Ten o'clock tomorrow morning. He pulled out his watch and saw that it was a few minutes past eleven o'clock. Twenty-three hours was not a long time - yet before the guards came to fetch him it might seem endless. He was disappointed that there had been no word from Louis; that neither he nor his friends had smuggled in a weapon of some sort - even a long hatpin in a loaf of bread might have done some good. He needed something more than a bowl or a mug to attack two jailers, one of whom always had a pistol. Nor had the French authorities been much help: the trial one day and sentencing the next hardly gave a man time to plan an escape! But time was running out: he had better start thinking hard ...
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At seven o'clock next morning Ramage was just finishing a cup of cold acorn coffee when he heard boots marching in the corridor outside the cell. It was the regular thud made by men who had been drilled. Halt, one, two! They had stopped at his door. A firing-squad? No, here in France they use guillotines . . . The key turned, the top bolt slid back, then the bottom, and the door swung open.
Houdan was standing there, a smirk on his face, with a gendarme on either side and several soldiers drawn up in single file behind him, along the wall of the corridor.
'Prisoner di Stefano,' he said in a voice which matched his expression, 'your fame has spread to Boulogne: the naval authorities want to question you. Apparently there is a suspicion that you saw more than was realized in Paris. You are being taken to Boulogne for interrogation and I should warn you that the naval authorities will not treat you as gently as we have here in Amiens.'
‘Travel broadens the mind,' Ramage said casually. 'Don't you find that?'
'In your case it also lengthens your life by two or three days, The sergeant of the guard has the warrant for your execution and after handing you over to the naval authorities he will deliver it to the police station in Boulogne. They have a guillotine there ...'
'I am sure they have, but you have put yours in such an attractive position: the plane trees make a colourful contrast with the shiny blade against the green of the leaves and the bark of the trees. I hope you will appreciate it -' he paused for a moment, 'yes, I am sure you'll appreciate it when your time comes.'
Houdan stepped back as though he had been slapped in the face, and turned to the sergeant. 'Here is your prisoner; guard him well. You have the warrant, and you have your instructions. You've signed my receipt - ah yes, I have it here; a receipt for the body of Gianfranco di Stefano.'
The sergeant, a burly and red-faced man who looked as though he enjoyed his Calvados, grunted and jerked a thumb at Ramage. 'Come out here - that's right - stand there. Four men in front - hurry, there! And you four behind. Right now, attention! Quick march!'
The sergeant marched them down the corridor, boots booming like drum rolls, and halted them in front of the large double doors leading to the square. He then marched to the head of the file, made a flourish towards the gendarme to open both doors, and led the file of men out into the early morning sunshine, down the steps and into the place.
'Shoulders back!' he shouted when he saw a group of women on the corner of the square, and he increased his stride. It is many miles to Boulogne, Ramage thought to himself gleefully: many miles and at least a couple of night stops. There should be several opportunities to escape. A chance to make a bolt for it in open country was what he needed; open country just before darkness. He would march like a particularly docile prisoner all the first day. A day and a night would be enough to make these soldiers regard their prisoner as a well-behaved fellow.
By tomorrow they would be near the coast, with the guards bored and weary. Tomorrow evening he would make a bolt for it, no matter what the risk. He braced his shoulders back and swung his arms: he was beginning to feel more cheerful; at last he had a sporting chance!
It was a pleasant summer's morning: the sun, still weak, presented the city of Amiens in a friendly light. Only a few people were about, although from the smell of bread and the smoke from the chimney the baker had nearly finished his work. Past the shops and the last of the houses was the barricade. The sergeant produced a handful of papers, waved airily towards his prisoner and said something that provoked a snigger among the gendarmes, and the march began in earnest . . . Soon there were open fields stretching into the distance all round, except for a small wood half a mile ahead.
The soldiers dropped into an easier step and two or three of them started talking among themselves. The sergeant still strode ahead but at a comfortable pace, knowing that there were many miles to cover before sunset. Insects buzzed, and occasionally a startled bird flew overhead. The sound of marching feet had been replaced by a sort of prolonged scuffling noise, with the occasional curse as a man had to lengthen or shorten a step to avoid twisting his ankle in a pothole.
Ramage suddenly saw two more soldiers standing beside a tree forty or fifty yards ahead: obviously stragglers who had fallen out of the oolumn on its way into the city, and now meant to catch up after their rest. At that moment one of the waiting soldiers began walking into the middle of the road, and his gait seemed curiously familiar. Then the second one joined him. A minute or two later his escort had stopped and he was staring at Stafford's grinning face. Beside him was Louis —they both looked incongruous in the uniform of soldiers of France.
'Mornin', sir,' Stafford said, 'wotcher fink of this rig?'
The shock of hearing not just English, but Stafford's unique version of it, spoken again left Ramage feeling faint from the mixture of relief and shock, and unsure whether it was easier to laugh or cry.
'Good morning, Stafford,' he managed to say in an even voice, and then broke off suddenly, realizing that whatever else he said would be repeated with glee to the rest of Stafford's shipmates, men who had sailed with Ramage for upwards of a couple of years. 'You are late, Stafford,' he said with mock harshness. 'What were you doing, paying another call on the landlord's daughter?'
But Stafford had served with him too long to be fooled. 'Me and Louis did think of waiting until you was being led up to the Widder, sir, but we reckoned the crowd might fink they was being cheated, once they got a sight of yer.'
Louis's ugly face was as cheerful as Ramage had ever seen it. 'Good morning, Lieutenant, I'm sorry we could not let you know in time for you to have shaved, but I have breakfast almost ready - in the wood just ahead.'
Ramage giggled. It was a brief giggle and he managed to stifle it before it ran away with him, but he knew that, after the events of the past few days, his self-control was very weak. 'Fresh eggs, eh?'
'As many as you want; I’ll make you a fine omelette,' Louis said, and went on as though still discussing a menu. 'I'm sorry we could not get you out yesterday evening, but I decided that it was better to leave you to a miserable night rather than risk a slip-up in our plans by rushing things.'
'Where did you recruit your army? *
'Nine men are not too difficult, really, although rather expensive: we will have to hold a pay parade before we dismiss them. They are - although you'd hardly think so to look at them - some of the cream of the Channel smugglers. They are all,' he added quietly, 'men who have as little affection for the Republic as I have. It took me a little time to find ones who were not known by sight in Amiens.'