Ramage and the Guillotine r-6

by Dudley Pope

  St Vincent nodded understandingly. 'Well, Ramage, hurry up and get your flag and stop being a problem for the ladies, eh? Now, let's find some privacy in the Duke's library.'

  With that he turned abruptly and with Lord Nelson walked towards a corridor leading from the ballroom. A puzzled Ramage was just going to rejoin Gianna when he saw St Vincent glance round and beckon him impatiently. 'I'm sure His Majesty would be grateful if he knew you could spare his First Lord of the Admiralty a few minutes of your valuable time, Ramage,' he growled, 'and I'm equally sure that the Marchesa will be flattered that a couple o' hundred fellow guests saw you leave the ballroom in the company of one of the King's ministers and one of his most famous fighting admirals.'

  'Quite so, sir; I - er ... didn't...'

  'Step lively and don't talk so much.'

  The library was a book-lined cavern, and Lord St Vincent went straight to a table and sat down, gesturing to Lord Nelson and Ramage to be seated opposite.

  Lord Nelson looked across at Lord St Vincent. "There's no doubt about this report, sir?'

  'None. Wish there was.'

  'But I don't trust these French agents,' Nelson said querulously. 'No patriotism; they're doing it for money.'

  Ramage wished he had heard the earlier part of the conversation, and was just reflecting that the question of allegiance depended upon whom you regarded as your leader, when the First Lord said: 'This man is Scots born. Lived most of his life in France. Our best agent, I'm told.'

  'Apparently the Secretary of State has heard nothing,' Nelson said doubtfully. 'I'd have expected -'

  'Lord Hawkesbury will have received the report half an hour ago,' the First Lord said impatiently. 'This man's an Admiralty agent: reports directly to us, and we send copies across to the Secretary of State.'

  'That can't make him popular in Downing Street,' Nelson commented. ‘The Secretary of State's office like to deal with all intelligence activities.'

  'Quite so,' St Vincent said acidly, 'but they didn't have any choice with this fellow: he's highly placed in Bonaparte's circle, so his life hangs by a thread.' He looked up and saw Nelson's puzzled expression. 'He's the son of a former naval officer, and his reports reach England by -well, unusual seafaring routes. More convenient if the Admiralty handles them.'

  Nelson reached out his hand. 'Perhaps I could read the report again?'

  At that moment there was a double knock on the door and a man Ramage recognized as Lord Hawkesbury walked in.

  'Ah! There you are,' he said, sitting down at the table. He glanced at Ramage, gave him a perfunctory nod and then said pointedly to the First Lord: 'I want to discuss this report we have just received.'

  ‘It's all right. Ramage here knows nothing about it yet, but he is likely to be involved. You know him, I see.'

  The Secretary of State nodded absent-mindedly. 'I guessed I'd find you here and came at once. What do you think about it?'

  'I believe it,' St Vincent said firmly. 'I've been expecting something like this. That's why his Lordship,' he gestured towards Nelson, 'has been given this "Squadron upon a Particular Service."'

  'Quite so,' Lord Hawkesbury said. 'But the agent makes a very bald statement!'

  St Vincent shrugged his shoulders. 'He could have used a thousand words to say the same thing, but mercifully he didn't.'

  'But he gives no proof,' Lord Hawkesbury complained.

  'He never does. He is a member of Bonaparte's staff, and he knows we are aware of that. But if you'll look at the report again -' he motioned to Nelson to pass the sheet of paper, 'you'll see it's so worded that no one reading it could guess. It'd be a death sentence for him if it was intercepted.'

  'Very well,' the Secretary of State said reluctantly, glancing at the page. When he had finished reading it he said querulously: ‘The more I read it, the less it seems to tell me!'

  ‘There are two separate items,' St Vincent said patiently, controlling his notoriously short temper. 'First, the troops. The fact that another 50,000 men are at this moment marching towards Boulogne and Calais means a considerable reinforcement: we know Bonaparte has 100,000 there already.'

  'But is that likely?'

  'Why not? Since he signed the Treaty of Luneville and put the Austrians out of business, Bonaparte isn't fighting anyone on the Continent of Europe -'

  'I know that,' Lord Hawkesbury interrupted impatiently.

  ‘I know you know that,' St Vincent said calmly, 'I mention it as a foundation for the point I am about to make, not as fresh news.'

  ' 'Pologies,' Hawkesbury said, 'I've had a tiring day.'

  'Well, Bonaparte has had three or four months to re-equip his armies and make new plans -'

  'And he's decided Great Britain is his last enemy,' Hawkesbury said in a return of his impatient autocratic manner.

  ‘That's reasonably obvious,' the First Lord said, clearly controlling himself with difficulty, 'but until now, until the early summer, he lacked allies.'

  'What allies?' Hawkesbury was puzzled, as St Vincent had intended him to be.

  ‘The east wind and a calm sea,' St Vincent said grimly, 'and a new moon.'

  'When can you anticipate that trio coinciding?'

  ‘The new moon is predictable enough - three weeks' time. The east wind - anyone's guess. We've always anticipated that Bonaparte would have to pick a new moon period, but we need more specific intelligence, otherwise we'd have to bring the Channel Fleet up to the Strait of Dover once a month.'

  'An east wind, eh?' Hawkesbury mused. 'What if Bonaparte can't wait for it? Can he risk sailing his Invasion Flotilla in a west wind?’

  'He could, but ideally he wants if not an east wind then some wind with east in it, because his barges won't go windward. They need a following wind.'

  'Are you saying we're safe with a west wind? I've never heard that view before.'

  'A strong wind with any west in it will keep 'em in port; but we aren't completely safe in a light west wind or a calm; the small barges and gun boats could be rowed across. Hard work but possible.'

  'A long row, eh? That'll give your frigates and line-of-battle ships a chance to get amongst them!'

  St Vincent shook his head. 'I'm afraid a sea as calm as that would mean no wind, so the fleet and the frigates would be becalmed.'

  'Of course,' Hawkesbury snapped, annoyed with himself for not realizing that. 'Very well, the agent hasn't told us much, then.'

  'We've only discussed the first item,' St Vincent said sourly, 'which is that 50,000 extra troops are making for Boulogne. The second item -' he picked up the paper, 'says less but tells us more: Bonaparte is about to ask Bruix - he's the admiral commanding the Invasion Flotilla, as you know - how soon the flotilla can sail.'

  'Hmm - I can't see that tells us much,' Hawkesbury said.

  St Vincent folded the paper with great deliberation and put it down on the table. 'On the face of it, it tells us that Bonaparte the General considers the Army is ready to cross the Channel, and he's asking Bruix the Admiral for the earliest date the Flotilla can embark it. The question is urgent only if the Flotilla can be made ready fairly soon. In three weeks' time,' he said ominously, 'or a month after that.'

  'Quite so,' Hawkesbury said, 'so that narrows the date down to two periods of a very few days - I gather a full moon is no use?'

  'No. The French want a new moon - setting two or three hours after it is dark - to get their vessels safely out of harbour without collisions and too much confusion. After that they want darkness for the crossing, to put our ships at a disadvantage, and dawn should see them just off our beaches.'

  'If the wind is right.'

  'As you say,' St Vincent agreed.

  'Then what more do you want to know, my dear Admiral?' Hawkesbury asked, obviously puzzled.

  'Well, sir, the problem is - we think . . .' he broke off and gestured to Lord Nelson, who put his hand down on the table and leaned forward slightly in a movement that reminded Ramage of a spring being wound up taut.

&n
bsp; 'Bonaparte may have marched the troops and asked Bruix when he will be ready just to spur on his generals and admirals, sir,' Nelson said quietly. 'He has another three months of summer left, another three suitable moon periods, and we can't be sure he won't postpone it at the last minute. If we assume the next new moon period is the real date and start moving the fleet round to the Strait of Dover and mobilizing our defences, should Bonaparte then postpone the attempt for a month he is bound to conclude that we knew of his plans, since we made no such move at the last new moon.'

  'But surely preparing ourselves at each new moon is a logical reaction?' Hawkesbury asked.

  'Yes - but we would rather that Bonaparte does not discover what our precise plans are.'

  'But,' Hawkesbury protested, 'if he knows the Fleet is ready, he's less likely to sail!'

  Now Ramage saw Nelson in a fresh light: he was a new man, his single good eye shining, his face flushed, the fingers of his hand drumming on the table.

  'We can't smash Bonaparte's invasion plan if he keeps his ships and men safe in harbour, sir. We want his Army out on the open sea, so that we can sink or burn every ship. It takes a great army - and heavy losses - to destroy another army of 150,000 men on land: an army we can't muster. But our fleet can destroy such an army at sea - can and will, providing it sails.'

  Hawkesbury was worried. 'It's a deuced risk: something the Cabinet ought to consider. Better keep the devils bottled up in Boulogne and Calais, I say.'

  'Not while I occupy the office of First Lord,' St Vincent interrupted. ‘I have a great respect for Mr Addison, but I only joined his government on the clear understanding that I was given a free hand.'

  'Oh, I agree,' Hawkesbury said hastily, realizing he had stepped beyond his professional responsibility, which was foreign affairs. 'I was expressing a personal view, you understand; my colleagues probably would not agree with me.'

  'Be that as it may,' St Vincent said uncompromisingly, 'I assure you the Admiralty want the French to sail because it is confident that they can't land in England, so -'

  'Very well,' Lord Hawkesbury interrupted. 'Now. why can't we rely on our agents - especially this man in Paris - to warn us in time enough if and when Bonaparte decides to sail his flotilla?'

  Nelson glanced at St Vincent before replying: 'It is not the kind of information our agents in Boulogne - such as they are - will discover. That throws the responsibility on to the man in Paris. Unfortunately he never travels with Bonaparte. It seems that Bonaparte has a special staff that travels with him, and his regular staff remains in Paris.'

  'How does that affect this situation?'

  'I think we can assume that Bonaparte will leave Paris and travel to Boulogne fairly frequently from now on. We have no way of knowing - unless our man gets some hint - if he is simply going to review the troops and cheer 'em up, or get 'em to sea.'

  Lord Hawkesbury turned to the First Lord. 'Well, what are you going to do about this report?' He pointed to the paper on the table. 'Mr Addison will be asking me.'

  'I'm sending a man to Boulogne,' St Vincent said. 'This man,' he added, pointing at Ramage.

  'Are you, by Jove?' Hawkesbury said. 'What do you think about that, young fellow? You look a bit startled. What are you going to do when you get there, eh?'

  Ramage swallowed hard, hoping one of the admirals would come to the rescue, but when they remained silent he said, in a wild guess, 'Find the answers to His Lordship's questions, sir, and send back a report.'

  'Speak much French? Spying is a dangerous job.'

  'Enough, sir. I -' suddenly the idea came. 'I can pass for an Italian, sir; it lessens the risk.'

  He was aware that both the admirals were looking at him, and Lord St Vincent said gruffly, 'No need to worry about Ramage; he's used to this sort of thing.'

  Ramage knew the remark was made to reassure Lord Hawkesbury and divert him, but the Secretary of State persisted. 'What is he going to find out?'

  'Just how many vessels of the Invasion Flotilla are ready to put to sea - and give us some better estimates than we have at the moment of how many soldiers the various types can carry.'

  'I fail to see how that information helps us much,' Hawkesbury said.

  St Vincent managed to cut off a sigh. 'If he sees five hundred vessels are ready, and estimates that each can carry a hundred men, then we know Bonaparte can embark an army of 50,000.'

  'Quite so,' Hawkesbury said.

  'In other words, sir,' Nelson said, 'the fact that Bonaparte has sent another 50,000 soldiers to Boulogne need not worry us if we can be sure he has no ships to carry them across the Channel.'

  'But what makes you think Bonaparte would send 50,000 men to Boulogne if he hadn't the ships to carry them?'

  St Vincent pulled his nose impatiently. 'I don't think one way or the other. I learned only half an hour ago that another 50,000 men are marching there. I'm now taking steps to find out if Bonaparte has enough ships for them - and for the army he already has camped there. Until I get young Ramage's report I'm not thinking anything,' he added coldly.

  'Excellent,' Lord Haweskury said, as if at last convinced the Admiralty planned to do the right thing. 'I'll report that to the Cabinet tomorrow morning. Most satisfactory - providing this young man can furnish you with the answers.'

  'He'd better,' the First Lord said with a ghost of a smile. 'If he escapes Bonaparte's guillotine but comes back without the information he'll have me to contend with!'

  The Secretary of State laughed as heartily as his normal cold and scholarly manner allowed. 'I'm told that sailors face the greatest peril,' he said dryly to Ramage, 'when they come on shore.'

  'It seems so, sir,' Ramage said, and wished his laugh sounded more convincing.

  St Vincent gave another of his wintry smiles and took out his watch. 'Mr Ramage will be waiting on me in the Admiralty at seven o'clock tomorrow morning, sir, and I've no doubt he would like another dance or two before getting to bed,so . . .’

  CHAPTER THREE

  As he waited in the ante-room to the First Lord's office the next morning, Ramage reflected that although a woman's tongue was reputed to be her only weapon, it was often most effective when she did not use it. When he had rejoined Gianna on the ballroom floor last night and finally got rid of that damned post captain - who seemed hypnotized by her - she had turned to him, her face expressionless and her eyes cold.

  ‘Well,' she had said, ‘I trust Lord St Vincent and Lord Nelson have accepted your advice.'

  He had shaken his head helplessly, scared that if she had even a hint of what was happening she would sail over to Lord St Vincent like a frigate hard on the wind and make a scene. He had taken the cowardly way out, merely telling her that he had to be at the Admiralty early next morning. She had then lapsed into silence: a noisy, echoing and hurt silence that left him punishing himself more harshly than she could have done with her tongue.

  They had danced twice more, but they were stiff and distant. She had made excuses to four other men who had requested dances and whose names were noted on her card, and then asked to be taken home. Ramage was thankful his father and mother had been too preoccupied with their own circle of friends at the ball to come over to them for a chat: he was sure Gianna would have involved his father - who must have seen him going off to the library with the two admirals - in the iniquity of officers having their leave cut short.

  Now, sitting in this cheerless and chilly room, the skin of his face sore from a razor whose edge was quite unresponsive to the strop, he found he was getting frightened.

  Last night he had been too preoccupied with Gianna's behaviour to have second thoughts about what he had been told in the Duke's library, and he had climbed into bed so weary that the next thing he knew was Hanson waking him with the news that it was half past five and time to get up.

  Hellfire and damnation, this room was cold - and why, like almost every other room in the Admiralty, was it painted in this ghastly dark green and buff? The one tiny window opene
d on to a nearby wall so the sun never managed to find its way in. He shivered and a moment later wondered whether it was the temperature or the thought that within the week he would be in France acting the part of a spy. Acting! He would be a spy, a man who once caught would be executed after ruthless questioning and, if he did not provide the required answers, would probably be subjected to imaginative torture.

  Had Gianna somehow guessed that not only would he be under Lord Nelson's orders and therefore involved in the preparations concerning Bonaparte's invasion plans, but that he would have to go to France? It seemed impossible, yet surely she would have behaved differently if he was simply being given another ship. She would have complained loudly -that was it: the chilly silence was unlike her. It was as though there was a genuine fear for him, not just disappointment that he was going to sea again after such a long absence.

  He shrugged his shoulders. She might have connected the arrival of the messenger with the sudden activity involving Lord Nelson as well as the First Lord: and she had read of Lord Nelson's new appointment in the newspapers that morning. That would have led her to think of the invasion threat, and she could have fitted the rest of the puzzle together. She, of all people, knew that three years ago both admirals were involved when he ended up leading the landing party that rescued her from the Tuscan beaches with the French cavalry hunting her down only a few yards away. Lord Nelson knew that he spoke good Italian and French. In other words Gianna had instinctively reached the conclusion that he had only just reached by disjointed thinking: Lord Nelson had suggested him because he was the only naval officer readily available at one minute's notice who had a chance of working successfully behind the enemy's lines.

  Spies must be either unimaginative people, or able to shut off their imaginations at will. He wished he had the knack, because his imagination would almost certainly be too nimble to allow him to sleep comfortably when French soldiers roamed the streets outside. He shut his eyes and pictured himself listening to a church clock striking three o'clock in the morning, and hearing the tramp of a French patrol and the orders and oaths shouted in French. It was bad enough in battle; up to now he had been able to fight off fear that made him want to run below when he saw the guns of an enemy ship's broadsides winking their red eyes . . .