'Heave this case?'
Had Stafford been a girl, Ramage would have said he suddenly looked coy as he said; 'I always tell a clerk ter put down "locksmith", sir, but - well, a'fore the press gang took me up I sort o' worked in Bridewell Lane on me own account, like.'
'At night, you mean,' Ramage said helpfully.
'That's right, sir.' He grinned when he realized that Ramage was pulling his leg. 'We can keep a watch on the 'tenant's window each night. When we see a light we know 'e's 'ere. When the light goes out we know 'e's gorn fer 'is grub, an' our Will is up the drainpipe and darn again with the satchel a'fore you can say Jack Ketch.'
Ramage envied the Cockney's nonchalance. 'Heave the case,' he reminded him.
Stafford's jaw dropped for a moment, and then he grinned again. 'Our slang, sir. "Heave" is - well, you'd call it burgle. A "case" is -' he thought hard for a moment, 'well, it's the place wot gets burgled. Like the Italian word,'
'Casa? But that means "house",'
'Exackly,' Stafford said triumphantly. 'Yer see . . .'
His voice tailed off as all three men's eyes went to the door.
There were heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Two men . . . the landlord was speaking, although it was impossible to distinguish his words. They reached the corridor, and still the landlord was talking. He sounded anxious. Another guest who was doubtful about the quality of the rooms? Then the coarse laugh of the lieutenant.
Louis sighed with relief and sat down at the table.
After Louis had gone downstairs to join the lieutenant, Ramage decided to write the first part of his report to Lord Nelson, so wording it that he could then copy the facts and figures from Admiral Bruix's letter without delay. Louis's concern the previous Monday night about having incriminating papers in the room had been justified, though Ramage was more than worried that he was himself becoming obsessed about it.
As previously arranged, Louis came back into the room after an hour, ostensibly because he had forgotten his purse but actually to tell Ramage that supper was over and they were just settling down to play cards, and Ramage had to fight with his own impatience and nervousness to let five minutes pass before nodding to Stafford.
As the Cockney left the room Ramage's heart began to thud. The game begins . . . like going into action and waiting for the first enemy gun to fire and drive away the fear. The long wait was nearly over: in the next few minutes he would know if he had the answers to every question the Admiralty could think of, not just those covered by his orders. If he succeeded, the First Lord got a bonus. If he failed - even thinking about it was making his breathing shallow and chilly perspiration was trickling down his spine. His stomach seemed full of a cold liquid churning round. It was not often he could sit quietly in a chair observing his own fear. It was far worse than being on his own quarterdeck while he was taking the ship into action. At sea there were tactics to decide (and sometimes hastily changed at the last moment), sails to be trimmed, orders to be given: with so much to do there was no time to think of fear as such; it crept in, like a misty rain which soaks clothes and chills bodies, unless he was busy. Fear did not get a chance to take a grip on him on a quarterdeck, and the busier he was the more likely it was that someone who did not understand fear would say he was brave. The real test - and one Ramage wouldn't pass - was sitting in a chair and waiting for things to happen over which he had no control. Stafford had gone to get the satchel; he had orders to open it, and then open the seal of a dispatch. The only trouble was that Ramage had no control over whether or not the dispatch was in the satchel . . .
Ramage was watching the door so intently that when it wung open suddenly he gave such a start that he bit his tongue. Cursing to himself, he licked a finger to see if he had drawn blood and, after Stafford walked in and tossed the satchel on the table in a gesture which nearly blew out the candle, Ramage decided that he was too tense to watch him open the seal - providing the Admiral's letter was there.
I'll watch him sort the letters, then I'll take my jacket off slowly and hang it up, he told himself; anything to avoid watching the hot spatula sliding under the paper and knowing we've lost everything if Stafford heats the metal a fraction too much. Not everything, of course; with this last dispatch it did not really matter so much. The melted seal would not be discovered until the satchel was opened in Paris on Monday morning: but it was still better if the French never discovered that the satchel had been opened . . .
Stafford selected the right picklock, gave a few wiggles and the flap of the satchel sprang open. Same satchel but someone had been polishing it: the deep scratch below the lock was still there but stained by the polish.
One thickish packet and - one, two . . . seven . . . nine . . . fourteen . . . fifteen other letters. Only the packet is addressed to the Minister; the rest are for various departments in the Ministry. Stafford is already heating the spatula with a cheery grin as he pulls the packet in front of him, seal uppermost, and runs a hand through his hair. In Stafford it was confidence; in others it might have been mistaken for bravado. The spatula blade was discolouring with the heat and collecting soot . . . Stafford testing it on the back of his hand and put it back in the flame, leaving a smear of soot on the skin of his hand. A full minute passed before he tried it again then, after a quick movement to wipe the soot on his trousers, he slid the spatula under the packet.
Ramage looked away but he knew he could not stand up and take off his jacket with the nonchalance he had intended. He must stay sitting there; Stafford might want him to hold something. He kept his eyes off the seal and looked at the candle but that was no good - when he looked away there were candle flames all over the place. Back to the seal with the wax turning shiny as the heat gets to it. Is this how a rabbit feels when a ferret is staring at it? Now Stafford is flicking the spatula away and the packet is open, and the look on his face means that everything has gone well.
'There y'are, sir.'
Ramage unfolded it carefully and found five pages. Paragraphs of neat writing and many figures. He reached for the paper, unscrewed the top of the inkwell, but did not bother to check the tip of the quill because it had been all right half an hour ago.
Bruix's report began with all the polite preliminaries: the French might have fought a Revolution but they still clung to the sort of archaic phrases beloved by the Admiralty. And here, Citizen Minister, is the situation of the Invasion Flotilla at the time of writing . . . Ah, how nice of Bruix! 'I have given first the type of vessel and, for convenience of reference, its capacity. Then I have listed the total number ordered by the First Consul, followed by the number actually launched, commissioned, awaiting commissioning or under construction, and finally the deficit at the time of writing.
The vessels noted as "awaiting commissioning",' Bruix continued, 'are those which have been launched but which cannot be completed because we lack masts, sails, rigging and guns. You can see how many vessels are under construction, and although there has not been time to distinguish the precise stage each has reached, I have indicated how many are more than half completed.'
Ramage skimmed through and finally read the last few paragraphs of the dispatch in which Bruix acknowledged the Minister's last letter. The shipyards had been told that they would be paid as soon as funds arrived from Paris, but he regretted having to report that it had proved impossible to prevent a number of workmen ('especially skilled shipwrights and carpenters, who can command high wages by working in the cities making and repairing furniture') from running away, Guards were on duty at the shipyards, but the men were billeted in private homes and it was impossible to keep a watch on them day and night. A proclamation had been read to all the men warning them that they risked conscription.