'Oh, please,' Louis wheedled. 'For the good of the Republic, Signor ... we need the help of men such as yourself: why, by using the methods you employ in your shipyard in Genoa -well, I heard the Port Captain's adjutant saying he reckoned it would halve the time they're taking at Boulogne and Calais to build the barges.'
'It would indeed,' Ramage said, obviously undecided. 'But they expect me to bring my men up here and put them to work for a pittance. Charity - that's what the Port Captain expects. Hardly becomes the First Consul and the new Republic, I must say.' He gave a contemptuous sniff. 'If you want to build an invasion flotilla, then you need money, materials and men. Talk and promises never planked a ship -'
'Well, they've sent a special messenger after you, Signor,' Louis said. 'That shows the importance they attach to you, doesn't it, Jobert?'
'Oh yes, indeed,' the landlord said hurriedly. 'I knew it atonce - that is why I rushed up here the moment the messenger arrived.'
'Very well, I'll be guided by you,' Ramage said in a voice that showed he was mollified. ‘I shall be well enough to travel by - well, no earlier than Sunday.'
'Shall I tell the messenger, Signor?' When Jobert scurried down the passage Ramage said anxiously to Louis: 'What about the travel documents - there was only this.' He held up the single sheet of paper.
'I expect the messenger has special instructions not to hand over the travel documents until he is sure you are going to Boulogne,' the Frenchman said lightly. 'Such documents would be worth a hundred gold livres to spies and other enemies of the Republic!'
'Quite so, quite so,' Ramage murmured. 'One can't be too careful.'
A few minutes later Jobert returned, holding a small packet. 'I signed a receipt for this, Signor,' he said in the sort of awed voice he might have used to confess that he had sold his soul to the Devil. 'The messenger is returning to Boulogne with the good news.'
'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 ...'