word: as he came up the side he had been met by Southwick, who pointed to the companionway, and then the sentry had pointed at the open door.
Suddenly the man caught sight of Ramage sitting at the table, a cup and saucer in front of him. He smiled uncertainly, careful as he walked towards Ramage not to bump his head on the deck beams above. There was considerably more headroom than in his galliot, but still not enough to allow him to stand upright.
‘Renouf,’ the man said by way of introduction, ‘ lieutenant de vaisseau …’
Ramage stood up with just the right pause to be expected from a captain in the Revolutionary Navy. ‘Ramage,’ he murmured, giving his name its French pronunciation and turning an old Cornish surname into the French word for the music of birds. He held out his hand and the Frenchman shook it as though it might bite him and then sat in the chair to which Ramage had gestured.
‘You have your orders?’ Ramage asked in French with suitable brusqueness.
Renouf burrowed into the pocket sewn inside his shirt and brought out a twice-folded sheet of paper. He opened it, smoothed it carefully on his knee and then handed it to Ramage.
The orders told Renouf, commanding Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor , bomb vessel, to proceed to Candia, on the island of Crete, and there await further orders. (Ramage was amused to notice that despite the Revolution, French orders were written in the same dead language contrived by British government officials.) Each ship was commanded by a lieutenant, but the two were treated as a little squadron of which Renouf was the senior officer.
The paper was coarse, and at the top was a circle with an anchor in the centre surrounded by ‘Rep. Fran. Marine’ with ‘LIBERTÉ’ in capital letters printed separately to the left and ‘EGALITÉ’ to the right. The unbleached paper, an economy measure or perhaps just poor papermaking because it soaked up the ink like cloth, had a faint greyness as though the colour of communications from Le Ministre de la Marine et des Colonies in Paris was always like this, even when the actual orders came from the Chef d’Administration de la Marine, Brest (although given in the name of the Minister and la République une et indivisible ).
The orders were dated – Ramage paused, working out the new French calendar – four months ago. It had been a long voyage for the two galliots, all the way round the Spanish peninsula from Brest. Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor …that name was a special date, but what the devil was it? The first of September was the fifteenth of Fructidor, so the eighteenth was the fourth of September. What had happened then? It did not give the year, either. The new Revolutionary calendar began on 22 September 1792, and introduced a ten-day week. So the 18 Fructidor could be the birth of the galliot’s original owner’s mother-in-law.
Ramage searched his memory. Several years ago Robespierre had fallen and the new government had exiled to Devil’s Island everyone suspected of being lukewarm towards the Revolution. Within a year or so there had been revolts against the Revolutionaries (the Convention, rather)…Then there was the Paris rising, which was put down when a young General Bonaparte fired on the Paris rebels with grapeshot, and a new Constitution came into force. The currency collapsed, food prices went up like celebration rockets, and never came down again. The new Directory was not popular. Then General Bonaparte returned from Italy, marched on the capital and scores of deputies were arrested and exiled to Devil’s Island.
That coup d’état , or whatever it was called, had been on 4 September 1797, which was le dix-huit Fructidor in year five of the Revolution? Well, Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor , galliot, named after the event, was herself going to suffer a coup d’état within the next half-hour. As far as she was concerned the Revolutionary wheel would have turned a complete revolution. The thought made him
Suddenly the man caught sight of Ramage sitting at the table, a cup and saucer in front of him. He smiled uncertainly, careful as he walked towards Ramage not to bump his head on the deck beams above. There was considerably more headroom than in his galliot, but still not enough to allow him to stand upright.
‘Renouf,’ the man said by way of introduction, ‘ lieutenant de vaisseau …’
Ramage stood up with just the right pause to be expected from a captain in the Revolutionary Navy. ‘Ramage,’ he murmured, giving his name its French pronunciation and turning an old Cornish surname into the French word for the music of birds. He held out his hand and the Frenchman shook it as though it might bite him and then sat in the chair to which Ramage had gestured.
‘You have your orders?’ Ramage asked in French with suitable brusqueness.
Renouf burrowed into the pocket sewn inside his shirt and brought out a twice-folded sheet of paper. He opened it, smoothed it carefully on his knee and then handed it to Ramage.
The orders told Renouf, commanding Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor , bomb vessel, to proceed to Candia, on the island of Crete, and there await further orders. (Ramage was amused to notice that despite the Revolution, French orders were written in the same dead language contrived by British government officials.) Each ship was commanded by a lieutenant, but the two were treated as a little squadron of which Renouf was the senior officer.
The paper was coarse, and at the top was a circle with an anchor in the centre surrounded by ‘Rep. Fran. Marine’ with ‘LIBERTÉ’ in capital letters printed separately to the left and ‘EGALITÉ’ to the right. The unbleached paper, an economy measure or perhaps just poor papermaking because it soaked up the ink like cloth, had a faint greyness as though the colour of communications from Le Ministre de la Marine et des Colonies in Paris was always like this, even when the actual orders came from the Chef d’Administration de la Marine, Brest (although given in the name of the Minister and la République une et indivisible ).
The orders were dated – Ramage paused, working out the new French calendar – four months ago. It had been a long voyage for the two galliots, all the way round the Spanish peninsula from Brest. Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor …that name was a special date, but what the devil was it? The first of September was the fifteenth of Fructidor, so the eighteenth was the fourth of September. What had happened then? It did not give the year, either. The new Revolutionary calendar began on 22 September 1792, and introduced a ten-day week. So the 18 Fructidor could be the birth of the galliot’s original owner’s mother-in-law.
Ramage searched his memory. Several years ago Robespierre had fallen and the new government had exiled to Devil’s Island everyone suspected of being lukewarm towards the Revolution. Within a year or so there had been revolts against the Revolutionaries (the Convention, rather)…Then there was the Paris rising, which was put down when a young General Bonaparte fired on the Paris rebels with grapeshot, and a new Constitution came into force. The currency collapsed, food prices went up like celebration rockets, and never came down again. The new Directory was not popular. Then General Bonaparte returned from Italy, marched on the capital and scores of deputies were arrested and exiled to Devil’s Island.
That coup d’état , or whatever it was called, had been on 4 September 1797, which was le dix-huit Fructidor in year five of the Revolution? Well, Le Dix-Huit de Fructidor , galliot, named after the event, was herself going to suffer a coup d’état within the next half-hour. As far as she was concerned the Revolutionary wheel would have turned a complete revolution. The thought made him
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