by Dudley Pope
Because of the war, these items could not be imported legally, since they came from the enemy's country. Law-abiding businessmen could not import them even if they paid all the duties in hard cash and with a smile on their faces: that would be trading with the enemy and akin to treason.
So, the smuggler would argue, who can blame me if I risk my life and liberty to go to France and get these items, and risk my life and liberty once again on my return to England? If I declared them so that I paid the regular duty, I'd be put in jail, so I land them on a dark night (thus adding more risk to the whole venture) and satisfy the ladies and gentlemen: the ladies can dress in beautiful clothes and cheer up the gentlemen; the gentlemen can puff a pipe or a cigar after a good dinner which was helped down with a fine wine topped off with a good port. The gentlemen were - however briefly - cheerful enough not to curse the government or bully their wives; the wives were so happy in their new finery they did not nag their husbands.
Ramage chuckled to himself: there was an equally good case for arguing that smugglers should be honoured like other worthy citizens: he could just imagine the announcement that so-and-so had been created a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath 'for distinguished services to smuggling'. One did not have to be very sophisticated to consider it better earned than the knighthoods, baronies and the like that were handed round like buns and ale at a cockfight in return for money paid to a political party. Better if a man earned a knighthood after risking his life than bought it in the same furtive way he would a puncheon of brandy ...
Anyway, there's nothing like sitting on the deck of a smack in the sunshine in the middle of an enemy harbour for getting a fresh perspective. And not only a perspective - the hot sun was doing nothing to disperse the sickly smell of garbage, boiled cabbage and urine that seemed to lie over the quays in an invisible layer many feet thick.
So a smuggler's allegiance was to money rather than a flag, and he was lucky because Louis also had a deep and apparently genuine contempt for the Corsican who, to many Frenchmen, typified France even more than the Tricolour; who so believed in Liberté, égalité and fraternité that apparently he wanted to conquer and rule the whole world.
The first move was to see if Louis was willing to help; after that the price could be settled. So much easier to deal with men whose consciences were uncluttered with complicated loyalties . . . 'Has Slushy told you why I've come to France?' Ramage spoke in French, since there was no need to disguise the fact he spoke it.
'No - all I know is what Thomas Smith said when he came over with the papers in the middle of the Channel: that there was no contraband this voyage, only four passengers.'
'Do you often carry passengers?'
Louis shook his head. 'Not to France. Occasionally one of the leaders - one of the chief smugglers, you understand - visits France to check the accounts and pay or collect money. Twice a year, perhaps. To England? Very occasionally, and usually they are British prisoners of war who have escaped from Verdun or Bitche or one of the other fortresses. A very dangerous traffic for us: it's asking a lot to risk having the authorities here in Boulogne forbid all smuggling to England just for the sake of helping an escaped prisoner.'
'But they pay you well, surely?'
'They offer to, but if we carry them, then they pay only for a small rowing-boat: we take them to within a mile or two of Dover and let them row the rest of the way in the boat. They tell the authorities in Dover they stole or bought the boat and rowed all the way. They say nothing of the Marie or anyone they met. That is the price of our help: silence!'
'It's a price anyone can afford!'
'I have too much imagination,' Louis confessed unexpectedly. 'I just think of myself escaping from a prison fortress, being hunted across two hundred miles of countryside, and then reaching the coast to find I can see my homeland but cannot get across. The fisherman or boatman that drives a hard bargain in such circumstances ought to have a taste of prison...'
"What else did Thomas Smith tell you?' Ramage asked casually.
'Just that a gentleman with three attendants was being taken to Boulogne.'
'Attendants?'
Louis laughed, explaining, "Thomas Smith is proud of his French and practises it on me. I think he liked the sound of "jonty-yomm"' - he made an exaggerated gesture as he imitated the Marsh man's pronunciation, 'whereas "lieutenant" sounds more or less the same (the way Smith pronounces it) in either language. You are a lieutenant, I think?' When Ramage nodded he added: 'I thought so, and these three men served with you?' Without waiting for Ramage's answer he said: 'One can tell there is a rapport between men who have faced death together, no matter what their rank. Well, the fact that the Chief arranged your passage is enough for me to say, if I can be of service to you ...’
‘Thank you, but was that the British chief or the French?'
Louis chuckled, thought for a moment and then said: "There's only one chief, and although I have never seen him, I am sure he regards himself as a citizen of both countries.'
'A man of two worlds, eh?’
Louis repeated the phrase, as though savouring it. 'All of us concerned with contraband have to be. However, contraband is the least of your worries. When you go on shore tonight, have you lodgings arranged?'
'Not yet. Will they be difficult to find?'
'I will help you. The main difficulty is moving about after dark.'
'Is there a curfew?'
'Only for the soldiers, but there are patrols everywhere. Everyone challenged has to show a passport, unless he can prove he lives in Boulogne. A man without a passport or a home in Boulogne goes straight to jail...'
Which shows, Ramage thought to himself, the dangers of not planning an operation carefully. But there had been no time to do more than get to France; there was no way of finding out what conditions were like. One day a government department might make itself responsible for collecting all that kind of information, so that it was available to the Admiralty and War Office, and even the Secretary of State's office. But since captains were having difficulty in getting the Admiralty to agree to print charts because Their Lordships expected captains and masters to have their own (though not specifying where they were to come from), it was unlikely that the Government would ever show any interest in what went on in an enemy country.
'Such documents provide no problem,' the Frenchman said. 'I'll get them before you leave. I need to know what trades you follow though, and you must decide on your names - or what names you want to use, rather. One of the men is not English, I think.'
'One is Italian, one British, and one American. The Italian speaks English and some Spanish. The American speaks a little Spanish - perhaps enough to fool a gendarme. I speak some Spanish, too. The American also speaks some Italian, and so do I.'
'Your Spanish and Italian - is it as good as your French?'
'Better - I've spoken both fairly recently. I haven't used my French since I learned it, unfortunately.'
'You have nothing to worry about. The accent of Paris - it shows. Your teachers made you work hard! But the Englishman - he speaks only English?'
Ramage nodded. 'His own particular brand of it!'
'Then he must be the dumb one, while the two of you must be Italian or Spanish. Italian would be better - the Spanish are not popular in France at the moment, as you probably know.'
'Yes, that gives us one native Italian - a Genovese – and Ican pass for a Tuscan. If the American just grunts and Englishman holds his tongue . . . But trades - what do you suggest?'
'It depends on your task. I'm not prying,' Louis added hurriedly, 'but one trade might be more suitable than another for your -' he broke off, embarrassed and obviously unable to find the right words.
'My masters are worried that Bonaparte's Army of England might suddenly arrive one morning . . .'
'It worries my masters too,' Louis grunted nodding as though Ramage had confirmed his guess. 'That would put every smuggler out of business along the whole French coas
t. The interests of our respective masters therefore coincide, which makes our task easier.'
Suddenly Ramage remembered the moment when Simpson had changed his mind and agreed to help when, in the comfort of his study, he had finally guessed the substance ol Ramage's orders and realized that, with Bonaparte's threat of invasion, the smugglers' and the Admiralty's interests were perhaps for the first time in history the same.
'Carpenters!' Louis said suddenly. 'Carpenters sent to Boulogne from Italy to help build the ships. You have just arrived. In Italy the French officers - blame the Army - promised you high wages if you went to work on the barges in Boulogne. With your tools —yes, that would help because they are short of tools here -' he saw Ramage's face fall and said reassuringly, 'don't worry, you are poor men and cannot be expected to have a lot of tools, not more than I can provide.'
'All we need is some skill with wood; it looks as if you can provide everything else!'
Louis shrugged his shoulders. 'You and your men know enough about the way ships are built to bluff questioners - and that is all it would be, questions. I doubt if a gendarme would give you a plank of wood to make you demonstrate! And if you want to work in the shipyards for a day or two - well, there is so much chaos there that if each of you carries a piece of timber and some tools and you look busy, you could walk for many hours without anyone asking questions - long enough for you to find out whatever you need to know.'
Ramage looked at his hands. Despite the last few hours spent in the Marie's grubby cuddy, his hands were still soft and well-manicured.
'Don't worry,' Louis said cheerfully, 'you are the foreman, and anyway it has taken you a month to get to Boulogne from Italy: time enough for any man's hands to get soft. Your men's hands are harder, I noticed. Well, you all had to stop from time to time to do some carpentry to pay for food. You found the business, since you speak some French - not very good French,' he warned, 'in fact only just sufficient to make yourself understood - and you made the men do the work, as all good foremen should.' He chuckled at his own joke and added: 'If I wasn't so well known here I would act as the entrepreneur!'
He stood up. 'I will go and arrange the papers and hide some tools where we can pick them up later. We must make up names for all of you, and you must practise signing them. If gendarmes stop you and are suspicious, the first thing they do is make you sign your name. Then they compare it with the signature in the passport.'
‘Tell Rossi to choose short and easy names then,' Ramage said, visualizing Stafford stumbling over something like 'Giuseppe di Montefiore'. 'In fact let me look at the list. But - how can they practise the signatures before they see what names are written on the passports?'
Louis grinned and shook his head slowly. 'You underestimate us, Lieutenant,' he said. 'I shall bring passports complete in all but three details - the owner's name, trade and address. And official paper so that we can draw up a travel document for the four of you. Something impressive to introduce you to the master shipwright at Boulogne.'
'He's the man we must keep away from,' Ramage said cautiously.
'Don't worry, the introduction is only for you to show an inquiring gendarme.' Louis thought for a moment. 'Money- you have money?'
Ramage nodded. 'Sufficient, I think, but if not. . .?’
'If not, a draft on London ...’
CHAPTER EIGHT
By eleven o'clock that night Ramage and his three men were comfortably installed at a small inn midway between the quay where the Marie was alongside and the eastern side of the harbour, where barges and gunboats were secured several deep, waiting to be fitted out with sails and guns.
Louis had warned them that the innkeeper was a revolutionary: a former corporal who had lost a leg in Spain, though it was generally believed among his customers that it happened during a fracas in a brothel rather than in a desperate affray with the enemy. But the smuggler had also explained that quite apart from the fact that it was cheap, clean and known for its good plain food, it was also just the place that Italian carpenters working at either of the shipyards would choose. More important still, no one would ever dream that a British naval officer and three of his men - spies, no less - would dare to stay under his roof. The regular twice weekly inspections of inns carried out by gendarmes all over the country were cursory; at the sign of Le Chapeau Rouge, merely an excuse for a glass of wine.
Rossi had startled Louis by declaring, with a straight face, that a man owning an inn with that name must be an agent of the Vatican, not a revolutionary, and Louis had begun a vociferous denial before Ramage, worried that their English might be overheard, explained Rossi's play on the fact that a Catholic cleric wore the biretta, 'the red hat,' and someone with a warped sense of humour could claim the inn’s name referred to that, not the Phrygian, or red cap that was as much part of the Revolution as the Tree of Liberty - and the guillotine.
Ramage had negotiated the ritual of getting a room with no trouble. He had led his three men into the smoky and smelly bar, waved cheerfully to the half a dozen men sitting round the table and made a face in the direction of a customer stretched out across three chairs, his head hanging down in the total surrender achieved only by the dead or the drunk.
The innkeeper had been surly until Ramage, in halting French heavily larded with fluent Italian, explained that he and his men wanted accommodation 'for the many weeks' they would be working at the shipyard. As he spread passports and travel documents on the wine-stained counter in a gesture half-triumphant and half servile, as befitted the subject of a conquered state, he commented that Boulogne was indeed a long march from Genova.
'Italy, eh? I know Spain well enough,' the Corporal had growled, as though doubtful of Italy's existence, 'in fact I fought there, and lost a leg, too.' To underline the loss he banged the floor with his wooden stump. 'Corporal Alfonse Jobert, once of the 14th Regiment. You served in the Army of Italy,' he said, as though the fact that a man came from Italy made it obvious, and when Ramage shook his head apologetically he began glancing at the passports and said more sympathetically, 'Well, not everyone could have the honour of serving in the Army of Italy under General Bonaparte ...'
He leafed through the papers with the uncertainty of an illiterate, and then reached under the bar for a pencil and a scrap of paper. 'Write all your names down there - for the gendarmes. Four of you share one room, eh? Two francs a night for the room and use of linen. Breakfast one franc and supper two - each that is. Good plain nourishing fare, and wine is extra. No going to bed with your boots on, mind you, and no women in the room - I know what you foreigners are like. Anyway,' he added in a man-to-man voice, 'there are plenty of "houses" round by the town hall.'
Ramage began writing, meekly assuring M. Jobert that they never slept with their boots on, not in a bed anyway, and that poor carpenters could not afford to entertain women in their room, even if they wanted to - not that they did, he said hastily, although the effect was almost spoiled by Rossi who, understanding enough French to follow the more interesting part of the conversation, muttered in Italian: "This capon wants castrati, not carpenters ..."
Ramage managed to turn a laugh into a snarl: the innkeeper bullied him, and he, as leader of the band of carpenters, was expected to bully them. 'Understand that, you miserable knots of wood,' he said in Italian, 'no boots in bed, no women, and two francs for supper!'
Jackson and Stafford looked suitably impressed although they did not understand a word, and Rossi was quick-witted enough to mumble a stream of Italian signifying grateful acceptance of the terms.
Finding that his new lodgers were docile, the innkeeper picked up a candle and stumped across to the stairs, beckoning to them to follow, and as he led the way he told Ramage confidentially: 'You can call me "the Corporal", like the rest of my patrons do. They like the idea of a military man on the premises, you understand.'
Ramage thanked him, and agreed that it was indeed a comfort to have someone of his military experience in the house; particularly with
the damned English so close.
The Corporal stopped as suddenly as if he had walked into a sword blade and turned towards Ramage so quickly he almost overbalanced, the candle tilting and dripping wax on the bare boards. 'Merde! You've nothing to fear from them. Why, with the Army that the First Consul is preparing here, the Tricolour will be flying over the -' he paused for a moment, obviously at a loss, and then the memory of the Bastille helped him, 'the Tower of London before we harvest this year's apples. Believe me,' he added, lowering one eyelid conspiratorially, 'I know what I'm talking about. My brother -' he dropped his voice and spoke slowly, to make sure the foreigner understood every word, 'my brother owns the inn which is patronized by Admiral Bruix's messenger; how about that, eh?'
Ramage looked unimpressed, anxious to learn more aboul the brother.
'Citizen Bruix,' the Corporal said heavily, 'is the admiral who commands the invasion flotilla - all the barges and gunboats and sloops and frigates that will carry the Army of England to - well, to England, of course. And he is stationed here in Boulogne, where he can keep an eye on things, and hurry your fellows along with your saws and adzes and planes - yes, and your hammers and nails, too.'
He paused dramatically, like an actor reaching the really dramatic speech in his act. 'Well, once a week Citizen Bruix reports to the First Consul on the progress being made at Boulogne in building the invasion flotilla - yes, and at the other ports along this coast that are privileged to build the ships for the Great Invasion. Every Friday night, as soon as all the returns are in from the shipyards, Citizen Bruix sits down in his house - it is the great white house at Pont-de-Briques, just before you enter the town, you must have passed it - and draws up his report with great care. Then can you guess what happens?'