measured tread of a heavier man wearing lighter shoes, and what were obviously a woman's footsteps. The men's voices were little more than murmurs; the woman's voice was excited. There was silence for a few moments, then a door opened and shut.
The lieutenant-de-vaisseau had arrived. M'sieur Jobert was taking him to his room and Jobert's enamoured daughter was dancing attendance. What dispatches was the galloping lieutenant carrying to Paris?
Ramage had asked himself the question ironically, but as he thought about it he felt a chill of real fear creeping through him: up to now, thanks to Louis, the whole expedition had been successful enough, but up to now it had not really started. It was six o'clock and the lieutenant probably left for Paris by six o'clock tomorrow morning. Ramage had twelve hours in which he might be able to read the dispatches - and twelve hours during which he or Stafford might be caught as a spy ... or find that the lieutenant carried not secret dispatches from Admiral Bruix to the First Consul, but dozens of the dreary reports required each week by the French Ministry of Marine's equivalent of the Navy Board. The frigate Junon reporting that a cask of salt beef marked ‘154' contained eleven fewer pieces; the sloop Requin reporting that seaman Charles Leblanc had deserted; the cutter Mignon asking for the third time for a bolt of canvas to patch her ancient mainsail. All navies floated in a sea of forms; it always amazed him that when a ship fired a broadside a thousand quill pens did not fly across the sea in place of round-shot.
He heard Jobert and his daughter walk past the door again, no doubt returning downstairs to start preparing supper. The lieutenant would be busy with soap and water, razor and comb, doing a self-refit after his long ride, making himself ready for supper.
Supper! Would he, too, eat in his room? He certainly would! In a moment Ramage saw his plans shredded: the lieutenant would have supper served in his room with the daughter (and the mother as chaperone). The patron might join him later, and after the ladies had retired to bed both men would probably settle down to an evening's drinking and conversation. The wretched courier might not quit his room until he left the hotel in the morning to climb on board his damned horse and steer for Paris. Which meant that the risks increased a thousandfold: Stafford would have to wait for him to go to sleep and then break into the room (admittedly that would be easy) and then, while the lieutenant slept, find the leather pouch and get it out. And surely the lieutenant would put it somewhere safe. Even tucking it under the mattress at the foot or head of his bed (anywhere else would make an uncomfortable bulge with these thin feather mattresses) would be bad enough: Stafford would need a light, and even a shielded lantern increased the risk enormously since the smell of a smoky candle might well rouse a sleeping man.
He sat up suddenly, as if physical movement would ease the tension, and Stafford glanced round. 'You all right, sir?' he asked anxiously, seeing Ramage's expression.
Keep the ship's company cheerful, Ramage told himself; don't alarm Stafford, who has the most dangerous job. A confident man succeeds where a nervous man is bound to fail. At that moment there was a double tap on the door and Louis came in, a ribald greeting on his lips for the benefit of anyone outside. He shut the door carefully and grinned.
'Was your tour of Amiens successful?'
'Interesting - we weren't doing anything in particular!'
'Visiting the Cathedral, talking to a man suspected of being an anti-Revolutionary, having lunch in a café frequented by agents of the Church ...'
'We were being watched, then?' Ramage asked ruefully.
Louis shrugged his shoulders and continued speaking in French. 'No more than any other strangers walking round the city. The gendarmes are at every corner solely to keep an eye on everyone, and they report before they go off duty.'
'How do you know what they reported?' Ramage asked curiously.
'I have friends,' the Frenchman said with a wink. 'But don't worry, no one suspects you. As soon as you both left the Cathedral, the gendarmes checked that you were staying here and that your papers were in order. I'm only telling you so that you have an idea of how these people work. You are not used to a country where everyone is a potential spy, and where some men make a good living by acting as police informers.'
He sat down at the table and reached for the wine bottle. 'Well, our friend the lieutenant has arrived.'
'We heard him go to his room. He's still there,' Ramage added gloomily. 'I've just realized he may have his supper there, too.'
‘That would have made it difficult for Stafford, eh?'
'Of course it would - and may,' Ramage said sharply, irritated by the Frenchman's bantering tone.
'On the contrary,' Louis said cheerfully. 'Instead of the lieutenant eating in his room and we eating in ours, you and I will be eating downstairs at the same table. You'll be able to meet the lieutenant - and the landlord's pretty daughter. Who knows, you might make the lieutenant jealous!'
The Frenchman thought of everything. Ramage was both relieved and yet irritated: he hated being in another man's hands. He had commanded his own ship for too many years to like having the initiative taken out of his own hands. In the past he had received his orders and was accustomed to the brief nod of acknowledgment when he succeeded and had always been ready for the blame if he failed. But here in France, here on enemy soil, his world was turned upside down.
He had his orders, yes, and damnably difficult orders they were. Putting the success of his arrival in France in the hands of a smuggler - yes, that was unavoidable and had been anticipated by Lord Nelson. But being in the hands of another smuggler, a Frenchman into the bargain, for the rest of the operation: how could he ever explain that to His Lordship? Damnation, it was as much as he could do to accept it himself, even though he had absolutely no choice if he was to succeed. Well, success would be its own justification, and (he gave an involuntary shiver) if he failed the guillotine would make any explanations on his part not only unnecessary but impossible: the Admiralty would never know if it was the fault of Lieutenant Ramage, the First Consul or the fourth gendarme in the back row.