by Dudley Pope
'Thank you, landlord, thank you: it is a great inconvenience to everyone.'
'Oh no, Signor, an inconvenience to you, without doubt; but for us it is a pleasure that you will be staying until Sunday.' He intercepted a glance from Louis and excused himself.
Once the door had shut and they heard the man going down the stairs, Ramage handed the packet to Louis. 'You'd better check this over.'
The Frenchman opened it and took out several sheets of paper. He read them through and nodded. 'All correct - and I can vouch for them being absolutely genuine. The documents, anyway; I don't know about the three men named in them!'
Ramage slept badly that Friday night. Stafford and Louis had drunk a lot of wine at supper, and while the Frenchman had not turned a hair the Cockney went to bed tipsy and snored with a violence that reminded Ramage of a small boy running a stick along iron railings. The snoring and an imagination running riot left Ramage tossing and turning in his bed, going over in his mind every possible danger and difficulty they would face before they boarded the Marie and sailed for Folkestone. Nor was sleep helped by the fact that in his imagination the room was now turning into a prison cell; he had been trapped in it for a week and the walls and ceiling seemed to be closing in. Even in the darkness he felt that they were squeezing him like a clothes press.
Next morning at breakfast he told the landlord that he felt so much better that he was going for a walk; both he and his foreman needed some fresh air. The landlord hastened to suggest that the Cathedral square with its trees was a good place for a promenade. But the café, he said tactfully: he hoped the Signor would not visit it again ...
The day was sunny and under a cloudless sky the city of Amiens looked shabby but a little more cheerful. It would take many coats of paint on shops and houses, and the people would have to be wearing less darned clothes and at least one in a dozen needed to be smiling before Ramage would rate it more cheerful than the day he had arrived. The two of them walked until noon, when Ramage led the way back to their room-feeling considerably better: within eight or nine hours he should be reading Admiral Bruix's dispatch; in twenty or so they should all be rattling along the road to Boulogne. Beyond that he dared not think.
He was getting increasingly superstitious. Was it the effect of this damned room, was he losing his nerve? The knowledge that there was a guillotine in the north-western corner of the Cathedral square in the shade of a row of plane trees was depressing. The heavy blade was missing (presumably the executioner kept it at home, well greased against rusting) but it was still easy to see how it worked. Stafford had an unhealthy curiosity about the way the victim was 'turned off', and because Ramage would not let him betray his interest as they walked past, he checked after lunch with Louis.
The Frenchman was neither squeamish nor superstitious about ‘The Widow', pointing out that it was the régime that had killed his family, not a piece of machinery. He was proud of its sheer efficiency, pointing out that it was quicker and surer than the hangman's noose used in England, far less crude and brutal than the garotte used in Spain, and more certain than the headsman's axe previously used in France. It was not uncommon for a man to be alive ten minutes after being 'turned off' on the gallows, he told Stafford, while the garotte suffocated a man very slowly. With 'The Widow' it was over in a flash.
When Stafford began to argue the point, saying that at Newgate prison they now had a special hinged platform on which the condemned man stood, Louis silenced him with a wave of the hand. 'The noose or the axe depends on the skill of the individual executioner. If the drop is too short from the gallows, the victim strangles slowly; if it is too long, the noose just about wrenches his head off. If the axeman makes the slightest mistake, the axe can land across a man's shoulders or slice off the top of his skull, as you might cut the top off a boiled egg.'
'What you really mean is, the axeman might be drunk and miss his aim,' Stafford said contemptuously.
'Yes, drunk, nervous - or just tired.'
‘Tired?' Stafford exclaimed, 'Well, he oughter get a good night's sleep first!'
Louis said patiently, 'Mon ami, you don't understand. This morning you walked past the guillotine near the Cathedral, and I expect you thought of a man - or a woman - being executed there, with perhaps a crowd gathered round the platform.' Stafford nodded and the Frenchman continued: 'Well, try and picture the whole of that square filled with an excited, screaming mob of Revolutionaries - thousands of them, all yelling for blood. Imagine tumbrils - like hay carts - coming into the square one after another and packed full of terrified men and women, young and old, with their hands tied behind their backs and all condemned to death. Imagine the mob yelling insults and threats, throwing stones and rotten fruit at the condemned, many of whom are praying loudly, or weeping, or shrieking with fear.
'Imagine the gendarmes climbing up into the tumbrils as they come to a stop near the guillotine and pushing these people out. Because their hands are bound they lose their balance and fall, and from up on the guillotine platform, the bourreau - theexecutioner - is shouting at his assistants to hurry up as they lash the next victim's ankles together . . .
‘Two hundred people have been executed by that guillotine in one day, Stafford, all the work of one bourreau. If he still used an axe, I think he'd have been tired after the first fifty. He'd be excited, and with all that crowd, no doubt he'd be drunk. With the guillotine, it hardly matters if he is drunk ...'
‘Two hundred?' Stafford repeated unbelievingly.
'Only two hundred, because Amiens is a small city. In Paris it was nothing for a single guillotine to execute five hundred in a day. What slows down the rate is getting the decapitated bodies out of the way ...'
'Why is it called a guillotine?' Ramage found himself asking, fascinated by Louis's narrative. 'Did a M. Guillotine invent it?'
'Not exactly. A few years before the Revolution a member of the Assembly called Dr Guillotin (there was no final "e") proposed a resolution that a way of executing people should be found which was swift and avoided the risk of mistakes by an executioner. His motives were of the highest. The College of Surgeons were consulted about the swiftest and most painless method, and the decapitating machine with a falling blade was designed. When it was adopted for executions it was named after Dr Guillotin, who still lives in Paris. I heard he had a quarrel with Citizen Robespierre and was imprisoned during the Revolution, though I believe he has been set free by now.'
"Ow does it work?' Stafford asked, and Ramage knew he shared the Cockney's fascination, although it was unlikely Stafford shared his fears.
'Well, you saw how it looks: a vertical frame in which the blade falls is built at the end of a bench on which the victim lies, his head protruding over the end so that the neck is exactly below the blade.
'The neck rests in a shaped piece like the lower half of a pair of stocks, and there's an upper piece that is clamped down when the victim is in position. Some guillotines have a fixed bench so that the condemned person - who of course is bound - has to be lifted on to it. The newest ones have a bascule which pivots on an axle like a seesaw between vertical and horizontal.
'The guillotine blade (which is very heavy) has a diagonal cutting edge and is hoisted up by the bourreau - the executioner - who hauls on a rope. The rope is attached to the upper side of the blade, goes up through a pulley at the top of the frame, and comes down to a cleat at the side. There's a basket to catch the head, and a long basket to one side of the bascule for the body.
'Now, this is what happens at an execution: the bourreau’s assistants - they are called valets - seize the man. His wrists are tied behind his back, and his ankles are secured. The bascule is swung up vertically and the man is pushed against it. It is just the right length, so that he is looking over the top edge at the frame and blade.
'The valets push his shoulders so that he swings over with the bascule like someone lying on a seesaw, and is now horizontal, his neck resting in the shaped piece. The upper piece i
s clamped in position as though he has his head in the stocks, and the valets jump back out of the way in case they get their fingers nipped by the blade.
'The bourreau, who has already hoisted up the blade, flips the rope off the cleat and the blade falls so quickly the eye can hardly follow it. There is a thud, the head falls in the basket, and it is all over. The body is pushed sideways into the other basket and the bourreau hoists the blade again. It is kept well honed, although towards the end of a busy day it gets blunt and -'
‘That's enough, Louis,' Ramage interrupted. 'My neck feels sore already, and if Stafford can't picture it by now he never will.'
'You must admit it's interesting, sir,' Stafford said. 'You ever seen anyone get turned orf at Newgate?'
'No. I know it is regarded as great entertainment, but somehow I...’
'Oh, it's not too bad,' Stafford said enthusiastically. 'It's worse when you know the condemned man. Saw a cousin o' mine turned orf, once. Stood there a couple o' hours I did, waiting. Then as they fetched him out, St Sepulchre's church bell began tolling, the parson began saying the funeral service, an' that was that. Born to be cropped, my cousin was.'
'Cropped?' Louis asked, puzzled at the word.
'Yus, "Knocked down fer a crop." That's when the judge says the cramp words.'
The Frenchman shook his head, mystified, and Ramage looked puzzled. 'It's slang, yes, but what does it mean?'
'Mean yer don't know, sir?' Stafford said disbelievingly, 'Well, the cramp words is what the judge says when he knocks - when he sentences yer ter death. An' sentencing a man to death is - well, it's putting the noose round the neck and cropping 'im on collar day.'
'Collar day?' Louis exclaimed. 'Mon Dieu, what English is this?'
‘The noose fits like a collar,' Stafford explained crossly. 'Honest, Louis, yer don't speak English very good, really.'
'I do my best,' the Frenchman said wryly.
When Jobert and his wife brought up their supper promptly at seven o'clock there was still no sign of the lieutenant-de-vaisseau. Louis came in while the food was being served and as he sat down he said casually to the landlord: ‘I hope the lieutenant won't be too late tonight; we have a card tournament arranged.'
'Ah, we do not know what has delayed him. His other friend - the one you were playing cards with on Monday night - called in a few minutes ago. He said he did not want to miss another exciting evening.'
His wife made a disapproving noise and Louis raised his eyebrows questioningly. 'Gambling,' she sniffed. 'Such a waste of good time!'
'The citizens must choose how they divert themselves,' the landlord said reprovingly. 'They work hard for the Republic, and they deserve some relaxation.'
The woman muttered something Ramage and Louis could not catch, but her husband turned to them apologetically. 'My daughter - she is upset. She has not seen much of the lieutenant on his last two visits. I keep telling them that it is not often we have citizens in the hotel with whom the lieutenant can relax, but...'
Louis was quick to make profuse apologies to the woman. This is our last night here,' he concluded sadly.
She sniffed. 'You have not settled your account yet, Citizen,' she said acidly.
'Mon Dieu!' Louis muttered, and helped himself to more soup.
As soon as they had finished eating and Jobert had cleared the table, Louis followed him downstairs to settle the bill. He returned fifteen minutes later, cursing the landlord for a thief.
'There is a special charge for the "medicine",' he said angrily. 'And they've charged for a full meal every time you and Stafford had a plate of broth. The "medicine" is . . .'
'But you paid?' Ramage interrupted anxiously. "We don't want -'
'Don't worry, I made just the amount of fuss a French landlord would expect another Frenchman to make, and I made him reduce the bill by twenty per cent. He would have been suspicious if I'd paid the full amount!'
'No sign of the lieutenant?'
'No, the landlord is quite worried and his daughter in tears. He has never been as late as this. The girl is sure he has been thrown from his horse and is lying dead in a ditch.'
Ramage took out his watch. 'Just before nine o'clock. 1 hope she's not right!'
‘Tonight of all nights,' Louis said grimly. 'I thought everything had been going too well.' He rubbed his bristly chin in a characteristic gesture. 'Of course it could be the fault of Admiral Bruix . . .'
Ramage said nothing. From the time they had told the landlord that they would be returning to Boulogne on Sunday morning, he had known that the one thing that could wreck all their plans was the Admiral being late with the report. He might not finish it until late Saturday evening, and the lieutenant would get orders to ride direct to Paris without stopping - a hard ride but not impossible. The Admiral might not finish it until Sunday, and even then the lieutenant could still arrive in Paris in time to deliver it to the Minister on Monday.
Come to think of it - and he cursed himself for not paying more attention to the point - there was really nothing in Bruix's earlier letter that promised the Minister that the report would be sent off from Boulogne on Saturday. It was all his own assumption - that because the weekly dispatch to the Minister was always sent off on a Saturday, the special report would be treated in the same way. Yet the fact that it was a special report could mean that it would be dealt with specially: sent off to Paris as soon as it was ready, rather than have it dispatched in the regular way.
All this damned waiting, being cooped up in this room for a week, that damnable medicine, too, most likely for nothing. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. He glanced up at Louis and knew the same thoughts were crossing the Frenchman's mind.
'If we can think of a reason to tell the landlord for staying longer, are those travel papers all right?'
'Yes, only the date that they were issued is written down, and they are for a single journey from Amiens to Boulogne. There is no final date, but they are valid for one month.'
‘I'll have to have a relapse. Hmm, no,' he finally decided, this was an occasion when he would take advantage of being an officer. 'I think Stafford will have a relapse. With a couple more blankets on his bed, he'll pass for feverish.'
The Cockney looked up at hearing his name, a puzzled grin on his face.
'I was telling Louis that if the lieutenant doesn't come tonight, we'll have to stay here until he does. We'll need a reason - and you look a bit feverish.'
'Aye aye, sir,' Stafford said cheerfully, and then his face fell. 'It don't mean more of that medicine, do it?'
'I won't hear a word against it - Louis says they've charged us three times the price of brandy for it.'
'Ah, 'tis too expensive for the likes of me,' Stafford said quickly. 'I'll make do with broth.' He looked keenly at Ramage and recognized the worried look. 'Is it dangerous, staying on 'ere, sir? I mean, would you rarver go somewhere else and 'ide? Louis is bound to know a safe 'ouse. I can 'eave this case an' bring you the satchel.'
'Heave this case?'
Had Stafford been a girl, Ramage would have said he suddenly looked coy as he said; 'I always tell a clerk ter put down "locksmith", sir, but - well, a'fore the press gang took me up I sort o' worked in Bridewell Lane on me own account, like.'
'At night, you mean,' Ramage said helpfully.
'That's right, sir.' He grinned when he realized that Ramage was pulling his leg. 'We can keep a watch on the 'tenant's window each night. When we see a light we know 'e's 'ere. When the light goes out we know 'e's gorn fer 'is grub, an' our Will is up the drainpipe and darn again with the satchel a'fore you can say Jack Ketch.'
Ramage envied the Cockney's nonchalance. 'Heave the case,' he reminded him.
Stafford's jaw dropped for a moment, and then he grinned again. 'Our slang, sir. "Heave" is - well, you'd call it burgle. A "case" is -' he thought hard for a moment, 'well, it's the place wot gets burgled. Like the Italian word,'
'Casa? But that means "house",'
His voice tailed off as all three men's eyes went to the door.
There were heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Two men . . . the landlord was speaking, although it was impossible to distinguish his words. They reached the corridor, and still the landlord was talking. He sounded anxious. Another guest who was doubtful about the quality of the rooms? Then the coarse laugh of the lieutenant.
Louis sighed with relief and sat down at the table.
After Louis had gone downstairs to join the lieutenant, Ramage decided to write the first part of his report to Lord Nelson, so wording it that he could then copy the facts and figures from Admiral Bruix's letter without delay. Louis's concern the previous Monday night about having incriminating papers in the room had been justified, though Ramage was more than worried that he was himself becoming obsessed about it.
As previously arranged, Louis came back into the room after an hour, ostensibly because he had forgotten his purse but actually to tell Ramage that supper was over and they were just settling down to play cards, and Ramage had to fight with his own impatience and nervousness to let five minutes pass before nodding to Stafford.
As the Cockney left the room Ramage's heart began to thud. The game begins . . . like going into action and waiting for the first enemy gun to fire and drive away the fear. The long wait was nearly over: in the next few minutes he would know if he had the answers to every question the Admiralty could think of, not just those covered by his orders. If he succeeded, the First Lord got a bonus. If he failed - even thinking about it was making his breathing shallow and chilly perspiration was trickling down his spine. His stomach seemed full of a cold liquid churning round. It was not often he could sit quietly in a chair observing his own fear. It was far worse than being on his own quarterdeck while he was taking the ship into action. At sea there were tactics to decide (and sometimes hastily changed at the last moment), sails to be trimmed, orders to be given: with so much to do there was no time to think of fear as such; it crept in, like a misty rain which soaks clothes and chills bodies, unless he was busy. Fear did not get a chance to take a grip on him on a quarterdeck, and the busier he was the more likely it was that someone who did not understand fear would say he was brave. The real test - and one Ramage wouldn't pass - was sitting in a chair and waiting for things to happen over which he had no control. Stafford had gone to get the satchel; he had orders to open it, and then open the seal of a dispatch. The only trouble was that Ramage had no control over whether or not the dispatch was in the satchel . . .