Ramage and the Guillotine

CHAPTER FIVE

After seventeen miles in the darkness on a hard-mouthed horse borrowed from the squadron of cavalry stationed at Dover Castle, Ramage reined in at his uncle's house at Aldington. He guessed it was little short of one o'clock in the morning. His eyes seemed full of sand, his leg and arm muscles were pulled into knots; he felt so weary his brain seemed disembodied, floating in the darkness.

He dismounted and, holding the reins in one hand, walked to the front door and jerked the bell. Several minutes seemed to elapse - but probably only two or three - before the door swung open and a bleary-eyed and surly manservant with a lantern demanded to know who was bothering Mr Rufus Treffry at this time o' night. As Ramage said his name there was a bellowed welcome from the stairs, 'Hello there, Nicholas! What brings you to the wilds of Kent - is Boney coming?'

‘No, only me,' Ramage said with a weary attempt at humour as he shook hands with his uncle. 'You look fit, sir: how are the rest of the Treffry family?'

'Well enough, well enough. Your aunt will be down the moment she knows it's you. Have you eaten?' Before he could answer his uncle was peering out through the door. He took the lantern from the manservant and held it so the light shone on the sweating horse. 'Humph, where d'you get that nag, eh? Looks more like a remount!'

'It is - I borrowed it from the cavalry at Dover.'

His uncle stared at him from under bushy eyebrows and then snapped at the manservant. 'Come on, jump about! Get his Lordship's horse stabled and rubbed down. Feed and water it. Now, Nicholas, we'd better get you fed and watered, too.' He watched the manservant scurry out of the front dooi and then said quietly, eyebrows raised, 'Not a social call, I imagine?'

Ramage shook his head. 'I need your help, uncle.' Then, seeing the bewildered look on the old man's face and guessing at the questions that must be running through his head, he grasped him by the shoulders. 'Don't worry, I haven't "run". You haven't a deserter on your hands! I'm on the King’s business.'

Treffry chuckled and led Ramage into the drawing-room. 'Even if you were being hunted down by the Admiralty, the Preventive officers or a dozen scheming women you'd always be welcome in this house.' He held the lantern higher and looked at Ramage. 'You look worn out. Sit down a minute - what do you want to eat? Let me rouse out the rest of the staff-'

'I had a meal before I left Dover. I'd like-' he glanced at his watch and slipped it back in his pocket, 'five hours sleep. Could we have a talk at six o'clock - over an early breakfast?'

'Of course, of course! But give me a hint of what it's all about, m'boy; otherwise I'll never get to sleep again!'

Ramage laughed, though he was so weary the room was beginning to blur. 'I need some help from the smugglers, and I thought you might introduce me to them.’

He woke next morning to a sudden clinking of metal and sat up in bed, trying to remember where he was, to see the curtains being drawn back. The sudden light made him rub his eyes and a voice said, 'Them metal rings is noisy, m'Lord. There's a tray with hot tea and biscuits on the table beside you. I'll bring up a jug of hot water in a moment.'

The man was dressed in servant's livery but a long, wide scar across his left cheek had tightened the flesh to make the face sinister. Ramage pictured the man without the scar, and the features seemed familiar.

'Remember me, M'Lord? Raven, Mr Treffry's butler.'

Memories came tumbling over each other: boyhood memories of holidays spent in Aldington, scrambling along sunken lanes with rabbit nets and Raven handling his ferrets, and galloping across the rolling fields to Kingsnorth on a pony his uncle selected for him. Exploring thick woods of oak and beech and ash, and being frightened by the silence and shadows in the undergrowth; using one of his uncle's fowling pieces and getting an occasional partridge.

'Yes - you used to take me fishing in the river down by the mill. We used to catch roach and cook them on a bonfire. But...'

'I didn't have this in those days,' Raven said, touching the scar. 'Changes a man's appearance. You've collected a couple, too,' he added, tapping his forehead, where Ramage had two scars above his right eyebrow. 'Clean cuts, like from a sword. m'Lord?'

'Boarding parties,' Ramage said. 'What happened to you?'

'Misunderstanding with a Revenue officer a few years back,' he said briefly. 'I'll fetch up your hot water, m'Lord. I've unpacked your bag and set out your razor. Your linen's been washed and should be dry in half an hour - it's hanging over the kitchen stove. I took it down last night. Your fresh clothes is hung up.'

Ramage muttered his thanks and remembered the sealed orders in his coat pocket. He had not bothered to read them, and he waited until Raven left the room before jumping out of bed and reassuring himself that the seal had not been broken. Not, he realized, that the orders would give away any secrets - Lord Nelson made sure of that.

He stripped off his nightshirt and tossed it on the bed. It was chilly, and every muscle in his body seemed to ache, but five hours' solid sleep - much more than he could usually manage at sea - had refreshed him. Raven had hung up his uniform - well, he would not be wanting that for a while. He would wear the grey breeches and brown coat, and take an old pair of trousers and a jersey with him.

He walked over to the large window and looked down over Romney Marsh. It was as though a great wedge of low and utterly flat land measuring a dozen miles by almost twenty, with Dungeness its apex, had been arbitrarily stuck on to the high land stretching from Hythe through Aldington and in a gentle sweep on to Appledore and finally Rye.

From anywhere along this ridge - his uncle's house was right on the edge of it - one could look right across the Marsh to the Channel, which formed the distant eastern horizon. Even in the early sunlight the Marsh seemed mysterious and brooding. He had forgotten just how flat it all was. The canals and drainage dykes, which also served as hedges, now seemed as they reflected the rising sun like narrow ribbons of shiny metal criss-crossing the green fields and spanned here and there by small, hump-backed bridges which allowed the sheep to move from one meadow to another.

If there were few villages, there were fewer towns: he could just make out the buildings of Dymchurch round to his left, their west walls just black shadows, with Old Romney almost due south and the long point of Dungeness - known locally as 'the Ness' - beyond.

Fifteen minutes later, washed and shaven, he joined his uncle at the breakfast table. Rufus Treffry was a stocky man of sixty who did not carry an ounce of fat. His face was round and cheerful, and although his once sandy hair was now thin, his eyebrows were bushy, bristling out over startlingly bright blue eyes.

While Raven served at the table with a remarkable economy of movement, Treffry said: 'How is my sister, and that sailor she married?'

'Both very well. They didn't know I'd be calling, otherwise they would have sent greetings.'

'And what's the news from Dover Castle? They expectin' Bonaparte?' He spoke lightly, but Ramage detected his concern.

'Everything is quiet in Dover. I don't think there's more news than is reported in the newspapers.'

Treffry grunted doubtfully as he helped himself to fried eggs and thick slices of gammon from the dish Raven was holding. 'One day they'd have us believe Bonaparte is due any moment, and the next they're laughing at him!'

Ramage grinned at the cross, almost aggrieved tone of voice and, catching his uncle's eye, glanced at Raven, indicating he would say more when they were alone. For two or three minutes the men ate in silence while Raven replaced the covers on the hot dishes and left the room.

'Well, what's all the mystery, m'lad?' his uncle demanded.

'I have to get to France in a hurry - and perhaps return in even more of a hurry ...'

'What's wrong with landing by boat at night from one of the King's ships?' Treffry asked, his voice showing he accepted there was a reason and was merely curious.

'I'd probably land all right from a cutter, but the chances of getting away again - a rendezvous has to be arranged, and depends on weather. And I have to send reports back to England...'

Treffry frowned. 'Is this some sort of spy business?'

There was no harm in him knowing that much; indeed, there could be no other reason for visiting France. 'Yes, I have to try and find out one or two things, and send some reports back. Then I can come home again! Do you know anyone who can help?’

'I know some folk who could help if they had a mind to,' his uncle said cautiously, 'but they've no reason to love authority: the Revenue men make nothing but trouble for them.'

Sensing a reluctance on his uncle's part, Ramage said: 'Surely running foul of the Revenue men now and again doesn't turn them against the King, does it?'

'Dear me, no,' Treffry said agreeably, 'but you must remember that the war has made their - ah, profession - ten times as dangerous. So many of our own Navy ships at sea, and all on the watch for anything suspicious.'

'Very well, so smuggling is ten times more dangerous,' Ramage said sourly, 'but I'll wager it's also twenty times more profitable, thanks to the war.'

'Very probably,' his uncle said, his eyes twinkling, 'and no doubt Bonaparte's douaniers want ten times bigger bribes. I must admit I know very little about it; I must be one of the few around here not involved. I hear some of my neighbours grumbling at the risks their men run, and they usually send me a case or two of brandy at Christmas, Easter and Michaelmas. Still, when I see a string of packhorses being led across my land in the middle of the night, I must admit I look the other way; and when I see a shielded lantern shining from a high window facing the Marsh I assume it is a curate working late on his church accounts, although no doubt the Revenue men would claim it was a signal to smugglers that the coast was clear for their packhorses to make a delivery.'

'I'm not judging them,' Ramage said hastily. 'I just want their help!'

'Yes, I know all that, my lad; but I'm trying to warn you it's not going to be as easy as you think. First, you have to understand these men haven't been smuggling just for the last seven or eight years - since the war began. No, they've been smugglers all their lives, and their fathers before them. They-'

'I know all that, sir,' Ramage said impatiently.

‘I doubt it,' his uncle said, unruffled, 'and if you want their co-operation it'll make your job a lot easier if you know more about 'em. I can see you're thinking in terms of a couple of men and a small fishing smack, but -' he wagged an admonitory finger, 'remember the Marsh covers a couple of hundred square miles, and the Marsh Men control all the smuggling along the coast from Folkestone to Rye Bay, and that's some twenty-five miles. Why, I doubt if anything happens on the Marsh without them knowing about it - and not only on the Marsh. Did you notice any people on your way here last night?'

'I didn't see a soul after I got through Hythe.'

The old man shook his head and smiled. 'I'm sure you didn't; but people saw you: long before dawn they were trying to discover why a naval officer galloping full tilt along the Ashford road suddenly turned off southwards at Sellindge and headed for Aldington. Many people were roused from their beds, and didn't get back to their sleep until word reached them that Mr Rufus's nephew had arrived at Treffry Hall, and all was well.'

'But what -' a startled Ramage began to say.

'Ask anyone on the Marsh the distance from one place to another, and he'll say so many miles, as the Rhee hawk flies. If he gives an odd sort of grin as he says it, you'll know he's a Marsh Man.'

Ramage looked puzzled. 'Rhee hawk? What sort of bird is that?'

Treffry gave a dry laugh. 'Ah, you might well ask. An invisible bird that can carry a message in its beak and fly almost as fast as a galloping horse.'

'But "Rhee"? I don't remember -'

'Part of the sea wall that stops the Marsh flooding at high water...'

Ramage nodded. ‘I remember. They say the Romans started to build it when they began draining the Marsh. Separates Romney Marsh from the next one - Walland Marsh, isn't it? Joins up with the Dymchurch sea wall.'

'Well, the hawk in question probably nests somewhere in the Rhee Wall,' his uncle said enigmatically. 'Anyway, you'd better forget all about it now, as long as you've grasped what I'm trying to tell you.'

Ramage glanced at his watch but his uncle shook his head. ‘There's no hurry - yes,' he held up his hand to quieten Ramage, 'I know you're in a rush, but you can't do anything until Raven comes back.'

'Where's he gone? He was here a few minutes ago.'

'Gone to see a friend of mine. He’ll be back within the hour - and then we'll know if my friend is going to be your friend, too!'

'You're talking in riddles,' Ramage protested mildly.

'Not really! Raven's gone to ask a man on my behalf if he can help you.'

'But Raven doesn't know what I want!'

'He knows all my friend needs to know - and anyway, he's carrying a letter from me.'

For the next ten minutes both men ate in silence. Treffry finally pushed his plate aside and said, 'Your aunt will be down very soon. She has a bagful of questions about the family - that's why I haven't asked any! - and she'll want you to look at the grapes.' Seeing Ramage's puzzled expression, he added, 'You've forgotten your aunt's big vine on the south wall - just about covers the lower half now. Lot of fruit on it - she's hoping for a mild summer.'

'So's Bonaparte,' Ramage said, irritated by the way the time was passing. Then, regretting his hasty remark, he added: 'I remember stealing a bunch of grapes when I was a small boy.' He grinned as he recalled more of the episode. ‘They were sour as the devil, and you made me eat them all, as a punishment!'

'And you had colic for a couple of days. Your aunt played merry hell with me; said I was a wicked uncle.'

An hour and a half later, by which time Ramage had told an eagerly listening Aunt Henrietta all the family news he knew and all the London gossip he could remember, horse's hooves thudding up the long driveway signalled Raven's return.

Ramage repressed a smile when, five minutes later, once more neatly dressed in his butler's clothes, Raven came into the breakfast room with a letter on a silver tray. He glanced at the plates on the table, as if shocked that the family should still be sitting in the breakfast room, and delivered the letter to his master.

Ramage noted that his uncle played the role equally well: he took the letter as though Raven had just received it from a messenger at the front door, thanked him, and waited until Raven had left the room - after refusing a request that he be allowed to clear the table - before breaking the seal.

He winked at Ramage. 'Raven knows better than I what this letter says, but he's a stickler for appearances.' He fished around in a pocket and brought out a pair of pince-nez, which he jammed on the end of his nose. 'Hmm - from his handwriting you'd never guess this fellow has a cool quarter of a million in Consols and as much again in property. Ah . . . cautious into the bargain: I expected as much.'

He removed his pince-nez, put them in their case and stuffed them into his pocket along with the letter. Ramage tried to appear unconcerned but could think of nothing to say to his aunt, who was waiting for her husband to speak. Finally she said impatiently, 'Rufus - don't be irritating. I'm sure that letter says something that concerns Nicholas, and the poor boy is on tenterhooks!'

'Oh? By jove, Nicholas, I was daydreaming. Nothing to worry about. Wants to meet you. If he agrees to help, wants me to stand as surety.'

'Surety for what?' Ramage exclaimed.

Treffry gave a rich laugh. 'For your good behaviour. He's probably not yet convinced you haven't left the Navy and joined the Revenue Service without telling me!’

'And if I'm not well behaved?' Ramage asked sarcastically.

'I indemnify him for whatever he might lose,' Treffry said simply, 'and of course I accept. But don't worry, once he hears your story he'll do all we want.'

Your story . . . for a few moments Ramage had the feeling he was galloping across the Kent countryside and shouting at the top of his voice that he was going to France on a secret mission. His uncle seemed to sense his thoughts and said reassuringly, 'Never fear, these people know better than most how to keep their mouths shut. One careless word could hang them. And don't worry about informers - those that aren't Marsh Men know better than to look one way when they should be looking t'other, and they know what happens to men that look and gossip ...'

Ramage pictured the bodies of past informers being put in sacks, weighted with stones, and dropped into one of the dykes. Or maybe not even weighted, but left to float, a warning to like-minded folk and over-zealous Revenue men; the smugglers' equivalent of a gamekeeper hanging up dead carrion crows outside his lodge. Yes, he would be a foolish fellow who saw packhorses laden with casks of brandy and leather panniers of French lace passing his door on a wet and windy night; the slightest hint that these unshod hooves were on the move would be enough to make men talk loudly to their wives, or put more wood on the fire; do anything in fact, except look out of a door or a window.

Treffry stood up. 'We'd best be on our way. I'll find you a decent horse.'

Ramage shook his head. 'Thank you, no; I'll use the one the soldiers lent me so that I can go straight back to Dover to collect my men. I'm leaving my uniform here,' he told his aunt, 'I'll collect it on my way back!'

'I'll tell Raven to get your luggage, then,' his aunt said and gave him an affectionate kiss. Although she obviously did not know where he was going and for how long, she assured him he would find Gianna staying at Aldington when he returned.

Fifteen minutes later Ramage was spurring his horse and following his uncle along the narrow road to Lympne and Hythe. The road ran eastward along the high land above the Marsh, dipping occasionally and running over a brook and through a copse of trees, then rising over a crest from which Ramage could look to the right across the Marsh and to the left where the land dropped into a valley and then rose and fell in ever increasing hills and valleys until it reached the North Downs.

As they rode at a brisk canter, passing a village every mile or so, Ramage remembered his uncle's comment about shielded lanterns and noticed for the first time that at leas! one house in each hamlet - usually the inn - had a tiny dormer window high in the roof, usually on the south side; a tiny window whose actual opening was shielded from the road but was visible for a long distance from the flat land below - and, he guessed, from pathways and tracks leading up from the Marsh. A train of packhorses coming up to an inn witb contraband liquor, or to a grocer's with tea and tobacco, would watch for the light. There must be some code, so that the light - or its absence - told the smugglers that it was safe to make the delivery or that the Revenue men were out and waiting in ambush.

An old farmer standing at his gate, a fowling piece under his arm and a bulging game bag over his shoulder, gave a cheery wave as they cantered past; the ancient and rheumy-eyed driver of a heavy cart and pair, laden with soggy manure, raised his hat. A parson in black broadcloth, with the bright red complexion and bulbous, purple nose of a determined toper, reined in his apology for a horse, anticipating a chat, but Trefiry called his regrets and they rode on.

'Another five minutes,' he told Ramage. 'Our fellow lives in the lee of Studfall Castle - the ruins of it, anyway.'

Who was 'our fellow'? Was he by any chance the leader of the Marsh smugglers? A quarter of a million in the Funds and a quarter of a million in land - one needed to have been a nabob to have that sort of money. A nabob, a West India planter - or a successful smuggler.

As they cantered on, Ramage found himself wondering about the sheer administration needed for successful smuggling operations; administration and capital, too, since presumably the French wanted cash for their brandy, tobacco, tea, mother of pearl, lace and other luxuries - and no doubt had to pay cash for the whisky, gin, wool and whatever else the Marsh men smuggled to France.

He knew the Board of Customs waged war on the smugglers with all the determination of the Board of Admiralty in its war against the French, and both boards always had the same complaint - too few ships and men to do the job properly. From what he had heard the last time he was in Portsmouth, the Customs people had a good case: the smugglers were now using such large and well-armed vessels that few of the older Revenue cutters could tackle them, and usually they escaped unless the Navy could lend a hand.

He wished he had paid more attention to the gossip, but he remembered talk of smugglers using fast cutters of 200 tons burthen, armed with a dozen or more 4-pounders and regularly running over to the Channel Islands and French ports. They carried their own boats on deck, enormously long and narrow (forty feet, with a beam of less than five feet, rowing ten oars or more). Frequently a cutter arrived a couple of miles off the coast, hoisted out a boat, loaded it with up to five hundred casks, and sent it off to some deserted beach, where carts and packhorses waited. By the time the alarm was raised, the horses had vanished inland with the contraband, and the boat was back with the cutter.

Sometimes the smugglers' cutters did not have to take even that risk: the Customs men were worried about a new trick, known as 'creeping.' A smuggling cutter roped a cask, leaving a very long tail which was lashed round a heavy stone, similar to those used for ballast. The cutter sailed - by prearrangement - near a fishing-boat and (as far as an innocent onlooker was concerned) tacked and at the same time threw some ballast over the side. Quite a normal activity, particularly before running for home. But each sinking stone would take a cask down with it, and at their leisure the fishermen would use grapnels to catch in the tail and 'creep up' both stones and casks, cutting the casks free of the stones as soon as they came to the surface.

Being practical businessmen, the smugglers had a scale of prices depending on the method of delivery: a four-gallon cask of brandy sold at sea (to fishermen loading it into an open boat for transfer to the smack, or sunk for 'creeping') would cost a guinea, while a similar cask landed would be thirty shillings or more. The buyers on shore were usually 'traders'; men who bought direct from the smugglers and distributed the contraband to those that wanted it - innkeepers for the brandy, grocers for the tea.

The more he thought about it the more he realized that smuggling was a good deal more complex than one might think; a good deal more than desperadoes with black eye-patches thrashing their way across the Channel on a stormy night....

First, someone had to put up the cash for building a vessel, whether a small fishing-smack with a lugsail, or a big cutter carrying her own ten-oared boats. Apart from the greater carrying capacity, the big cutters had an advantage over the smaller vessels because they did not come within the Hovering Act and the later Smuggling Act, which were particularly aimed at vessels hovering off the coast, waiting for a chance to land contraband when there was no Revenue cutter in sight. Any small unlicensed boat found more than nine miles from the shore was, under the Acts, considered to be 'hovering' and liable to confiscation, but the big cutters came outside their provisions.

The regulations were strict but the Customs did not have enough vessels to enforce them. And if a privately-owned cutter sailed from Cowes bound for Dover, it was almost impossible - without catching her - to prove in a court of law that she had called in at a French port on the way, loaded contraband, sailed back and unloaded it secretly somewhere along the shores of the Marsh, and then gone on to Dover, entering as though she had come direct from Cowes.

All along the coast the Customs had their Riding Officers, men who patrolled on horseback and watched for unusual activity, usually a suspicious number of carts and packhorses close to a quiet bay or beach. But Riding Officers were responsible for long stretches of coast; often one man had to cover fifteen miles or more; and it was not difficult for a rowing-boat to slip into the beach on a dark and wet night after being given a signal that the officer had passed.

An amused 'Whoa there!' jolted him out of his daydreaming, and he reined in to find his uncle had stopped several yards behind. When Ramage rejoined him, Treffry waved his riding-crop towards a large, well-proportioned stone house set back half a mile from the road and sheltered from the wind by a circular copse of trees. It stood on the edge of the ridge of land over the Marsh; Ramage guessed from the windows on the east and south side there was an uninterrupted view of the coast from Hythe to beyond Dungeness.

His uncle coughed. 'We'd better keep a tight rein on our curiosity, heh?'

Ramage nodded. 'Simply a social call by Squire Treffry and his sailor nephew, I think. He knows what I want, so we can leave it to him to raise the subject.'

'Splendid - ticklish business.'

Ramage sensed that his uncle was uneasy at the prospect of the forthcoming meeting: the Marsh Men must have a fearsome reputation . . .

He might have a fearsome reputation among the Marsh Men, but Charles Henry Simpson (a director of the East India Company, Vice-President of the Westminster Lying-in Hospital, Vice-President of the Sea-bathing Infirmary, director of the British Fire Office, and elected trustee of the British Museum) had enough of the breezy assurance of the wealthy to thoroughly enjoy his last appointment.

'I'm the newest captain in the Romney Volunteers, my dear Treffry,' he said proudly. 'The newest and the most junior. And all my senior officers are tenants of mine!'

Treffry wagged a cautionary finger at the tall, silver-haired man who was standing at the sideboard removing the many-faceted cut-glass stopper from a sherry decanter. 'Mind they don't have you swimming dykes and doing extra drills because you charge 'em too much rent!'

Simpson gave an easy laugh as he poured two sherries, giving one of them to Treffry.

'Well, Lieutenant, you sure you won't join us?' When Ramage shook his head, Simpson sipped his sherry delicately, gave an appreciative sigh, and said: 'Your uncle tells me that I can be of service to you ...'

Not knowing quite what his uncle had written in the letter, and irked by the question of a surety, Ramage said warily: 'I have to get to France in secret - on the King's business, you understand. Once there, I have to be able to send back at least one report, and possibly more. And then I have to return with -'

'You have proof that you are on the King's business?'

Treffry interrupted sharply: 'You have read my letter?'

'Of course, of course, my dear Treffry; it slipped my memory.'

Ramage stared at him coldly, slowly rubbing the older of the two scars on his right brow. It ill became one of the leaders of the Marsh smugglers - he was rapidly coming to believe that Simpson was the leader - to cavil about proof that he was on the King's business. How many French spies had made use of Simpson's services to land in or leave England?

Simpson was polished; his home was elegantly and expensively furnished. Yet for both man and house it was a studied elegance, an elaborately applied polish. The man spoke slowly - yet he thought quickly. It was a slowness that was deliberate; possibly the result of careful training, to ensure correct diction. But although Uncle Rufus had referred to the man's wealth, he had made no mention of origins: no 'son of . . .', or 'his brother is . . .' or 'father was . . .' - the normal, identifying remarks. No, it was unlikely that Mr Simpson would welcome any questions about his origins, and he was wealthy enough to stifle any in this part of the country.

'I had in mind hiring a fishing-smack. My purpose in trying to find a smuggler is that he will know his way about the French coast better than most...'

Simpson was nodding, an understanding smile on his face, as if wanting to make amends for his earlier tactless question. 'Not only would know, but would be assured of an understanding attitude on the part of the douaniers. The French are anxious to get their hands on sterling, since their own currency is worthless, so their Customs men do not consider that Frenchmen selling brandy and tobacco and tea to fishermen for sterling are dealing in contraband.'

'As long as I get to France, I'm not questioning anyone's motives,' Ramage said dryly.

'In that case,' Simpson said equally dryly, his tone of voice showing that he guessed Ramage's thoughts, 'my friends will be able to accommodate you. When do you want to sail?'

'Tonight, if possible. There'll be four of us,'

'Four? I thought you would be alone.'

'Myself and three of my seamen.'

'The fishermen who carry you across might be nervous at being outnumbered by - well, King's men ...'

'Perhaps it could be explained to them.'

That would not be possible.'

'But -'

Take my word for it, Mr Ramage; I can't explain why at this stage, but believe me, you'll understand before you reach France.'

'There is no point in me going without my men: the whole business would fail.'

Simpson shrugged his shoulders. 'I'm sorry, Mr Ramage; have to think of my friends.'

'So you won't help?' Ramage asked bluntly*

Simpson shook his head sadly. 'I daren't involve my friends . . .'

Half the morning had been wasted; he had to be in France within the next twenty hours. Yet there was not enough time left to start all over again. Simpson was too smooth, too suave, too sly for any honest man to trust him; but Ramage knew he had no choice. This man had to be persuaded. He glanced at his uncle, who was finishing his sherry in anticipation of leaving.

'Mr Simpson, I must tell you that the reports in the newspapers that Bonaparte is likely to invade within a short time are taken very seriously in London. In fact -'

'But such reports appear every week,' Simpson interrupted scornfully. 'We've been reading them for more than a year.'

'Quite, but there are reports which have just arrived and which you will not be reading in the newspapers. My orders are based on those.'

One could hardly tell a smuggler, even a wealthy smuggler who was one of the biggest landowners in Kent, that the First Lord of the Admiralty himself, and Lord Nelson, had decided to send him to France: that might start the fellow thinking that if the operation was as important as all that, then someone ought to be paying a lot of passage money. That in turn would mean that Lieutenant Ramage paid since the Admiralty would - officially, since such money had to be paid officially - refuse to have anything to do with smugglers.

Simpson shook his head and smiled; a disarming smile, Ramage felt, of the type he would use when gently refusing a parson's plea that he should pay for putting a new roof on the church in the next village but one.

'I'm sorry, Mr Ramage . ..'

'Very well,' Ramage said bitterly, 'I must admit I'm not surprised: my uncle was unduly optimistic'

'Come now, Nicholas,' Treffry said gruffly, 'don't be hasty!'

'Hasty!' Ramage exclaimed angrily. 'With respect to Mr Simpson, we aren't asking much. If Bonaparte invades, there'll be no more smuggling: no more Mr Simpson, in fact, since he'll be one of the first strapped to the guillotine. What' - he held Simpson's eyes, his voice harsh but quiet - 'exactly what have you ever done for the country in this war, except make a fantastic profit? Yet you were born in the country. Two of the three men I'm taking with me to France, and whom you object to, are foreigners.' His tone now became contemptuous. 'One is American and the other Italian. Each of them has done more for Britain in the war than all the men that you employ!' He,turned to Treffry: 'Come, uncle, it seems there's little honour among - smugglers.'

As Treffry stood up, his face flushed but obviously angry with Simpson rather than his nephew, Simpson gestured to the two of them. His face had suddenly gone white and strained; the nonchalant attitude had vanished. Ramage suddenly saw in his expression the face of a man with a bad conscience.

'Please sit down again, both of you. Mr Ramage, you put into words the thoughts that sometimes come to me in the sleepless hours before dawn. But' - he looked up, half-defiant and half-apologetic - 'I'm not apologizing for anything except my decision not to help you. I was wrong. All my resources - and they are not inconsiderable, as you have probably guessed - are at your disposal. You will be landed in France tonight. Where are your men?'

'At Dover. They will arrive -' he looked at his watch, 'in half an hour.'

'Very well. There's an inn close to the west quay at Folkestone called the Kentish Knock -named after the shoal in the Thames Estuary, I suppose,' he said with an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere. 'Will you be there with your men by nightfall? A man will introduce himself to you. What should he say so you'll know he is not an impostor?'

'Have him say, "Do you remember me? I served with you in the Triton."'

'There's just one thing,' Simpson said, almost apologetically, 'Getting you to France is no problem, but you want to be able to escape again. I presume you won't know when you'll have either the opportunity - or the need. So I will arrange - no,' he said hastily, 'don't tell me anything about your plans; just tell me if mine don't fit in with them. So, I'm arranging for you to get to France, and for a fishing-smack to be waiting for you in Boulogne for as long as you want. It can pass from Boulogne to Folkestone without difficulty. That will make your escape less of a problem.'

'It will make it no problem at all,' Ramage said cheerfully, anxious to restore a better atmosphere.

'Good, but you must understand that the smack can wait because of - er, certain arrangements - made long ago, before the war, in connection with - er, certain contraband business ... and, er ...'

Simpson was having such difficulty that Ramage said helpfully, 'You want to be sure you can continue the operations long after I am back here.'

'Yes, exactly! I would appreciate it if you forgot all the details, should you have to write any reports for the Admiralty.'

'Agreed,' Ramage said. 'I shall be as anxious as your men to keep out of the hands of Revenue officers!'

Simpson stood up and held out his hand. 'Yes, our greatest danger - and I say "our" advisedly - is from our own cruisers. The French will be no problem. By the way, until you arrive in France, I must ask you to do exactly what the smacksman says, even though he may give you strange instructions. Their significance will become clear to you by the time you reach Boulogne,'