Ramage & the Guillotine (24 page)

Ramage glanced round at the great interior of the Cathedral. “I expected to find more damage …”

The man smiled grimly. “You haven't heard the story, then? It's one of which we Normans are proud. When the Revolutionary Army arrived from Paris after sacking and looting the churches and
châteaux
along the route, the people of Amiens decided they were going to save their Cathedral. The tocsin was sounded, the National Guard of Amiens assembled, and with drums beating they met the
sans-culottes,
who had already begun their work—you can see the damage they did to some of the statuary.

“Well, there was a pitched battle right here, where we are standing, and the people of Amiens drove them out and mounted guard over the Cathedral, to make sure no further damage was done. Eventually the Army left to carry out their evil business elsewhere, but the leaders in Paris learned their lesson: they could drive out the priests, chase off the bishop, steal the gold and silver ornaments—but they must leave us our Cathedral.”

He looked round at the four old women. “Yes, you are right to be puzzled: how is it that in our city of 14,000 people—that is all that are left now—you find only four women and a cripple in the largest Cathedral in France and for which the people fought the Army? I'm not sure myself; I only know that the reason is complex. The Cathedral has stood here since 1220—it
is
Amiens; the city has grown up in its shadow. But since the Revolution the Church as an organization has been regarded as anti-Revolutionary.

“Those that want to pray—well, they find it safer to pray in the privacy of their homes. A few, like those old widows—” he gestured at the women—”are beyond caring what goes on in Paris, or in the rest of France: the Revolution has taken their sons and grandsons, and they have nothing more to lose. They refuse to surrender the only solace left to them. You could say they refuse to give up the habit of a lifetime …”

He held out his hand and as Ramage shook it he said, “They say Citizen Bonaparte has signed some agreement with the Pope, and we might be allowed to have a priest soon; perhaps even a bishop. But who knows—” he shrugged his shoulders. “At least they haven't locked the doors of the churches, even though they watch us.”

With that he left, and the only sound in the vast Cathedral was the click of his sticks and the muffled, dragging thump of his wooden leg. Somewhere out in the streets of Amiens, Louis, the man who had lost a wife at the hands of Le Bon, was talking secretly with men who, if they had not been bereaved, at least had good reasons for working against the present régime. Ramage understood then that an ally was simply someone who shared the same aim, even if his motives were different.

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 the towel. “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 despatches 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 despatches—and twelve hours during which he or Stafford might be caught as a spy … or find that the Lieutenant carried not secret despatches 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 roundshot.

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.

An orchestra! He grasped at the idea but knew it was a straw. Louis, Dyson, the two seamen, Stafford and himself—they were an orchestra, and unless he accepted the fact he would make his life a misery. Louis's part was making sure they did the right things in France; Stafford dealt with that part which—he could not suppress a grin—would land him in jail in London; Dyson and the two seamen looked after communications; and himself—well, he was the conductor. He waved his baton, having made sure everyone was playing the same music, and generally kept an eye on the whole thing, hoping no one would blow a wrong note or drop his instrument with a loud bang.

For a few moments he felt better; then he found himself thinking once again that it was not a nightmare; he really was sitting in a room at the Hotel de la Poste in Amiens with a French smuggler and a Cockney picklock: on their efforts, cunning and skill might depend whether or not the British Government would know in good time if Bonaparte's invasion plans were propaganda—a gigantic bluff intended to tie down Britain's Channel Fleet—or a vast operation which would go into action in a matter of weeks, if not days. And which, he told himself coldly in an attempt to drive out the fears, could result in the French Army of England becoming the Army of Occupation. If life in Boulogne and Amiens were examples of what the new France did to its own people, it required very little imagination to think what the new France would do to old England. Old Britain, he corrected himself.

“Supper is at seven o'clock,” Louis said. “Unfortunately our friend Stafford has an upset stomach and looks too ill to come down, so he will be free to get on with his work while we and the Lieutenant attack the soup—onion soup, the landlord tells me; his wife's speciality. And I think you will have to retire to your bed when you begin to feel ill after the sole—the same symptoms as Stafford and due to something the two of you ate for lunch in that wretched café, no doubt. That will leave you free to inspect Stafford's work while the Lieutenant and I attend to the roast suckling pig that you requested me to order specially—and which,” he said with a broad grin, holding out a hand as if to fend off Ramage's protests, “and which is the reason why we are all supping together downstairs tonight: you ordered roast suckling pig and invited the rest of the guests in the hotel to your table.

“The Lieutenant is the only guest, apart from ourselves. The landlord was very impressed with the generosity of his Italian guest: no doubt it will show on your bill,” Louis added impishly. “I am, incidentally, a connoisseur of suckling pig: I can tell in a moment if it has tasted anything but its mother's milk; any innkeeper who tries to serve me a wretched little under-sized beast which had been fed on grain for a few days—well he had better watch out! I shall report in due course if I received value for your money!”

Ramage had never felt so hungry, onion soup had never been so delicious—or less satisfying. The sole melted in the mouth but did damned little to soften the hunger pains in his stomach. The Lieutenant, young and fair-haired with long silky moustaches, was expansive and friendly; a casual onlooker would have assumed he was the host and Ramage and Louis his guests. The innkeeper wore a new blue apron and a frilled white shirt and walked round the room beaming, his dumpy daughter's cheeks were pink with barely controlled excitement and her eyes danced and were shiny with love for her Lieutenant.

Louis spoke little and while not appearing to eat fast managed to consume twice as much as Ramage, who was obliged from time to time to answer the Lieutenant's questions. The Lieutenant, he swore to himself, was an expert in asking short questions that needed long answers. And all the while the delicious aroma of the sucking pig roasting on its spit wafted through every time the door between the kitchen and the small dining-room was opened. Ramage glanced at Louis and thought that if he could have had a few slices of the sucking pig he would not care if a cunning farmer had fattened the runt of a litter with grain; in fact a few slices of the toughest old sow in the whole of Normandy would be welcome.