The Admiral has asked the Minister to tell him by return - presumably he means by this same lieutenant - when he can expect the 413 guns and carriages, and the money to pay the: workmen. He says the full report on the Invasion Flotilla will take a few days to prepare and will be included in his next weekly dispatch. So presumably it will be taken to Paris by our lieutenant this time next week.'
Ramage waited anxiously for Louis to absorb the significance of the timing. It was better to let the Frenchman think it out for himself. While lying on his bed waiting for Louis to return from the orgy with the sucking pig, he had considered all of the alternatives open to him. Thank goodness there were some: he was not forced into one course of action - except that in the last resort, if everything went wrong, then some time next Saturday the wretched lieutenant-de-vaisseau was going to be left for dead behind a hedge on the quietest stretch of road between Boulogne and Amiens,
Louis was slowly arranging the crumbs on the table in a neat little pile. He looked tired and there was a sheen of grease on his chin, a patch he'd missed when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after finishing the sucking pig. Damn the pig; he was still so hungry his thoughts kept going back to it. Now Ramage was having to wait, and regretting the way he'd tantalized Louis over the dispatch, though the Frenchman was not being deliberately slow. He was being thorough, if his past performance was anything to go by; like a good chess player he was calculating every move his opponent could make before deciding on his own.
He looked up and, with a gesture to Stafford, said, 'I talk in French; I can't think well in English.' He folded Ramage's notes along the original creases and then ran the edge of the paper along the line of his jaw, the paper rasping on the stubble.
'First, we need to look into the lieutenant's satchel again when he returns from Paris on Monday, so we know when - or if - Admiral Bruix can expect his 413 guns and carriages?' When Ramage nodded he commented: 'Your people should regard that information as more vital than knowing when the vessels will be completed, since without a gun a gunboat is useless.'
Ramage nodded again: so far Louis's thoughts had run parallel with his own.
'Second, we need to look into the satchel again when the lieutenant returns to Paris from Boulogne next Saturday, so we can make a copy of Admiral Bruix's full report to the Minister. After that, your people will know as much about the Invasion Flotilla as the First Consul, eh?'
'Perhaps more,' Ramage said dryly. 'I think the Minister will edit it carefully to safeguard himself before presenting it to Bonaparte ...'
'It's all politics,' Louis said gloomily. ‘The Admiral will write an honest report because he has probably done an honest job: he has built as many vessels as he could with the money and materials provided, and commissioned as many as possible. The men in Paris are responsible for the deficit - they did not supply what was needed. Forfait knows that he has not supplied the materials - because he has been unable to get them. The Treasury has not supplied the money - because it is not available. But the First Consul is certainly not going to blame himself for ordering more ships than was possible to build with the money and materials available: oh no, he cannot be wrong. Alors, there will have to be scapegoats - something that Forfait and the Treasurer know only too well. If Forfait blames the Treasury, he knows he makes a mortal enemy; likewise the Treasurer probably knows that he cannot throw all the blame on Forfait. So -' Louis gave an expressive shrug, 'between them they carefully edit Admiral Bruix's report. After all, he is a hundred miles from Paris, and at times such as these I imagine a man is wise not to be more than a hundred metres from the First Consul's ear if he wishes to remain in favour.'
The rasping of the paper on Louis's jaw was getting on Ramage's nerves. He gave a passable imitation of a Gallic shrug. 'Politicians are the same the world over; it probably happens in London as well.'
'It even happens in every town hall,' Louis said bitterly, 'only there they're after money, not power. But we stray from our problem. Can we safely stay here another week - that is what we have to decide.'
Ramage put his hands flat on the table. 'I accept your decision.'
'Without a good reason, it will be dangerous. Can you think of a reason?'
'Stafford's illness becomes worse?'
Louis shook his head. 'An illness means a doctor, and a doctor is likely to suspect Stafford does not speak Italian, Doctors know Latin, don't forget.' He looked up at Ramage and began laughing. 'You were the last one to be taken ill— and you speak Italian well enough to pass for one. Fm afraid you are the one who has to take to his bed. It is the most natural reason, apart from being the safest.'
The prospect of faking an illness for a whole week was far from pleasing, but Ramage knew there was no other way. Louis was quite right because the stage had already been set: both the landlord and the lieutenant had seen him taken ill at supper; they both knew the Italian's foreman had been taken ill a few hours earlier. Why, the damned lieutenant-de-vaisseau would no doubt be anxious to hear how il signor was progressing when he returned from Paris with his satchel.
'We have to get the word to Jackson that there's been a delay. He'll be returning from England and expecting us back in Boulogne by Monday. And I must send another report: the Admiralty will be interested in what we've discovered from the lieutenant's satchel.'
Louis nodded. 'Passing messages is the least of our problems.' He thought for a moment. 'If all went well, Jackson should be on his way back to Boulogne tonight. I can arrange for your report to reach him so that he and Dyson sail for the rendezvous again tomorrow night. He'd be in England on Monday and back in Boulogne by Tuesday.'
'Good: I'll write the report now, and orders for Jacksoa'
‘The sooner the better,' Louis said, 'it's a long ride from here to Boulogne, the way my man will have to go. And don't forget he might be caught: don't be too - well, too explicit, I don't mean in your report to the Admiralty,' he added hastily. 'Just make sure that if my man is.caught and the papers read, no one can trace us here!'
Ramage jerked his hand up to his neck in a chopping motion. ‘The sight of a guillotine blade guarantees caution...’
CHAPTER TWELVE
By Tuesday afternoon the tension in Ramage's room at the Hotel de la Poste was as taut as the strings of an overtuned cello: if Stafford walked across the room in his normal manner he was told not to stamp; if he walked silently he was ordered not to creep about. Only Louis, who was free to come and go and anyway had his own room, escaped Ramage's irritation.
The feeling of being trapped in the room was illogical; Ramage admitted that much to himself as he alternated between the hard, upright chairs and the hard but horizontal bed. He slept badly because the lack of exercise meant his body was not tired, his muscles ached from disuse, and all the while the worry of the lieutenant-de-vaisseau's return kept his mind active. He knew all that well enough; he knew equally well that he had never had a cabin that was a quarter of the size of this room and, although he had occupied each one for months on end, he had never regarded any of them as small.
But immediately outside the cabins had been the ocean. Usually there were scores of miles to the nearest land in the Mediterranean, hundreds in the Caribbean, and thousands in the Atlantic. He had never really appreciated that freedom: just open the door, acknowledge the Marine sentry's salute, and a few steps up the companion ladder brought him on deck to look at a sea horizon. Not always a reassuring sight, admittedly, even in the Mediterranean and the Caribbean, since a summer storm in the Golfe du Lion stretched your seamanship to its limits and a Caribbean hurricane could take it beyond.