Ramage's Devil by Dudley Pope Page A

during those bloody years following the Revolution?
    â€œTell me, Auguste, were you a fisherman during the Revolution?”
    Auguste told him what he and his brother had done: they had smuggled out Royalists, taking them half a dozen at a time, concealed in their fishing-boat, southwards to Portugal and safety. They had continued to do that until a few months before Bonaparte signed the Treaty with England—then they had had a running fight with a cutter of the French navy, finally escaping. “That was when I collected this,” Auguste said, pointing to the scar on his face.
    â€œOur fishing-boat was so badly damaged by gunfire that we guessed we would be betrayed the moment we put into a French port, so we landed our refugees safely on the coast and then we sank our fishing-boat and rowed ashore with our little skiff. We came back to Brest a few weeks later, and no one asked questions. But we could not fish any more; instead we grew vegetables on the piece of land our father left us.”
    Ramage nodded. The story seemed both likely and straightforward. Sarah suddenly asked: “What makes you approach my husband because you and your brother want to go to England? Bonaparte’s men are hunting us, while you all have proper documents as French citizens. Surely you can steal a fishing-boat more easily than we can.”
    Auguste looked first at Ramage, unused to having a woman enter a conversation in this way, and noting the nod said: “Obviously I know you are English and if you,
m’sieu,
are caught you will be made a prisoner of war. But you do not seem to me—nor you, madame—the sort of person to let yourselves be taken prisoner. I think you are planning to get back to England. Gilbert has said nothing—and his silence,” he added with a grin, “bears out what I think.”
    The man
looked
a scoundrel: a once handsome rogue. The type of person you did not trust without a lot of checking. Auguste had trusted him and Gilbert and taken them with him out to the
Murex,
and while they were drinking with the French bosun, Auguste had spotted the trend of Ramage’s and Gilbert’s questions, and asked some of his own.
    If a man trusts you without question, then you can trust him.
    Ramage found himself thinking that with the same clarity as if he was reading a printed text. Auguste had got them out to the
Murex
and back safely: obviously he was a man of ingenuity. At this moment Ramage knew only too well he needed the help of a man of ingenuity who knew his way around Brest.
    It was too risky telling Auguste and his brother to come out to Jean-Jacques’ château:
gendarmes
might be suspicious, and later might remember them passing the
barrières.
Anyway, this café was a good safe spot for what could be only a preliminary chat.
    â€œI have no plans at the moment,” Ramage admitted. “I have come into Brest now simply to look, and hope to get some—well, inspiration.”
    â€œYou can speak freely; I shall not betray you,” Auguste said calmly.
    Ramage smiled. “I would speak freely if I had anything to say. You could betray us in a few seconds by waving to those two
gendarmes
standing under the trees over there.”
    â€œTrue, true,” Auguste said. “Well, let’s start by you saying what you
want
to do. How to do it can come later.”
    â€œThat is simple. First I would like to rescue the Count, then I would like to take him and Gilbert back to England.”
    Auguste rubbed his nose as he looked carefully at Ramage. “I am sure you would. But with a force comprising yourself, your wife, Gilbert, Louis and now myself and my brother Albert, you are outnumbered by about three hundred men.”
    â€œOnly about two hundred and fifty,” Ramage said dryly. “But I was simply answering your question.”
    â€œYes, and I was teasing. But to be serious, your loyalty to the Count is admirable and what I would