To pass the time, he had re-sailed every storm he had ever experienced while commanding his own ship. Not many, considering that it covered more than three years and the distance from Italy to Gibraltar and on to England, and from England across the Western Ocean to the West Indies, the length and breadth of the Caribbean, and back to England by a somewhat circuitous route. A couple of dozen gales, maybe double that number, since to a sailor they were as common and about as irritating as a shower of rain to a farmer gathering his harvest. One storm had been worrying, and that the one that caught the Kathleen cutter just after he had brought her westwards into the Atlantic through the Gut. The east wind had funnelled from the Mediterranean between the Atlas Mountains of Africa on one side and the mountains of Gibraltar and Spain on the other. For a few hours he had wondered whether the Kathleen would live through it. She had, since a ship can usually take more punishment than her men, and Ramage admitted to himself he had learned a lot (mainly that most of what he had learned as a midshipman and later as a lieutenant in big ships, had little to do with handling small ones), starting with the fact that following seas which looked like hills from the deck of a ship of the line seemed like mountains from the quarterdeck of the cutter.
And one hurricane. He had learned more about heavy weather in the forty-eight hours that its winds and seas had torn at the Triton brig that he would otherwise have learned in a lifetime at sea, and seen her masts go by the board. But the ship had stayed afloat - though that had been doubtful for what seemed like a lifetime. Yes, he had learned a good many lessons, though he would die a contented man if he never met another hurricane to put them into practice again, One lesson was as valid for a storm as for a hurricane, not to mention going into action or even taking a ship alongside a quay. It was simple enough - no reasonably trained and experienced captain with a well-found ship had much to fear providing his ship's company was well-trained and trusted him. The training part was obvious; the trusting less so. It had taken him several actions and a hurricane to find out what was probably the most important aspect of command.
Apparently its importance was not limited to being at sea; Stafford, who had served with him since his first command, was as cheerful shut up in this room as he would have been on the deck of the Triton brig running before the warm Trade winds and slicing her way towards the setting sun. He was exposed directly to his captain's bad temper - although only his captain would face the Admiralty's wrath if everything went wrong, all three of them would face the wrath of Bonaparte's men, and that in turn would mean being strapped down under the guillotine blade. Neither Stafford nor Louisi had more nor less to lose than Lieutenant Ramage: the only thing at stake was whether they could keep their heads firmly on their shoulders and get back, safely across the Channel...
Ramage vowed he would try to be less irritable in the future. The arrival of the lieutenant-de-vaisseau from Paris would ease some of the strain; his return from Boulogne on Saturday would see an end to it. On Saturday! The wait from Wednesday to Saturday would be twice as bad as this; what really mattered was Bruix's report. He found himself wondering for the hundredth time whether making the attempt on the satchel this time was worth the risk of wrecking everything for the attempt on Saturday.
Louis had reckoned it was; Stafford was indignant - or as indignant as he dared be - when Ramage had mentioned that a mistake with the wax seal of the Paris dispatch would endanger the whole operation. On Saturday, once they had read Bruix's dispatch, it would not matter if they jumped on the seaclass="underline" by the time the satchel reached Paris and was opened at the Ministry of Marine on Monday, all three of them should be back on board the Marie and heading for Folkestone ...
Once again Ramage went back to reading Le Moniteur: Louis regularly brought in old copies that he found in various places: it had taken only fifteen minutes to read the latest issue, which was about as interesting as the London Gazette, although the bombast of some of the official statements was amusing enough.
He had decided a hundred times to abandon tonight's attempt; he had changed his mind a hundred and one times. So - and he was ashamed to admit it even to himself - they would make the attempt, providing he did not change his mind yet again. Judging by the increasing rate, he had time for half a hundred more changes of mind before the lieutenant-de-vaisseau flopped into his bed tonight, secure in the knowledge that his satchel was safely hidden ...
Supposing that Forfait did not bother to answer Bruix's questions about the 413 guns and the money for the workmen - or could not answer for a few days, until someone made a tally of the guns available and checked the money in the Treasury kitty . . .? The Admiralty in London would not give a tinker's cuss that there was a shortage of money - that was something faced every day by every ministry in every government in the whole world; but guns for the invasion flotilla's gunboats - that was different. Knowing that Bruix would get no more guns suitable for the gunboat was more important than knowing the rate at which new gunboats were being sent down slipways. Without guns, they were useless, since they were unsuitable for carrying troops, provisions or ammunition. On the other hand if Forfait said that no more guns would be available for, say, six months (until the foundries produced them, or the Army could be persuaded to hand some over and ship carriages could be made for them), then the Admiralty knew that for the next six months Bruix's only effective gunboats were those he had been able to commission.
You could go a stage further: Bruix would, left to his own devices (but of course the Minister or the First Consul might overrule him), probably finish the construction of those gunboats already on the stocks simply to get them out of the way, and then use all available extra carpenters and shipwrights (and sawyers and smiths, for that matter) to concentrate on building more barges - or if not more, then speeding up construction of those already started.
In fact you could very easily start getting quite sorry for Admiral Bruix's plight! The poor man was in the silly situation where he could build more transports for the Invasion Flotilla and carry an even larger Army of England across the Channel but, because he could not get the guns, he would have many fewer gunboats to escort them: the more transports he built, the less able he was to defend them.
It was some consolation that Lieutenant Ramage was not the only naval officer within fifty miles of the Channel who had problems, he reflected gloomily, but at least Bruix would not be strapped down on the guillotine if he failed.
Ramage was worried about Louis: from six o'clock he had been expected back to describe what plans he had made to ensure that the lieutenant once again had supper in the dining-room downstairs, but he had not arrived by seven o'clock, Ramage and Stafford had to return to their roles of invalids, undressed and in bed, waiting for supper. Both had to appear suitably ill, although the daily bulletin given to the landlard when he brought up their breakfast showed that Stafford was on the mend while Signor di Stefano made only slow progress. Fortunately the landlord himself had scorned the idea of calling a doctor: once Ramage had described the symptoms the landlord had clapped his hands and announced that the café where they had lunched was infamous for serving food that was bad, and that his wife had a family recipe for the medicine that would clear it all up tout de suite. He apologized that the Signor and his foreman should be taken ill in Amiens in this unfortunate way, but there was no need to worry. With every meal since then two small mugs of the medicine had appeared, a piping hot and evil brew of mint, rosemary and chicory for certain, and many other things that Ramage could not define but previously thought had their origins in drains. At every meal the two men had taken appreciative sips but, the moment the landlord was gone, poured the rest into old wine bottles which Louis had found for the purpose and took out of the hotel in his coat pocket to empty.