Ramage & the Guillotine (8 page)

Nelson, looking at Ramage, gestured at them. “You've pleased my Marsh Men but disappointed my two Pevensey Level Loyalists—they favour a spot between Bexhill and Eastbourne—and my two Maplin Sands Stalwarts, who think Boney will favour the Essex side of the Thames Estuary.”

“And you, sir?” Ramage asked nervously. “Might one ask … ?”

“I'm not a betting man, Ramage; I hope my young men can pick the winners. Now let me look at those notes of yours.”

Ramage gave him the paper and as Nelson took it he said to one of the three captains, “Carry on, Lacey; I know you have some questions for him!”

Captain Lacey, the meek and mild-looking man with the surprisingly Satanic grin, gave a slight bow and then turned to Ramage. “You know the Kentish coast well?”

“The landward side, sir. I spent some time on the Marsh when I was a small boy—an uncle lives at Aldington, overlooking the whole area. He also owns a farm or two round Old Romney and some land out on the ‘Ness.”

“How many acres altogether?”

“A few hundred, I believe.” Since none of the officers seemed to be from land-owning families, Ramage guessed it was not the time or place to say that the total was counted in thousands and that his uncle—his mother's brother—was one of the biggest landowners in the county, a man reputed locally to graze more sheep than the King fed soldiers.

“Is that why you favour the Marsh?”

“Hardly, sir; my uncle would be one of the first the French strapped to the guillotine—if they caught him alive!”

The Admiral slid Ramage's notes across the table. “Look at that Lacey; we have a budding Marshal Soult here.”

Lacey read quickly and grunted when he came to the end. “Good point about Johnny Frenchman steering his barges for the southernmost point of land, Dungeness itself. Have to keep it a bit to larboard if he's landing on the east side,” he added, as though thinking aloud, “then on the flood tide the current would set him nicely into the bay.”

Another of the captains—Ramage recognized him as one of the Pevensey Level Loyalists—said evenly, “A special case can be made out for almost any suitable stretch of coast, sir, be it in Sussex, Kent or Essex.”

“Quite so,” the Admiral said, “and that's why you've been here with me all day. By the way, Ramage, we spent the morning in discussions with our military friends, getting the benefit of their views and giving them the benefit of ours—” he paused as Captain Lacey gave a derisive snort, “even if they listened with less patience than we did. I told them that we intended—if humanly possible—to destroy the French at sea. I had the impression the soldiers regarded us as rather unsporting—wanting to shoot their bird, as it were.”

“They'd miss it anyway,” Lacey said crossly. “If the French don't land at Shorncliffe Camp, I can't see how the Army'd march in time enough to find ‘em.”

“Have the soldiers any ideas on suitable landing places, sir?” Ramage ventured.

Again Captain Lacey snorted while Lord Nelson permitted himself a wry smile. “We have the impression they were catholic in their choice. Anywhere from Essex to Hampshire, although they didn't rule out Suffolk, the Isle of Wight, Hampshire or even Dorset, though I presume they mentioned that out of deference to Captain Lacey, who is as stout a champion of the county of Dorset as any man alive.”

“They rule out Norfolk then, sir,” Ramage said with exaggerated innocence.

Nelson laughed and slapped the table with his hand and when he spoke his Norfolk accent was more pronounced. “Yes, though I'm not sure whether they think Bonaparte fears the men of Norfolk would toss him into the sea or whether he can't be bothered with them!”

“One night, just one night,” Lacey said crossly. “If only those soldiers would get it into their heads that the French have to cross the Channel under cover of darkness. Eight hours at the most. That limits where they can land. Any wind that pushes those barges along at more than five knots will kick up too much sea for them to land, so that limits them to forty miles from Calais and Boulogne.”

“Don't forget Dunkirk and Ostend,” murmured one of the Maplin Sands Stalwarts. “Two separate landings, you know, with the Dutch Fleet covering them. Just a token force from Boulogne and Calais to land on Romney Marsh, but the main force from Ostend and Dunkirk to tackle the Essex coast. Shortest route to London, by Jove; even the soldiers admit that.”

“We won't go into all that again,” Nelson said impatiently. “Well, gentlemen, that completes our business for today. You've heard what the soldiers think; I've had the benefit of your views on the suitability—from the French point of view—of the stretches of coast you are patrolling; and we've all heard what a newcomer to the Squadron thinks.” As if realizing the ambiguity of the remark he turned to Ramage and added: “Your reasoning is good. I find it most stimulating to hear the views of imaginative and practical young men. It makes sure I don't overlook anything.”

“Not much chance of that, sir,” Captain Lacey said, his voice betraying both disappointment and irritation. “I don't think any of us have said anything you haven't already thought about.”

Ramage knew that Lacey was not a flatterer; his comment probably expressed a genuine fear that some possibility might still have been overlooked. A moment later the Admiral made the same point. “I don't want any of you to relax just because I've held this discussion. Your views may be modified later as a result of hearing other men's opinions, and you might develop new ideas. If so, I want to hear them in good time: my flagship is anchored in the Downs, as well you know. Very well, I bid you all good night. Ramage, stay behind: I still have some matters to discuss with you.”

As soon as the other officers left, the Admiral said briskly: “Tell me how you are going to get to France.”

“I haven't had time to find a way, sir,” Ramage said apologetically. Then, worried that Lord Nelson might have forgotten that he had arrived in Dover only an hour earlier, he added: “But I'll be in Boulogne within twenty-four hours.”

“I'm less concerned about how and when you get there than about the arrangements you make for getting information back to me.”

“Exactly, sir,” Ramage said quickly. “That was what made me rule out getting on shore from one of our own ships—”

“I can't see Bonaparte sending out a frigate to fetch you,” Nelson interrupted.

Ramage managed to choke a laugh: sometimes it was hard to know when his Lordship was serious and when he was teasing. “I had in mind that it's still easy to buy French lace and brandy on this side of the Channel, sir, providing you know who to ask for it.”

The Admiral nodded. “I have an idea that more is being smuggled across the Channel now there's a war than was brought over legitimately in time of peace.”

“Forbidden fruit, sir. Our people like brandy and enough Frenchmen still like whisky!”

“I hope you find our smugglers co-operative. They're a dour crowd, you know.”

“With Preventive officers in nearly every village and Revenue cutters at sea most of the time, they have to watch their tongues, sir. A bit of idle gossip could mean the noose for them.”

“You speak with all the feeling of a man who has money invested in the business,” the Admiral said dryly.

“Wish I had, sir,” Ramage said with a grin. “Then there'd be no problem about getting to France!”

Nelson began folding the chart. “You're quite clear what you are after?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Well, look'ee here young Ramage, I'm going to tell you more than I originally intended because it's obvious the French would never dream you'd know this sort of thing, and I'm anxious you should understand precisely what information would be of use to me.”

He picked up Ramage's pages of notes. “You know we do not want to bring the Channel Fleet round to the Strait of Dover unnecessarily, for fear we frighten Bonaparte. It's a risk leaving it down to the west, and for that reason it is absolutely vital that I get 48 hours' warning if the French are going to sail. That will give the Channel Fleet plenty of time to get round.

“That warning would most probably come first from you. I might hear later from the frigates if they see any unusual activity, but you will be in Boulogne. Use your common sense: don't pass the word when you're not really sure—but don't be overcautious so that you pass the word too late.”

“If the French saw the Channel Fleet close in off Boulogne, sir,” Ramage began cautiously, “they'd be frightened—”

“Exactly! That's just what I
don't
want!” Nelson exclaimed. “It's no good frightening them back to their holes, so that they can attack us again the moment they've rested. We must
lure
them
out
and
destroy
them,” he said, emphasizing each word by slapping the table. “We've nothing to fear from Bonaparte at sea—so that's where we can beat him. But he has such a vast army that we don't stand a chance against him in the field—sheer weight of numbers.”

By now Nelson's single eye seemed to be looking at some remote spot beyond Ramage; the little Admiral, as though still trying to persuade ministers and generals (and perhaps some admirals, Ramage thought sourly), said emphatically: “Stalemate—that's the biggest threat. The moment Bonaparte realizes it's stalemate he'll offer us peace, and our wretched politicians will accept it. But any peace treaty with Bonaparte will be as good as a draft on Aldgate Pump—as worthless as a gallon of cold water.”

He gave a start, as though surprised to find himself in the stark castle room talking to a young lieutenant. “Hmm, I was carried away. My sermon for the day. Now,” he said with his customary enthusiasm, “you'll very soon be in France. What about those men of yours? Did you give their names to Mr Nepean?”

“Yes, sir, three of them. The Secretary said you had spoken to him, and they've been ordered up from Portsmouth by the telegraph. They should be here early in the morning.”

“Three?” Nelson frowned. “I thought you wanted more. Still, you've probably thought about the danger of marching through the streets of Boulogne with seamen who speak no French.”

“I'll keep them well hidden sir,” Ramage grinned. “They'll be my insurance—and messengers, if I need men to bring back reports to you. Smugglers might not be too reliable.”

The Admiral nodded as he picked up a sealed packet. “Well, Ramage, here are your orders. You have wide discretion: I've simply instructed you to proceed in pursuance of verbal orders. Don't be alarmed; no one is going to say afterwards that you were told to do something you never in fact heard about. I don't want orders lying around that might compromise your neck in France. And you've already received enough verbal orders. Get to France as best you can. If you want a cutter, apply to me. If you want to make your own arrangements, just carry on. I'll give you a letter so you can draw money.”

“I'll manage, sir. It'll probably take me most of tomorrow to make arrangements, but I hope we'll be on our way tomorrow night and land before dawn the next day.”

Nelson held out his left hand. “Good luck, m'boy,” he said as Ramage shook hands awkwardly, and he looked away as he said quietly, “I hate giving orders like this—I'd sooner order you to attack a brace of frigates with a rowing-boat. That sort of thing is out in the open. I don't like this hole-in-the-corner spy business, but it has to be done.”

A
FTER seventeen miles in the darkness on a hard-mouthed horse borrowed from the squadron of cavalry stationed at Dover Castle, Ramage reined in at his uncle's house at Aldington. He guessed it was little short of one o'clock in the morning. His eyes seemed full of sand, his leg and arm muscles were pulled into knots; he felt so weary his brain seemed disembodied, floating in the darkness.

He dismounted and, holding the reins in one hand, walked to the front door and jerked the bell. Several minutes seemed to elapse—but probably only two or three—before the door swung open and a bleary-eyed and surly manservant with a lantern demanded to know who was bothering Mr Rufus Treffry at this time o' night. As Ramage said his name there was a bellowed welcome from the stairs, “Hello there, Nicholas! What brings you to the wilds of Kent—is Boney coming?”

“No, only me,” Ramage said with a weary attempt at humour as he shook hands with his uncle. “You look fit, sir: how are the rest of the Treffry family?”

“Well enough, well enough. Your aunt will be down the moment she knows it's you. Have you eaten?” Before he could answer, his uncle was peering out through the door. He took the lantern from the manservant and held it so the light shone on the sweating horse. “Humph, where d'you get that nag, eh? Looks more like a remount!”

“It is—I borrowed it from the cavalry at Dover.”

His uncle stared at him from under bushy eyebrows and then snapped at the manservant. “Come on, jump about! Get his Lordship's horse stabled and rubbed down. Feed and water it. Now, Nicholas, we'd better get you fed and watered, too.” He watched the manservant scurry out of the front door and then said quietly, eyebrows raised, “Not a social call, I imagine?”

Ramage shook his head. “I need your help, uncle.” Then, seeing the bewildered look on the old man's face and guessing at the questions that must be running through his head, he grasped him by the shoulders. “Don't worry, I haven't ‘run.' You haven't a deserter on your hands! I'm on the King's business.”

Treffry chuckled and led Ramage into the drawing-room. “Even if you were being hunted down by the Admiralty, the Preventive officers or a dozen scheming women you'd always be welcome in this house.” He held the lantern higher and looked at Ramage. “You look worn out. Sit down a minute—what do you want to eat? Let me rouse out the rest of the staff—”