Ramage & the Guillotine (25 page)

Upstairs an even hungrier Stafford was at work: Ramage had tried to avoid thinking about the Cockney, not because he feared that he would fail but, with the French Lieutenant sitting on the opposite side of the table, he had the uncomfortable feeling that if he thought about Stafford the Frenchman would suddenly remember something he wanted from his room. He had watched him all the time the soup was on the table: a splash of onion soup down the Frenchman's stock would be enough to send him upstairs to change. Then he had worried that a glass of wine would spill, or a piece of fish drop from a fork. And all the time Louis had eaten stolidly, eyes on his plate, shoulders hunched—but, Ramage sensed, his ears missing nothing, whether a horse's hooves in the street or the crackling of dripping fat as the suckling pig turned on its spit.

The innkeeper removed the plate which had been piled with sole and a moment later—for this was the signal—Louis was looking at him anxiously. “Are you all right, M'sieur?”

In anticipation of the question, Ramage had been surreptitiously holding his breath until he felt dizzy. He put a hand to his head and groaned and with his head spinning found it required no acting skill. He stood up while he still felt dizzy and in a moment Louis was beside him, solicitous and reassuring the French Lieutenant.

“He and his foreman—they lunched at a café. The foreman is already ill; now M'sieur is stricken.”

Ramage, suddenly afraid that the Lieutenant would insist on helping him to his room and already worried about Stafford, found it easy to simulate a retch and a moment later retched again and tasted the onion soup. He muttered in Italian, brushed away Louis's hand, told them both to continue their meal and rushed for the door, as though about to be sick. As he closed the door behind him he heard Louis telling the innkeeper with artful hypocrisy that the Italians had to take the consequences if they chose to eat in cheap cafés …

He managed to stop himself running up the stairs two at a time; instead he walked up slowly and heavily, groaning every now and again. Would Stafford be back in their own room or still in the Lieutenant's? For all his play-acting in the dining-room he now felt genuinely queasy, as though the sole had come to life in his stomach and was swimming round vigorously in the onion soup. He recognized it as an old friend (or enemy): the queasiness he always felt when fear and food met together. “The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast.” Good luck to him; such a man had either no imagination or a stomach of iron.

He gave the pre-arranged triple tap on their door and heard a movement in the room. A moment later the door opened and as soon as he stepped inside was closed and quietly locked by Stafford. There was nothing on the table—and nothing on his bed or Stafford's. The seaman had failed. He must have entered the room but not found the satchel. Or the Lieutenant was on his way to Paris to collect despatches, not deliver them. The queasiness increased and he belched, a vile compôte of sole and soup.

He turned to ask Stafford what had gone wrong—and saw that the man was grinning.

The Cockney walked over to the chest of drawers, pulled out the second drawer and carried it to the table. Lifting out some clothes, he produced a shiny leather satchel the size of a family Bible and with a long shoulder strap. Ramage saw that the top flap was down and the clasp was locked.

With a flourish Stafford produced a thin sliver of metal, inserted it in the keyhole and turned. The flap sprang open from the natural stiffness of the leather, and Stafford took out a dozen letters and two slim packets.

Ramage sat down at the table, his heart pounding; one half of him wanted to snatch up the envelopes and see, from the superscriptions, if there was a despatch from Bruix to the First Consul; the other half of him shied away like a horse balking at a fence, scared to take the plunge because the consequences of there being no such despatch meant that he would have wasted several days by believing a fool of a corporal.

Stafford tapped one of the letters. “My French is a bit rudeemental, sir—”

“Rudimentary,” Ramage corrected him absent-mindedly.

“—rudimentally, sir, but I think this is the one you want.”

Addressed to
“Le Citoyen Pierre-Alexandre-Laurent Forfait,”
at
“Le Ministère de la Marine et des Colonies”
in Paris, a line of writing above the seal on the back showed it was a despatch from
“Eustache Bruix, Vice-amiral, Commandant, Force Navale de Boulogne.”

Ramage put it to one side and looked through the rest. All were addressed to various departments in the Ministry; the sender's name on the back of each indicated its mundane contents—
“L'Ordonnateur de Marine ´ Boulogne,” “Bureau des Armements et Inscription Maritime au port de Boulogne”
and so on. None was addressed to the First Consul, but Ramage was not surprised: an admiral would report to his Minister. The First Consul was the Corporal's embellishment.

Stafford was setting out his equipment—a flat spatula with a wooden handle, several sticks of sealing-wax of varying shades of red, and a thin-bladed knife. He gestured to a candle already alight and standing on the chest of drawers—it would be an hour before it was dark and Ramage had not noticed it—and said: “All right if I close the shutters, sir?”

Ramage looked out. Anyone at several windows in the house opposite could see into the room. The thought of the watchful gendarmes in their cocked hats decided him and he pulled the shutters close.

Stafford put the candle on the table and added paper, a bottle of ink and a quill to the collection of items. Ramage picked up Bruix's letter and examined it. The blob of red wax was perhaps half an inch in diameter, and soot from the clerk's candle flame had made black streaks in it. The oval crest—the impression of an anchor with
“Rep. Fran.”
at the top and
“Marine”
below—had been carelessly applied by the clerk who canted the seal as he pressed so that the wax was wafer-thin on the left side and a quarter of an inch thick on the right. Several small blobs of wax were spattered round it, as though the clerk's hands shook—or else he was a damned clumsy or careless fellow. Ramage could imagine what would happen if a British admiral ever saw his letter sent to the First Lord of the Admiralty in such a state: the clerk would suddenly find himself at sea as a cook's mate!

Stafford was holding the spatula blade in the candle flame, moving it so the metal heated evenly. “That the one you want opening, sir?”

The Cockney was casual, almost offhand. Ramage had no idea how the devil the man was going to open a letter sealed with the stamp of the French Navy when he did not have the seal to make a fresh impression when he closed the letter again. Was he being too offhand? Did he realize that, apart from anything else, their lives might depend on his skill? “Yes, but will you be able to seal it again so a clerk in Paris doesn't spot anything?”

“You
won't be able to spot anything, sir.” He reached for the envelope. “If you'll just hold this spatchler in the flame, movin' it like so, I'll get ready.”

Ramage took the blade, watching shadows dancing over the walls, and was reminded of a magician. Stafford picked up the letter and ran his fingers over it. “One sheet of paper folded three times, ends turned into the middle, put inside a plain sheet which is folded three times and ends folded in the middle, an' a blob o' wax to seal it. People never learn!”

“Never learn what?”

Stafford grinned impishly. “Never learn it ain't a safe way to send a secret letter wiv people like me around!” He picked up two sheets of plain paper from his pile and compared them with the letter. “‘Bout the same thickness: that's lucky.”

“Why?”

“Means we can experimentate wiv the ‘eat o' that blade.” He folded the first sheet into three, and then folded the two ends inwards so that they met edge to edge in the middle, running his fingers along the folds to crease them, and making a neat packet. He then took another sheet, put the packet in the middle and folded again in the same way, holding the ends down with his finger. He picked up a stick of sealing-wax. “Have to use the candle for a moment, sir—can you hold it for me?”

He heated the stick of wax and ran it on to seal the paper, dripping enough until he had the same thickness as on Bruix's letter. “That's it: now, if you'll carry on hotting up the spatchler, sir …”

He held his own packet in one hand and Bruix's letter in the other, as though comparing the weight; then he felt each of them with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, as a tailor would examine cloth. “Both about the same thickness,” he commented, putting Bruix's letter to one side and his own packet in front of him, next to it. “That's what matters.” He took a piece of cloth from his pocket. “Let me have the spatchler, sir!”

He wiped off the soot, slid it beneath his own packet directly under the wax, and pressed down, gently pulling up one end. In a few moments, as the spatula warmed the wax through several thicknesses of paper, the end lifted and he flicked away the spatula. “Warm it up again, will yer, sir. Just right, that was.”

“Here, let me look at that,” Ramage demanded, and Stafford passed over his packet, taking the spatula and keeping it in the flame.

Ramage looked at the blob of wax. It was still the same shape except that it was neatly divided in two, half on one end of the paper, half on the other. Stafford's spatula had been warm enough to allow him to separate the ends, but not so hot that the heat distorted the impression of the seal.

“Can you guarantee to do that with the Admiral's letter—I mean, not damage the impression?”

“Bit ‘ard to guarantee it, sir; just say I'm certain sure I can,” Stafford said, still waving the spatula through the flame. “Look on the back—no scorching of the paper, eh?”

There was no sign that the warm blade had been used.

“That's it, see. Most people think o' wax as ‘aving to be hot to work it, but warm is enough. “‘Ot on top fer an impression with a seal, yus; but warm's enough to separate it underneath, like you saw. Now, see the clerk was careless; the wax is thin on one side and thick on the other. Very lucky we are.”

Ramage nodded. He guessed five minutes had passed—by now the landlord downstairs would be marching into the little dining-room with the roast suckling pig on a plate. In another five minutes it would be carved and the Lieutenant and Louis busy eating. Fifteen minutes for them to eat and have more. Well, he and Stafford were not behind schedule—yet, anyway.

“I'd like you to ‘old the letter down when we're ready, sir, so I get a clean lift up … Reckon this spatchler's about ready.” He watched as Ramage put Bruix's letter square in front of him, the wax seal uppermost. In almost one complete movement he removed the spatula from the flame, wiped off the soot and slid the blade under the letter. With a surprisingly gentle touch—surprising, Ramage thought, until you remembered his original trade—he lifted the corners at the exact moment the wax was warm enough to part, once again flicking the spatula clear. He blew on the wax to cool it and handed the packet to Ramage without bothering to look at the seal.

Ramage saw that the seal itself was both intact and perfect: the wax had parted at the thin side and softened enough on the thick side to allow Stafford to detach it from the paper before the heat came through to the impression. Carefully he removed the letter which was folded inside, and opened it.

Printed at the top was the same symbol that appeared on the seal: an oval shape with an anchor in the centre with
“Rep.”
on the left of the stock,
“Fran.”
on the right, and
“Marine”
beneath, following the curve of the crown and arms.
“Liberié”
was printed in large letters to the left of the oval and
“Egalité”
on the right.

The letter was written from Pont-de-Brique—that was where the Corporal had said Vice-Admiral Bruix had his headquarters—and dated
“Le 13 Prairial.”
He could not remember the new system of dating the French used since the Revolution, with different names for the months and numbering the years from the Revolution instead of the birth of Christ, but yesterday was the first day of June.

Quickly he skimmed through the letter. Forfait's full name and title were repeated, and the letter itself began:
“Vous me demandez par votre dépêche du 1
^er
de ce mois renseignement sur la …”

And there it all was: apparently Minister Forfait was asking Bruix all the questions that the Admiralty wanted answering! Indeed, not just Forfait: the information was needed for the First Consul. Bruix was explaining that he had received the questions but that it would take him several days to obtain all the details for the three lists and his report.
Citoyen
Forfait would understand that while it was easy to prepare the first list—the various categories of vessels that were completed and could be commissioned by the
13 Messidor
—the shipyards would have to be inspected by naval officers to ensure the accuracy of the second list (showing the stage reached in each vessel under construction for the Invasion Flotilla at that date). The third list presented even more difficulties, because indicating how many of those under construction on
13 Messidor
could be completed and commissioned by
14 Thermidor
would depend on the number of workmen being employed, and that in turn depended on the money available for wages, on equipment and materials, all of which were in critically short supply.

Nevertheless, Bruix wrote, the complete report would be enclosed in his next weekly despatch. He assured the Minister that he had always shared the First Consul's views on the need for urgency but “you will understand,
Citoyen,
that I can only commission the vessels as they are launched from the shipyards if I have sufficient sails, cordage, blocks and armament, and it must be brought to the First Consul's attention that of the 23 barges already launched, only 11 could be rigged and commissioned ready for sea with the equipment at my disposal. Of the 73 gunboats so far completed, only 19 are fit for sea and armed. We lack 54 guns and carriages for the remainder, and will need 359 guns and carriages to arm the gunboats required by the First Consul and ordered from the shipyards. I understand that General Soult is writing separately to Paris, in answer to the First Consul's questions about the Army's position, but I sincerely hope we shall not be expected to supply them with powder, shot or flints from our meagre stores.”