Free Ramage & the Guillotine by Dudley Pope

those notes of yours.”
    Ramage gave him the paper and as Nelson took it he said to one of the three captains, “Carry on, Lacey; I know you have some questions for him!”
    Captain Lacey, the meek and mild-looking man with the surprisingly Satanic grin, gave a slight bow and then turned to Ramage. “You know the Kentish coast well?”
    â€œThe landward side, sir. I spent some time on the Marsh when I was a small boy—an uncle lives at Aldington, overlooking the whole area. He also owns a farm or two round Old Romney and some land out on the ‘Ness.”
    â€œHow many acres altogether?”
    â€œA few hundred, I believe.” Since none of the officers seemed to be from land-owning families, Ramage guessed it was not the time or place to say that the total was counted in thousands and that his uncle—his mother’s brother—was one of the biggest landowners in the county, a man reputed locally to graze more sheep than the King fed soldiers.
    â€œIs that why you favour the Marsh?”
    â€œHardly, sir; my uncle would be one of the first the French strapped to the guillotine—if they caught him alive!”
    The Admiral slid Ramage’s notes across the table. “Look at that Lacey; we have a budding Marshal Soult here.”
    Lacey read quickly and grunted when he came to the end. “Good point about Johnny Frenchman steering his barges for the southernmost point of land, Dungeness itself. Have to keep it a bit to larboard if he’s landing on the east side,” he added, as though thinking aloud, “then on the flood tide the current would set him nicely into the bay.”
    Another of the captains—Ramage recognized him as one of the Pevensey Level Loyalists—said evenly, “A special case can be made out for almost any suitable stretch of coast, sir, be it in Sussex, Kent or Essex.”
    â€œQuite so,” the Admiral said, “and that’s why you’ve been here with me all day. By the way, Ramage, we spent the morning in discussions with our military friends, getting the benefit of their views and giving them the benefit of ours—” he paused as Captain Lacey gave a derisive snort, “even if they listened with less patience than we did. I told them that we intended—if humanly possible—to destroy the French at sea. I had the impression the soldiers regarded us as rather unsporting—wanting to shoot their bird, as it were.”
    â€œThey’d miss it anyway,” Lacey said crossly. “If the French don’t land at Shorncliffe Camp, I can’t see how the Army’d march in time enough to find ‘em.”
    â€œHave the soldiers any ideas on suitable landing places, sir?” Ramage ventured.
    Again Captain Lacey snorted while Lord Nelson permitted himself a wry smile. “We have the impression they were catholic in their choice. Anywhere from Essex to Hampshire, although they didn’t rule out Suffolk, the Isle of Wight, Hampshire or even Dorset, though I presume they mentioned that out of deference to Captain Lacey, who is as stout a champion of the county of Dorset as any man alive.”
    â€œThey rule out Norfolk then, sir,” Ramage said with exaggerated innocence.
    Nelson laughed and slapped the table with his hand and when he spoke his Norfolk accent was more pronounced. “Yes, though I’m not sure whether they think Bonaparte fears the men of Norfolk would toss him into the sea or whether he can’t be bothered with them!”
    â€œOne night, just one night,” Lacey said crossly. “If only those soldiers would get it into their heads that the French have to cross the Channel under cover of darkness. Eight hours at the most. That limits where they can land. Any wind that pushes those barges along at more than five knots will kick up too much sea for them to land, so that limits them to forty miles from Calais and