Ramage & the Guillotine (7 page)

A
S the carriage stopped at the top of Wrotham Hill to let / the coachman push a metal shoe under each of the rear wheels, so that the drag would prevent the carriage careering down out of control, Ramage walked round to stretch his legs. Almost the whole of the Weald of Kent was laid out before him, the hop fields, meadows and orchards fading into the distance in geometric patterns that were softly-coloured exercises in perspective. The clouds threw fast-moving shadows which, from this height, reminded him of wind shadows across a green sea, with the red-brick hop kilns and their stubby wooden spires looking like buoys marking roads and byways.

So far the war against France, fought for almost a dozen years, had left no marks or scars on the countryside of England. Prices were much higher in the shops and markets, and there was hardly a village which did not boast a son or husband away in the Army or at sea in one of the King's ships. But unlike the Low Countries, Spain and Italy, there were no ruined or burned-out houses, no empty hamlets and fields overgrown because people had fled or been killed or left impoverished by Bonaparte's invading troops, who reckoned to live off the land.

“Living off the land” was a polite way of describing how an army looted its way across a continent, stealing food for its stomach and valuables for its pockets. A hundredweight sack of grain, a pair of silver candlesticks from the church altar, a peasant's store of wine which was maturing before being sold in the autumn to pay all his bills, a woman's honour and her man's life if he tried to defend it—Bonaparte's Army took it all and thought nothing of it because it was done in the name of
Liberié, Egalité et Fraternité.
Ramage shivered when he thought of the Invasion Flotilla preparing for sea in Calais and Boulogne within sight of the English coast.

The coachman called and Ramage walked back to the carriage, reluctant to climb inside and settle back on the seat whose padding exuded a damp and musty smell with every movement he made. As the horses moved, the metal shoes began to grate and occasionally screech as one or other dragged over a sharp stone. The second coachman, now sitting behind ready to lean on the brake lever, shouted across the roof to the man at the reins.

How did the Men of Kent and the Kentish Men—the former living on the east side of the Stour, the latter to the west—regard the prospect of Boney coming? The innkeepers and potmen and porters on the road up to London from Cornwall seemed blissfully unaware or blithely unconcerned, and he guessed that most of the folk on the 65 miles of road from London to Dover had the same attitude. He was well over a quarter of the way to Dover and had yet to hear Bonaparte's name mentioned, and so far not a sign of soldier or volunteer on sentry duty; not an Army camp or field headquarters.

The journey was tedious enough, but everything about it felt unreal. At first he thought it was the effect of having spent so much time at sea: the rolling green countryside made such a contrast that it seemed separated from him by a pane of glass. But as the carriage arrived at the bottom of Wrotham Hill without mishap and the metal shoes were removed and hooked up under the axle, and the horses whipped up so that the carriage soon reached Maidstone, he began to have second thoughts.

By the time they arrived at Lenham, where the horses changed once again, he was feeling sleepy and numbed—the result of such an early start from Charing Cross and the drumming of the wheels—but still trying to analyse his feelings. Finally, when the carriage stopped for fifteen minutes at Ashford, giving him time to eat a hurried cold meat pie at the Saracen's Head while the coachmen changed horses in the yard, he realized that he had not felt the unreality on the journey up from Cornwall: he first sensed it, he now remembered sheepishly, after the carriage left Charing Cross and clattered out of London on the Dover road.

Again the coachman was calling and Ramage, after paying his bill, had hardly settled comfortably in his seat before the carriage had left Willesborough behind and the horses were alternately galloping down one long hill and struggling up the next as the road rose and fell through Mersham, Brabourne, Smeeth and Sellindge. The hop fields were becoming scattered now; more frequently sheep were grazing and bare patches of soil sometimes showed whitish-grey chalk streaks, reminding him that the road ran parallel to the North Downs a few miles away on his left and which would reach the sea at the South Foreland between Folk-stone and Dover.

The explanation floated into his mind in the same insidious and invisible manner that the musty smell of the carriage upholstery entered his nostrils. The sense of foreboding, that he was being carried along helplessly in a strange current whose direction he could not begin to guess, had really started when he finally digested the orders and information given him by Lord Nelson. At first the prospect of landing in France had been exciting and not a little frightening, but the more he had thought about it the more it seemed an ominous journey into a long, dark tunnel.

His body gave a spasmodic twitch of annoyance as he sat up squarely, irritated that he had taken so long to understand. Not a dozen men in the whole of Britain knew that Bonaparte finally had a huge army ready which, given the order to sail, could leave every house in these hamlets a smoking ruin, and the fields—where sheep and cattle now grazed or men with weather-beaten faces were swinging scythes and sickles—littered with corpses of cavalry and infantry. The body of a burly Gascon from a régiment of Chasseurs who had fought the length of Italy and Spain could be lying beside a weaver in the Brabourne Volunteers who had been called to arms only a few hours earlier and killed by one of the first few shots he'd ever heard fired in anger.

He shrugged his shoulders and was once again thankful that he was the only passenger in the coach. The sighs and shrugs and grunts that he had been giving as he struggled to sort out his thoughts would have alarmed even the most phlegmatic traveller—and probably reduced a woman to hysteria.

He dozed off but was awoken almost immediately by shouting and the carriage coming to a stop. Thinking it might be a highwayman he looked sleepily through the window and saw they were on the high ridge above Saltwood. He opened the door and scrambled out, suddenly conscious that his whole body ached because rarely-used muscles were tired from bracing him against the swaying carriage. Just along the road several men were grouped round a capsized cart: a wheel had come off, spilling a whole load of cordwood. The men had to shift the cart before clearing a pathway through the logs, and Ramage cursed at the delay: already his mouth was dry and dusty—the snack at Ashford had done little more than emphasize his hunger.

The coachman, cooling down after delivering himself of a stream of blasphemy at the delay, had retired to his seat and was holding a bottle to his lips with an assurance born of long practice. The second coachman joined him and waited patiently for his turn.

Saltwood! Ramage suddenly remembered why the name was familiar. Some 600 years ago, four knights had slept the night in the little castle which he could just see through the trees below. Then they had ridden on to Canterbury to find the Archbishop, Thomas A. Becket, and cut him down with their swords.

Daydreaming as he waited, Ramage pictured them galloping up the hill from the castle, the early sun sparkling on their light chain-mail. The quartet would carefully pace their horses to pick up Stone Street, the old Roman road running northwards in an absolutely straight line for ten miles before curving to the right to join Watling Street for the last mile or two into Canterbury itself. Surely there would have been pages and attendants for knights so close to the King that they heard his angry, “Who will free me of this turbulent priest?” The history books were as silent on the point as they would be in a couple of hundred years' time about the British agent in Paris who was at this moment working in Bonaparte's headquarters. Yet people remembered the four knights long after they could recall the name of the King (was it Henry II?) and the reason why Becket had so enraged him that his life was forfeit.

A shrill whistle indicated that the men had cleared enough for the carriage to pass, and Ramage climbed in and sat back, feeling sleepier than if he had stood watch for a whole night. He woke with a start as the carriage suddenly swung to the right, and stared blearily out of the window to see the sun had almost set and they were now running down into the town of Dover, nestling in a valley below Dover Castle, the massive and menacing great citadel of grey stone standing four-square and high on the side of the Downs, its guns protecting the town and covering the harbour. Covering the seaward end of the Roman road known as Watling Street, in fact: the Romans were probably the first to make use of Dover as a haven, and they had built their road straight to London, nearly seventy miles with only a few small bends, and the surface still good today—except where local folk had stolen the small, rectangular stone blocks to build their own homes.

As the carriage clattered down the steep hill Ramage found himself thinking more about the Romans. They would have sailed for England from France using landing places which eventually became Calais and Boulogne, Naples and Wimereux, the very ports in which Bonaparte's invasion flotilla was now assembling.

They would have landed within a few hundred yards of where Dover now stood, pitched their tents for the night, and then marched off up Watling Street. Over the years Dover—they called it Dubris—became so important that they built a stone
pharos,
on top of which they burned bonfires at night, and which was still standing, the oldest lighthouse in the country. Claudius's invasion in AD 43, and William the Conqueror's in 1066 … Well, the country was better prepared now to resist whatever Bonaparte would attempt.

Arriving at the castle that evening, Ramage found Lord Nelson in high spirits and surrounded by young post-captains and lieutenants. This bore out all the stories he had heard about his Lordship doing everything he could to promote the careers of deserving young officers.

The Admiral's temporary office was sparse and windowless, the walls whitewashed and the only furniture a long, deal table, half a dozen chairs and two forms. Light from two lanterns was reinforced by candles stuck in the necks of empty bottles, and Ramage saw that his Lordship was bent over a chart of the Strait of Dover. He glanced up and smiled when Ramage was announced and gestured to the chair opposite him across the table.

“Ah, Mr Ramage—come and meet these gentlemen!”

He obviously had an affection for them: as he introduced each one, Lord Nelson made a little joke about some aspect of the man's personality. One otherwise meek and mild-looking captain whose name Ramage did not recognize suddenly gave an almost Satanic grin when his Lordship said, “He's almost as bad as you, Ramage, when it comes to stretching or even disobeying orders. Still, he's been as lucky as you have—so far.” With that the grin vanished and the Captain and Ramage avoided each other's eyes: the Admiral's warning was unmistakable.

With the introductions completed, Nelson eyed the canvas pouch that Ramage was carrying. “You've brought your notes, I hope?” When Ramage nodded, the Admiral said: “These officers form part of my Squadron, and they'll be interested to hear what you learned from the latest issues of
Le Moniteur.
There's no need to discuss your orders, though,” he added quickly.

Ramage took his notes from the pouch. “There is a pattern, sir …” He took a page and put it on the top. “It seems they want us to believe they intend landing in Sussex and Essex, but not in Kent. They mention the Sussex coast in connection with the invasion twenty-three times and Essex nineteen times, while Kent is named only three times. Only one mention of London—and that in a reference to Bonaparte holding a victory parade. They refer to Colchester nine times and Ipswich seven, as if they want us to think of the east coast. No mention at all of Canterbury, Ashford or Maidstone, but with the exception of Hastings they refer to each of the main Sussex coastal towns—Bexhill, Eastbourne, and Newhaven, Brighton, Worthing and Selsey—a dozen times or more. No mention of Rye, either, which might be significant!”

He handed the page to the Admiral. “Nothing else of any consequence, sir: there's no pattern in the mention of French ports. They make no secret that their headquarters, both Navy and Army, are at Boulogne. I noticed they often publish the latest number of boats ordered to be built, but there's never a hint of the number of troops arriving or expected there, nor of the number of boats actually completed and launched.”

Nelson had been glancing at the notes, cocking his head to one side as he held the paper to catch more light from a lantern. He looked straight at Ramage and said quietly: “I have asked all my officers, at one time or another, a simple question. Now you know as much about the French preparations as anyone on this side of the Channel, I'm going to ask you.”

Ramage, remembering the Admiral's questions at the Admiralty and guessing he had a very good reason for asking more now, noticed that all the other officers were now watching him closely, and there seemed to be a vague tension in the room. No, not tension exactly; perhaps a quickening of interest, as though they were waiting for him to read out the number of a winning lottery ticket.

“Take your time in answering,” Nelson said, “and make all the qualifications you want. Now, if you were Bonaparte, where would you land your Army?”

Ramage grinned and thumbed through his notes until he found the page on which he had written down his own invasion notes. “I'd favour Romney Marsh, sir; along about seven miles of the coast between Dymchurch and Dungeness.”

He noticed that four or five of the officers had looked away when he mentioned Romney Marsh, but three others had walked to the chart on the table. Three captains, he noted, all with less than three years' seniority since they wore epaulets only on the right shoulder.