Ramage and the Guillotine

'It's all arranged,' Louis said. 'The lieutenant is here but hasn't gone up to his room yet. He -'

'How the devil is Stafford going to get the satchel?' Ramage snapped.

'- the lieutenant met an old friend and they are drinking together. He'll be going up to his room for a wash, and then go down to supper. After he has eaten, the friend and I join him for an hour or two playing cards ...'

'All right,' Ramage said, giving a thin smile of relief, 'but you had me worrying because you were late back.'

'I was drinking with the lieutenant,' Louis explained hurriedly, before Ramage's bad temper had a chance of returning. 'He saw me as he came in and greeted me like a brother. A comfortable ride from Paris, he tells me; a little tired but pleased to see me and his old friend. He has given the landlord strict instructions to have some good Calvados ready and the card table set up.'

He rubbed his hand across his chin and the bristles rasped: Louis never had more than twenty-four hours' growth of beard but, as far as Ramage could see, never less. It was impossible to guess when he actually shaved, unless he always used a blunt razor. Yet the Frenchman looked worried and Ramage waited patiently. Finally Louis said: 'We need to cut down the risks even more: we don't want anything to stop us getting a sight of Admiral Bruix's dispatch on Saturday, and we don't want to lose any time getting a copy of the dispatch to England ...'

Ramage thought for several moments, puzzled that the Frenchman should be so emphatic about something so obvious. 'Have you any suggestions?'

'Yes. To begin with, we should get your copy of the letter - or your notes - from the Minister out of this room as soon as possible. If you keep it here through the night until I can get it to Boulogne, you are holding on to evidence which can incriminate you. No one would search my room or suspect me; but you are different; a foreigner is always suspect . . .'

'But if the gendarmes became suspicious of me, it wouldn't take -'

'Even if they were, they are still only suspicious of an Italian shipbuilder,' Louis said impatiently. 'It would probably take two or three weeks to check on you. Your papers aren't forged - they are genuine, with an imaginary name written in. But if your room was searched and they found notes written in a foreign language, it wouldn't take long to get them translated. And then it would be so obvious what they were - and what you were! They would have no need to check. The only thing that could get you guillotined for certain within the week are those notes.'

The Frenchman was right. The first set of notes had been burned after he had written a report to Lord Nelson on Bruix's dispatch, and Jackson should now be on his way to Folkestone to deliver it. All he had to do tonight was make notes as soon as Stafford got hold of the Minister's reply, write out another report to Lord Nelson, and hide it somewhere until Louis could send it off to Boulogne to meet Jackson, who should be back by Thursday. The notes could be burned like the first set, and the same procedure followed on Saturday night. Providing Jackson could get over and back each time, the operation could not faiclass="underline" the Admiralty would have all the information it required, even if Ramage and Stafford were arrested on Sunday morning.

Louis agreed when Ramage outlined his intentions. 'As soon as you've finished writing your letter to Lord Nelson tonight and burned your notes, take the letter to my room. You'll find a loaf of fresh bread in the top drawer of the chest - I've just put it there with cheese and a bottle of wine: anyone finding it would assume I keep it in case I get hungry. Now, if you press the bottom of the loaf you'll find a slit in it that is deep enough to take your dispatch. Push it in and put the loaf back. It's the loaf,' Louis explained with a grin, 'that will take the dispatch to Boulogne. It will sit in a basket with a bottle of wine and some cheese - the courier's lunch.'

'Supposing he eats the loaf?' Ramage asked.

'He'll have three loaves - one for himself, one in case another traveller wants some, and a third which he is taking to his widowed mother in Boulogne. That's the one with the dispatch. The courier leaves for Boulogne tomorrow morning and again Sunday morning,' Louis reminded Ramage.‘That's all arranged.'

'But we'll be leaving on Sunday,' Ramage said, and then he remembered. ‘But we are supposed to be going on to Paris ...'

Again Louis grinned and shook an admonitory finger. 'You see, you haven't got into the habit of life in France! You English - if you want to go from Dover to London, you just climb into a carriage or mount a horse. Or board a wagon. No travel documents, no passports - all you need is the money to pay the fare. Of course, Bonaparte would tell you that you haven't “Liberté, Egalité, et Fraternité" . . .'

'I've no doubt he would,' Ramage said impatiently, 'but how do we get back to Boulogne on Sunday morning?'

'You ask Louis if he has arranged for new travel documents and a carriage.'

'And what does Louis tell me,' Ramage asked sarcastically, 'That he has also forgotten all about them?'

'No, Louis would tell you that they'll all be here by Friday, along with a letter from the Port Captain at Boulogne asking the Signor to return urgently for more discussions - a request that makes you very angry, as the landlord will notice.'

'How did the Port Captain know I was still in Amiens and not in Paris?'

Louis thumped his hand against his forehead, then shook his head with exasperation. 'Remember, this is France! Any Frenchman could tell you. The police headquarters in Amiens know where you are staying. Any messenger trying to find you and knowing your route would simply inquire at thepolice headquarters in every big town.'

Ramage began to feel a chill creeping over him that had nothing to do with the fact that the sun had long since set: he pictured the police of France as a great octopus bestriding the country, a tentacle reaching into every town, with the suckers representing villages and police posts along the roads, and although unseen, touching the lives of every man and woman in the country.

Louis was watching him closely. 'I think at last you understand, mon ami,' he said quietly, and Ramage nodded.

Stafford's grin was infectious. As he held out the letter after opening the seal on the cover Ramage saw that the Cockney was completely unworried: there was not a trace of perspiration on his brow, his hand was steady, and he had worked quickly but without hurrying. Deftly, Ramage thought; that was the word. As he took the letter, Ramage made sure he did not have to hold out his own hand too far for too long: he knew it was trembling slightly. He knew he would laugh a little too loudly if Stafford made a joke - in fact a laugh might well sneak out as a giggle.

With great deliberation he put the letter to one side without glancing at it, drew the sheets of notepaper in front of him, placed the inkwell near his right hand and inspected the tip of the quill pen. Unhurriedly - although he knew the whole performance was for himself, because Stafford was completely absorbed with the watermarks in the paper used as an envelope - he unfolded the letter and began reading, almost skimming through it the first time. He found this was the best way of getting the 'atmosphere' of a letter written in a foreign language, relying on a second or third reading to yield the precise details.

One thing was immediately so clear as to be startling: Citoyen Pierre-Alexandre-Laurent Forfait, Minister of the Marine and Colonies, was writing an extremely chilly reply to Admiral Bruix; far colder and more formal than Ramage would have expected, having read the Admiral's dispatch to the Minister. It might be Forfait's manner - in which case would the Admiral (who obviously knew him well) have written what was by comparison a friendly dispatch?