Ramage sat down at the table, his heart pounding; one half of him wanted to snatch up the envelopes and see, from the superscriptions, if there was a dispatch from Bruix to the First Consul; the other half of him shied away like a horse balking at a fence, scared to take the plunge because the consequences of there being no such dispatch meant that he would have wasted several days by believing a fool of a corporal.
Stafford tapped one of the letters. 'My French is a bitrudeemental, sir -'
'Rudimentary,' Ramage corrected him absent-mindedly.
' - rudimentally, sir, but I think this is the one you want.'
Addressed to,’Le Citoyen Pierre-Alexandre-Laurent Forfait' at 'Le Ministère de la Marine et des Colonies' in Paris, a line of writing above the seal on the back showed it was a dispatch from 'Eustache Bruix, Vice-amiral, Commandant, Force Navale de Boulogne.'
Ramage put it to one side and looked through the rest. All were addressed to various departments in the Ministry; the sender's name on the back of each indicated its mundane contents — 'L'Ordonnateur de Marine à Boulogne,' 'Bureau des Armements et Inscription Maritime au port de Boulogne' and so on. None was addressed to the First Consul, but Ramage was not surprised: an admiral would report to his Minister. The First Consul was the Corporal's embellishment.
Stafford was setting out his equipment - a flat spatula with a wooden handle, several sticks of sealing-wax of varying shades of red, and a thin-bladed knife. He gestured to a candle already alight and standing on the chest of drawers - it would be an hour before it was dark and Ramage had not noticed it - and said: 'All right if I close the shutters, sir?'
Ramage looked out. Anyone at several windows in the house opposite could see into the room. The thought of the watchful gendarmes in their cocked hats decided him and he pulled the shutters close.
Stafford put the candle on the table and added paper, a bottle of ink and a quill to the collection of items. Ramage picked up Bruix's letter and examined it. The blob of red wax was perhaps half an inch in diameter, and soot from the clerk's candle flame had made black streaks in it. The oval crest - the impression of an anchor with 'Rep. Fran.' at the top and 'Marine' below - had been carelessly applied by the clerk who canted the seal as he pressed so that the wax was wafer-thin on the left side and a quarter of an inch thick on the right. Several small blobs of wax were spattered round it, as though the clerk's hands shook - or else he was a damned clumsy or careless fellow. Ramage could imagine what would happen if a British admiral ever saw his letter sent to the First Lord of the Admiralty in such a state: the clerk would suddenly find himself at sea as a cook's mate!
Stafford was holding the spatula blade in the candle flame, moving it so the metal heated evenly. 'That the one you want opening, sir?'
The Cockney was casual, almost offhand. Ramage had no idea how the devil the man was going to open a letter sealed with the stamp of the French Navy when he did not have the seal to make a fresh impression when he closed the letter again. Was he being too offhand? Did he realize that, apart from anything else, their lives might depend on his skill? 'Yes, but will you be able to seal it again so a clerk in Paris doesn't spot anything?'
'You won't be able to spot anything, sir.' He reached for the envelope. 'If you'll just hold this spatchler in the flame, movin' it like so, I'll get ready.'
Ramage took the blade, watching shadows dancing over the walls, and was reminded of a magician. Stafford picked up the letter and ran his fingers over it. 'One sheet of paper folded three times, ends turned into the middle, put inside a plain sheet which is folded three times and ends folded in the middle, an' a blob o' wax to seal it. People never learn!'
'Never learn what?'
Stafford grinned impishly. 'Never learn it ain't a safe way to send a secret letter wiv people like me around!' He picked up two sheets of plain paper from his pile and compared them with the letter. "Bout the same thickness: that's lucky.'
'Why?'
'Means we can experimentate wiv the 'eat o' that blade.' He folded the first sheet into three, and then folded the two ends inwards so that they met edge to edge in the middle, running his fingers along the folds to crease them, and making a neat packet. He then took another sheet, put the packet in the middle and folded again in the same way, holding the ends down with his finger. He picked up a stick of sealing-wax. 'Have to use the candle for a moment, sir - can you hold it for me?'
He heated the stick of wax and ran it on to seal the paper, dripping enough until he had the same thickness as on Bruix's letter. 'That's it: now, if you'll carry on hotting up the spatchler, sir ...'
He held his own packet in one hand and Bruix's letter in the other, as though comparing the weight; then he felt each of them with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, as a tailor would examine cloth. 'Both about the same thickness,' he commented, putting Bruix's letter to one side and his own packet in front of him, next to it. 'That's what matters.' He took a piece of cloth from his pocket. 'Let me have the spatchler, sir!'
He wiped off the soot, slid it beneath his own packet directly under the wax, and pressed down, gently pulling up one end. In a few moments, as the spatula warmed the wax through several thicknesses of paper, the end lifted and he flicked away the spatula. 'Warm it up again, will yer, sir. Just right, that was.'
'Here, let me look at that,' Ramage demanded, and Stafford passed over his packet, taking the spatula and keeping it in the flame.
Ramage looked at the blob of wax. It was still the same shape except that it was neatly divided in two, half on one end of the paper, half on the other. Stafford's spatula had been warm enough to allow him to separate the ends, but not so hot that the heat distorted the impression of the seal.
'Can you guarantee to do that with the Admiral's letter - 1 mean, not damage the impression?'
'Bit 'ard to guarantee it, sir; just say I'm certain, sure I can,' Stafford said, still waving the spatula through the flame. 'Look on the back - no scorching of the paper, eh?'
There was no sign that the warm blade had been used.
'That's it, see. Most people think o' wax as 'aving to be 'ot to work it, but warm is enough. 'Ot on top fer an impression with a seal, yus; but warm's enough to separate it underneath, like you saw. Now, see the clerk was careless; the wax is thin on one side and thick on the other. Very lucky we are.'
Ramage nodded. He guessed five minutes had passed - by now the landlord downstairs would be marching into the little dining-room with the roast sucking pig on a plate. In another five minutes it would be carved and the lieutenant and Louis busy eating. Fifteen minutes for them to eat and have more. Well, he and Stafford were not behind schedule - yet, anyway.
'I'd like you to 'old the letter down when we're ready, six, so I get a clean lift up ... Reckon this spatchler's about ready.' He watched as Ramage put Bruix's letter square in front of him, the wax seal uppermost. In almost one complete movement he removed the spatula from the flame, wiped off the soot and slid the blade under the letter. With a surprisingly gentle touch - surprising, Ramage thought, until you remembered his original trade - he lifted the corners at the exact moment the wax was warm enough to part, once again nicking the spatula clear. He blew on the wax to cool it and handed the packet to Ramage without bothering to look at the seal.
Ramage saw that the seal itself was both intact and perfect: the wax had parted at the thin side and softened enough on the thick side to allow Stafford to detach it from the paper before the heat came through to the impression. Carefully he removed the letter which was folded inside, and opened it.