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'How does that affect this situation?'
'I think we can assume that Bonaparte will leave Paris and travel to Boulogne fairly frequently from now on. We have no way of knowing - unless our man gets some hint - if he is simply going to review the troops and cheer 'em up, or get 'em to sea.'
Lord Hawkesbury turned to the First Lord. 'Well, what are you going to do about this report?' He pointed to the paper on the table. 'Mr Addison will be asking me.'
'I'm sending a man to Boulogne,' St Vincent said. 'This man,' he added, pointing at Ramage.
'Are you, by Jove?' Hawkesbury said. 'What do you think about that, young fellow? You look a bit startled. What are you going to do when you get there, eh?'
Ramage swallowed hard, hoping one of the admirals would come to the rescue, but when they remained silent he said, in a wild guess, 'Find the answers to His Lordship's questions, sir, and send back a report.'
'Speak much French? Spying is a dangerous job.'
'Enough, sir. I -' suddenly the idea came. 'I can pass for an Italian, sir; it lessens the risk.'
He was aware that both the admirals were looking at him, and Lord St Vincent said gruffly, 'No need to worry about Ramage; he's used to this sort of thing.'
Ramage knew the remark was made to reassure Lord Hawkesbury and divert him, but the Secretary of State persisted. 'What is he going to find out?'
'Just how many vessels of the Invasion Flotilla are ready to put to sea - and give us some better estimates than we have at the moment of how many soldiers the various types can carry.'
'I fail to see how that information helps us much,' Hawkesbury said.
St Vincent managed to cut off a sigh. 'If he sees five hundred vessels are ready, and estimates that each can carry a hundred men, then we know Bonaparte can embark an army of 50,000.'
'Quite so,' Hawkesbury said.
'In other words, sir,' Nelson said, 'the fact that Bonaparte has sent another 50,000 soldiers to Boulogne need not worry us if we can be sure he has no ships to carry them across the Cha
'But what makes you think Bonaparte would send 50,000 men to Boulogne if he hadn't the ships to carry them?'
St Vincent pulled his nose impatiently. 'I don't think one way or the other. I learned only half an hour ago that another 50,000 men are marching there. I'm now taking steps to find out if Bonaparte has enough ships for them - and for the army he already has camped there. Until I get young Ramage's report I'm not thinking anything,' he added coldly.
'Excellent,' Lord Haweskury said, as if at last convinced the Admiralty pla
'He'd better,' the First Lord said with a ghost of a smile. 'If he escapes Bonaparte's guillotine but comes back without the information he'll have me to contend with!'
The Secretary of State laughed as heartily as his normal cold and scholarly ma
'It seems so, sir,' Ramage said, and wished his laugh sounded more convincing.
St Vincent gave another of his wintry smiles and took out his watch. 'Mr Ramage will be waiting on me in the Admiralty at seven o'clock tomorrow morning, sir, and I've no doubt he would like another dance or two before getting to bed,so . . .’
CHAPTER THREE
As he waited in the ante-room to the First Lord's office the next morning, Ramage reflected that although a woman's tongue was reputed to be her only weapon, it was often most effective when she did not use it. When he had rejoined Gia
‘Well,' she had said, ‘I trust Lord St Vincent and Lord Nelson have accepted your advice.'
He had shaken his head helplessly, scared that if she had even a hint of what was happening she would sail over to Lord St Vincent like a frigate hard on the wind and make a scene. He had taken the cowardly way out, merely telling her that he had to be at the Admiralty early next morning. She had then lapsed into silence: a noisy, echoing and hurt silence that left him punishing himself more harshly than she could have done with her tongue.
They had danced twice more, but they were stiff and distant. She had made excuses to four other men who had requested dances and whose names were noted on her card, and then asked to be taken home. Ramage was thankful his father and mother had been too preoccupied with their own circle of friends at the ball to come over to them for a chat: he was sure Gia
Now, sitting in this cheerless and chilly room, the skin of his face sore from a razor whose edge was quite unresponsive to the strop, he found he was getting frightened.
Last night he had been too preoccupied with Gia
Hellfire and damnation, this room was cold - and why, like almost every other room in the Admiralty, was it painted in this ghastly dark green and buff? The one tiny window opened on to a nearby wall so the sun never managed to find its way in. He shivered and a moment later wondered whether it was the temperature or the thought that within the week he would be in France acting the part of a spy. Acting! He would be a spy, a man who once caught would be executed after ruthless questioning and, if he did not provide the required answers, would probably be subjected to imaginative torture.
Had Gia
He shrugged his shoulders. She might have co
Spies must be either unimaginative people, or able to shut off their imaginations at will. He wished he had the knack, because his imagination would almost certainly be too nimble to allow him to sleep comfortably when French soldiers roamed the streets outside. He shut his eyes and pictured himself listening to a church clock striking three o'clock in the morning, and hearing the tramp of a French patrol and the orders and oaths shouted in French. It was bad enough in battle; up to now he had been able to fight off fear that made him want to run below when he saw the guns of an enemy ship's broadsides winking their red eyes . . .