Funny how Mr Ramage watched that game with the wax seals: he seemed to think it magic. And opening a lock! Well, every man to his own trade - it always seems like magic the way he takes the ship into action. And every time he outsmarts the French - even old Mr Southwick, who had been in more battles than most men have eaten mince pies, reckons there's no one like him.
Handsome, too. Face a bit on the lean side, and not a bit of spare meat on the carcase. Father owns a big estate so there must be a lot of money there. Good looks, money, a nice chap, and the Marchesa too. But the way he goes about things you would think he had nothing to lose if a French cannonball lopped his head off. Those two scars on his forehead - each was a memento of boarding a French ship with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. Each time he had ended up unconscious and covered in blood, the lads thinking he was dead. You would think that he would go more carefully with so much to lose, since he had so much to stay alive for. But no, show him a French ship and off he goes, breathing fire and smoke and taking a swipe with his sword.
Stafford smiled to himself. Watching him sitting at the table, tapping his teeth with the feather of his pen, reminded him of a schoolboy trying to do his lessons! A good caning for you in the morning, my boy, unless you learn ten more verses of that Euclid. Though maybe Euclid was not a language - never heard of anyone speaking it. Come to think of it, it might be a sort of sums? He shrugged his shoulders, thankful that neither sums nor Euclid were needed to pick a lock or open a sealed letter.
Although Louis was good the way he shared his meal the minute the old trout and her husband left the room, he was hungry. That damned medicine tasted so awful it stopped the rest of the food going down properly, like something nasty blocking a drain. Looks as though Mr Ramage has finished, Wipe the pen, screw the cap on the inkpot, fold the letter and reach for the sealing-wax . . . Stafford walked over to the table.
'Top drawer in Louis's chest,' Ramage said, giving him the letter. 'A loaf of bread. It has a slit in the bottom of it large enough for this. Take the candle...'
Late that night Louis woke Ramage apologetically. 'I forgot to settle one thing, and I want to send word by the courier when he leaves for Boulogne in the morning . . .'
Ramage nodded to indicate he was fully awake and listening.
'The Marie - we should be back in Boulogne by Sunday evening. If you want to sail at once for Folkestone, I'd better pass the word for Dyson to have everything ready.'
'Can we get to Boulogne all right on Sunday? We can get a carriage?'
'It's the best day of the week: few people travelling, so there's no trouble getting fresh horses. The gendarmes at the barrières have usually eaten a big enough meal and drunk enough wine to be sleepy in the afternoon.'
'Would the Marie normally go fishing on Sunday night?'
'Any night,' Louis said emphatically. 'We've always avoided regular sailings, so that if we miss a voyage or make an extra one, nobody notices.'
In five days' time they might be on their way back to England. Was it too much to hope? 'Very well, we'll sail on Sunday night. And -' he hesitated, as if talking about it might make it happen. ‘I’ll write orders for Jackson.'
Louis rubbed his chin. 'It would be a pity if we didn't get the third letter. Two out of three is better than nothing, but the one that'll cover you with glory -' he grinned amiably - 'is the third one.'
'It'll be a very quiet glory - if only for the sake of you and your smuggler friends,' Ramage said, getting out of bed and rubbing his eyes. 'Put that candle of yours down on the table while I write Jackson's orders. Hope that loaf isn't stale by the time it gets to Boulogne.'
'By the way,' Louis said, 'I won a lot of money from the lieutenant tonight: I've promised him a chance of revenge next Saturday night - providing you still haven't recovered enough for us to carry on to Paris.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In anticipation of the arrival of the fake letter from the Port Captain at Boulogne asking him to return for more talks, Ramage's slow recovery began on Thursday morning. When the landlord arrived with breakfast he was delighted to find Ramage sitting up at the table, pretending a shakiness he did not feel and claiming to be on the mend. By Thursday evening the landlord's wife, as she laid the table for the evening meal, was claiming a victory for her family recipe, encouraged by Louis.
On Friday afternoon the landlord was knocking on their door and announcing as though he was the town crier that a special messenger had brought a letter from Boulogne for the Signor, and was waiting.
Ramage went to the door, took the letter with a flourish, told the landlord to come in and wait, walked back to the table and sat down importantly. After breaking the seal he began reading, and sniffed with annoyance. 'Mama mia . . . accidente!'
Louis jumped up from Stafford's bed as if in alarm. 'Is something wrong, Signor?'
'Wrong?' Ramage banged the letter down on the table. 'That twice-damned Port Captain at Boulogne - who would think I spent two whole weeks with him, discussing everything from the price of workmen to providing saws and adzes? Now he wants me to go back for more talks. "Urgent," he says; "very urgent," and that is why he is sending a special messenger after me. Well,' Ramage said wrathfully, noticing the landlord was obviously very impressed by what he was hearing, 'the Port Captain is lucky that I got no farther than Amiens; if I'd reached Paris I'd be damned if I'd travel back all that way. Even now, I'm not so sure that -'
'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!'