by Dudley Pope
The Murex. Ideas drifted through his mind like snowflakes across a window - and, he admitted sourly, they had about as much weight. He looked up at Gilbert and smiled. 'Don't look so sad: now's the time to plot and scheme, not despair!'
The Frenchman shook his head sadly. 'We need a company of chasseurs or an English ship of the line, milord,' he said. 'Three or four of us against Bonaparte...'
'Don't forget Bonaparte was alone when he sent the Directory packing! From being a young Corsican cadet at the artillery school he rose to be the ruler of most of Europe ... Don't despair, Gilbert; come back in half an hour and we'll talk again. First, though, tell me who we can count on among the staff.'
'All are loyal, sir. I mean that none will betray us. For active help: well, Edouard, Estelle and her husband Louis - who was a fisherman before becoming a gardener when the authorities confiscated his boat - will actively help. The others may not care to risk their lives.'
'But those two men and the woman would?'
'Yes, because they all hate the new régime. Not that it's very new now, but they have all suffered. Estelle and Louis lost their fishing boat and then had to sell their little cottage in Douarnenez: Edouard's father should be buried in the cemetery at Landerneau, on the Paris road, but instead the body is in a mass grave near the guillotine they set up in Brest.'
'What did the father do?'
'A terrible crime,' Gilbert almost whispered. 'He was the Count's butler. He decided to stay here in France when the Count escaped to England because he could not see any danger from his own people for a butler. But he was denounced to the Committee of Public Safety as a Royalist.'
'On what evidence? That he worked for the Count?'
'Milord, you do not understand. If you are denounced, you are not brought before the kind of court you are accustomed to in England. You are first locked up, and next day, next week, next month - even next year - you are brought before a tribunal, the denunciation is read out, and you are sentenced. You might be asked for your explanation, but no one will be listening to it. The sentence is the same, whatever you say - the guillotine.'
'Does Edouard know who denounced his father?'
'No, but he knows the names of the three members of the tribunal.'
'What does he intend to do?'
'We Bretons are like your Cornishmen, milord: we have long memories and much patience. Edouard is prepared to wait for his revenge. Nor is he alone: there have been many unexplained accidents in the last year or two, so I hear: farms catch fire, the wheel comes off a cabriolet and the driver is killed or badly hurt ... it seems that a band of assassins occasionally prowl the countryside. It was only six months ago that members of tribunals stopped having armed guards at their houses. But now, milord, I will leave you for half an hour.'
When the door had shut, Sarah patted the bed beside her.
'Come and sit with me - I suddenly feel very lonely.' She leaned over and kissed him. 'If I said what I felt about that, you'd blush.'
'I'd like to blush. For the last few hours I've felt pale and wan.'
'If you'd told Gilbert to come back in two hours, I'd lure you to other things.'
'I had thought of that, but Gilbert will be expecting to hear of a plan worthy of Captain the Lord Ramage - one that frees Jean-Jacques and gets us all safely back to England.'
She looked at him carefully, as though inspecting a thoroughbred horse at a sale. 'A slight turning up at the corners of the mouth ... a brightness in at least one eye ... a jauntiness about the ears ... Or am I mistaken?'
'You're in love,' he said solemnly. 'I can produce plans as a cow gives milk, but they curdle as soon as you look at them.'
'What are the chances of rescuing Jean-Jacques?'
'You know the answer to that question.'
'Yes, I suppose I do. What are the chances of us escaping?'
He paused a minute or two. 'Better than they were, I think. It depends on how the French authorities regard the mutineers from the Murex. Yes, and what they intend to do with the officers and the seamen who did not join the mutiny and are still on board as prisoners of war.'
'Why is all that important?'
He shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. That's the worst of plans. Most of the time they're just ideas. Occasionally, if you're lucky, you can throw an idea at a problem and it solves it. That's how swallows make those nests of mud in odd places.'
'And was doing that what made Captain Ramage famous in the Navy for his skill and daring?'
'Captain Ramage is famous at the Admiralty for disobeying orders!'
'They do say,' Sarah said, 'that being too modest is another way of bragging.'
'Well, skill and daring have landed Captain Ramage with a wife in a château a few miles from Brest while his ship is at Chatham, which is only a war away.'
'You make it sound as though you're sorry you married me.'
He took her in his arms. 'No, my dear, I'm blaming myself for not having married you sooner: then I'd be taking the Calypso out of the Medway and you'd be safe in London or St Kew, starting to write a passionate letter to me saying how you miss me.'
Sarah sat up and patted her hair as there was a gentle knock at the door. Ramage realized with a guilty feeling that he had nothing to say to Gilbert. Well, maybe he could think aloud, but that seemed like cheating a man who trusted you.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sarah put the triangular red scarf round her head and knotted the ends under her chin. Then coquettishly she spun round a couple of times so that her heavy black skirt swirled out and up, revealing knee-length and lace-edged white cotton drawers.
Ramage frowned and then said judiciously: 'Yes, there's a certain rustic charm, despite the revolutionary scarf. Your complexion is just right: you have the tan of a country wench who helps with the harvesting.'
'You are a beast! You know very well this is the remnants of a tropical tan!'
'I do, yes,' Ramage teased, 'but I was thinking of the gendarmes you might have to charm.'
'You don't think my accent is adequate?'
'Oh yes - thanks to Gilbert's coaching you are a true Norman from Falaise. Just remember, in case they question you, that William the Conqueror was born in the castle there, his wife was Matilda, and the Bayeux tapestry is very long!'
She walked round him. 'You don't look right, Nicholas. That hooked nose looks far too aristocratic for you to have survived the guillotine, although I admit your hair looks untidy enough for a gardener. Those trousers! I'm so used to seeing you in breeches. Isn't it curious how the revolutionaries associated breeches with the monarchists? Personally I should have thought trousers are much more comfortable than culottes. If I was a man I think my sympathies would be with the sans-culottes. I'd cry "vive les pantalons! To the bonfires with the culottes'."'
She inspected his hands. 'You have worked enough earth into the skin, my dear, but they still don't look as if they've done a good day's hoeing or digging in their entire existence. And there's something missing ... Ah, I have it! Slouch, don't stand so upright! When you stand up stiffly peering out from under those fierce eyebrows, you look just like a naval officer dressed for a rustic fête. Ah, that's better.'
'Now surely I must look like the henpecked husband of a Norman shrew.'
'Yes,' she agreed, 'why don't you bear that in mind. Think of me as la mégère. With this red scarf round my head, I must say I feel the part!'
Gilbert slipped into the room after his usual discreet knock on the door. He excused himself and inspected Sarah closely. Finally he said: 'The shoes, milady ... they are most important.'
Sarah gestured to the pair of wooden clogs. 'And they are most uncomfortable!'
'Yes, milady, but you must wear them so that they seem natural. We are extremely lucky that Estelle had a pair which fitted you, even if those that Louis found for...'
'Even if Louis has enormous feet and I feel as though I'm wearing a couple of boats," Ramage grumbled.
'Yes, sir, but the
socks?'
'The extra socks do help,' he admitted. 'I had to put on three pairs, though.'
'But the coat and pantalons - perfect. You have adopted to perfection the, how do you say, the stance, of a man of the fields.'
Ramage glared at Sarah, defying her to make a facetious comment.
Gilbert himself was dressed in black. The material of the trousers was rough, a type of serge; the coat had the rusty sheen denoting age and too much attention from a smoothing iron. He looked perfect for the role he was to play, the employer of a young couple who was taking them to market.
He was carrying a flat canvas wallet, which he unbuttoned as he walked over to the table. 'Will you check through the documents with me, sir? From what Louis reports, we might have to show them half a dozen times before we get back here.'
With that he took out three sets of paper and put one down on the table as though dealing playing cards for a game of patience.
'The passeports,' he explained. 'Foreigners need one type, and every Frenchman visiting another town needs a different sort: he has to get it from the local Committee of Public Safety, and it is valid only for the journeys there and back. Now, milady, will you examine yours.'
Sarah picked it up. The paper was coarse and greyish, and at the top was printed the arms of the Republic. The rest comprised a printed form, the blank spaces filled in with a pen. She was now Janine Ribère, born Thénaud in Falaise, wife of Charles, no children, hair blonde, complexion jaunâtre. (Jaunâtre? She thought for a few moments, combing her French vocabulary. Ah, yes, sallow. Well, certainly Gilbert was not trying to flatter her!) Purpose of journey: multiple visits to Brest to make purchases of food from the market. She nodded and put the page down again.
Gilbert gave her another which had a seal on it and a flourish of ink which was an unreadable signature. It was smaller, had a coat of arms she did not recognize, but bore the name of the department beneath it.
'This, madame, is a certificate issued in Falaise, and saying, as you can see, that you were born there, with the date. And beneath the préfet's signature is a note that you removed to the province of Brittany on your marriage. And beneath that the signature of the préfet of Brittany.'
'All these signatures!' Sarah exclaimed. 'Supposing someone compares them with originals?'
Gilbert smiled and took the sheet of paper. 'If he does he will find they are genuine. Préfets sign these papers by the dozen and leave them to underlings to fill in the details.'
'But how did you get them?'
'That's none of our business,' Ramage said. 'Where did we get them from officially?'
'Madame had this issued to her by the mairie in Falaise and it was signed in Caen (the préfet gives the name). Then she had the addition made at the préfecture here. The passeport, too, comes from the préfecture in Brest. I shall point it out to you.'
He took a second set of papers. 'These are yours, milord. The same kind of documents but you see there is one extra - your discharge from the Navy of France. Dated, you will notice, one month before your wedding. The ship named here was damaged in a storm at Havre de Grâce and is still there. You were discharged and were making your way home when you met a young lady in Caen and you both fell in love...'
Gilbert tapped the paper which had the anchor symbol and the heading 'Ministry of the Marine and Colonies' and, like the others, was a printed form with the blanks filled in. 'You are of military age, so you will have to show this everywhere.'
'And you? Have you the correct documents?' Ramage asked. 'You aren't taking any extra risks by coming with us?'
Gilbert shook his head. 'No, because I have all the necessary papers to go shopping in Brest. I am well known at the barrières. You have told madame about the difference between foreigners and French people passing the barrières?'
'No. We've been busy making these clothes fit and I would prefer you to explain. My experience in Republican France is now several years old: I'm sure much has changed.'
Gilbert sighed. 'To leave the ancien régime and go to England ... then to return to Republican France. Now it is the guillotine, the tree of liberty, gendarmes every few miles, documents signed and countersigned ... no man can walk or ride to the next town to have a glass of wine with his brother without a passeport ... few men dare quarrel with a neighbour for fear of being denounced out of spite, for here the courts listen to the charge, not the defence -'
'The barrières,' Ramage reminded him.
'Ah yes, sir. Well, first there is the curfew from sunset to sunrise: everyone must be in his own home during the hours of darkness. To travel - well, one has the documents you have seen. You need plenty of change - at every barrière there's a toll. The amount varies, depending on the distance from the last barrière, because they are not at regular intervals.'
'A large toll?' Ramage asked.
'No, usually between two and twenty sous. It wouldn't matter if the money was spent on the repair of the roads - which is what it is supposed to be for - but no one empties even a bucket of earth into a pothole. But luckily we have our own gig because travelling by postchaise is very expensive. Before the Revolution a postchaise from here to Paris was about 250 livres; now it is 500. No highwaymen, though; that's one triumph of the Revolution!'
'Highwaymen!' Sarah exclaimed. 'You mean that France now has none?'
'Very few, ma'am, and the reason is not particularly to our advantage. We now have many more mounted gendarmes stopping honest travellers, and instead of money and jewellery they demand documents. Truly "money or your life" has now become "documents or your life". So as well as the gendarmes at the regular barrières, there are ones who appear unexpectedly on horseback, so no one dares move without papers. But,' he added, tapping the side of his nose, 'there are so many different documents and so many signatures that forgery is not difficult and false papers unlikely to be discovered.'
'How many barrières are there between here and Brest?' Ramage asked.
'Three on the road, and then one at the Porte de Landerneau, the city gate on the Paris road. We could avoid it by going in along the side roads, but it is risky: if we were caught we would be arrested at once.'
'Whereas our documents are good enough to pass the Porte without trouble?'
'Exactly, sir. Now, if I may be allowed to remind you of a few things. As you know, the common form of address is "Citizen", or "Citizeness". Everyone is equal - at least in their lack of manners. "Please" and "thank you" are now relics of the ancien régime. Rudeness is usually a man's (or woman's) way of showing he or she is your equal - although they really mean your superior. Many gendarmes cannot read - they know certain signatures and have them written on pieces of paper for comparison. But don't be impatient if a gendarme holds a paper upside-down and "reads" it for five minutes - as if it has enormous importance. They are gendarmes because they have influence with someone in authority. Neither the Committees of Public Safety nor the préfets want illiterates, but often giving a job to such a man is repaying a political debt from the time of the Revolution.'
Gilbert paused and then apologized. 'I am afraid I am talking too much...'
'No, no,' Ramage said quickly. 'And you must get into the habit of giving orders to "Charles" and "Janine". Lose your temper with me occasionally - I am a slow-thinking fellow. Poor Charles Ribère, he can read slowly and write after a fashion, but ... even his wife loses her patience with him!'
A smiling Gilbert nodded. He found it impossible to toss aside the natural politeness by which he had led his life. Since he had been back in France, some Frenchmen had called it servility: why are you so servile, they had sneered: man is born free and equal. Yes, all that was true, but man also had to eat, which meant he had to work (or be a thief, or go into politics). Working for the Count was very equable: he lived in comfortable quarters, ate the same food as the Count and his guests, but in his own quarters without the need (as the Count often had) to let the food get cold as he listened to vapid gossip. But for these revolut
ionary fools he could have expected a comfortable old age with a good pension from the Count, and probably a cottage on the estate, here or in England.
'Servility' - yes, that was what these Republican fools called it. Elsewhere, particularly in England, it was called good manners. Please, thank you, good morning, good evening - according to the Republicans these were 'servile phrases'. A true Republican never said please or thank you. But he had never listened to the Count, either: the Count always said please and thank you and the suitable greeting every time he spoke to one of his staff. In fact, a blind man would only know who was servant and who was master because the Count had an educated voice: his grammar, too, betrayed his background of Latin and Greek, and English and Italian. Gilbert had once heard him joking in Latin with a bishop who laughed so much he became nearly hysterical. No Committee of Public Safety would ever understand that normal good manners were like grease on axles - they helped things move more smoothly.
'I think Edouard will have the gig ready for us by now,' Gilbert said, making a conscious effort to avoid any 'sir' or 'milord'. 'We are going to buy fruit - our apples have been stolen - and vegetables: the potatoes have rotted in the barn. And indeed they have. We need a bag of flour, a bag of rice if we can buy some, and any vegetables that catch your fancy. I am tired of cabbage and parsnip, which is all we seem to grow here. A lot of salt in the air from the sea makes the land barren, so Louis says, but I think it is laziness in the air from the Count's good nature.'
Gilbert gestured towards two wicker baskets as they reached the back door. 'We take these to carry our purchases - you put them on your laps. I have all the documents here and will drive the gig, because your hands are occupied.' He winked and then looked startled at his temerity in winking at a milord and a milady. Ramage winked back and Sarah grinned: the grin, Ramage thought in a sudden surge of affection, of a lively and flirtatious serving wench being impertinent. Impudent. Adorable. And what a honeymoon - here they were setting off (in a gig!) at the beginning of an adventure which could end up with them all being strapped down on the guillotine. So far, the Committee of Public Safety (though perhaps the Ministry of Marine would step in, but more likely Bonaparte's secret police under that man Fouché would take over) could accuse Captain Ramage of disobeying the order to report to the local préfet as an otage, because to call them detainees and not hostages was polite nonsense. Then of course he was carrying false papers and dressed as a gardener - proof that he was a spy. And he was lurking around France's greatest naval base on the Atlantic coast ... Yes, a tribunal would have only to hear the charges to return a verdict. And Sarah? A spy too - did she not carry false papers? Was she not assisting her husband? Was she not also an aristo by birth, as well as marriage? Alors, she can travel in the same tumbril, and that valet, too, who was a traitor as well as a spy.