By midnight the Marie was heading for Boulogne with the wind comfortably on the starboard quarter. Comfortably as far as steering her in the darkness was concerned, because the wind was far enough round that a few moments' inattention by the helmsman or an unexpectedly large swell wave coming up astern would not gybe her all standing, the heavy boom and gaff crashing over as the wind filled the mainsail on the other side.
As far as the Revenue officers in Folkestone and Dover were concerned, the smack Marie had sailed for a night's fishing and, as usual, was under the command of Thomas Smith, who was noted down in the Register of Ships in Dover as her owner and to whom had been issued, under the recent Smuggling Act, a special licence.
As its name indicated, the Act was intended to stamp out smuggling; but like most acts which Parliament in its wisdom passed with much talk and eventual self-congratulation, it was only a partial success (the Government's view) or an almost complete failure (the view of the Inspectors of Customs stationed round the coast). Thus the judgement of the Government and of the Customs was really the same, but a politician prefers to describe an almost complete failure in more positive terms as a partial success. Men under orders to enforce the law had to take a more realistic and thus more negative view.
So as far as the law was concerned, the Marie was going about her lawful business of fishing. She was more than a certain length and had a fixed bowsprit, so under the Act Thomas Smith, her registered owner, had to have a licence. He had a licence and was at all times ready to show it to any official duly authorized to demand its production.
The Act was an almost complete failure because the various experts concerned in drafting it would not (the view of the Inspectors of Customs) or could not (the subsequent excuse offered by the Government) interpret the appropriate requirements set out by the Board of Customs. Instead, Parliament passed an Act which was, as usual, a legal redundancy, and superbly upholstered with 'whereby', 'notwithstanding', 'heretofore' and other such words so beloved of anyone who ever used a heavy legal textbook to prop open a door on a windy day.
One did not have to be a boatbuilder to find the loopholes. The fixed bowsprit, for example. One boat could have a sliding bowsprit, which meant it could be run in (slid back out of the way, as a Customs Board member had patiently explained to one of the legal draftsmen working on the original Act), and put her into a certain category. Her otherwise identical sister ship could have holes drilled for a couple more bolts and, providing the nuts were tightened up, the bowsprit could be classified as fixed, putting her into another category requiring a licence.
To a boatbuilder it was a distinction without a difference - an hour's work with an awl and the supply of two Iong bolts, washers and nuts meant the owner decided whether his vessel had a fixed or a sliding bowsprit: it took only a matter of minutes to change from one to the other.
In the case of the Marie the real owner was a wise man: he knew the value of having a document to flourish at an official, whether the commander of a Revenue cutter or a naval frigate. 'What are you doing?' 'Fishing.' 'Prove you're not out here for smuggling!' 'Here's my licence allowing me to fish nine miles offshore . . .'
So the new Act modified an earlier one, the Hovering Act, which had at least given the Revenue men an excuse to act on suspicion. Any vessel waiting some distance off the coast was assumed to be 'hovering for an unlawful purpose.' Now, under the new Act, licences had to be issued to applicants unless a very good reason could be found for refusing them, and the effect was to legalize hovering, to the delight of men like the owners of the Marie and the chagrin of the Revenue officers.
Previously it had been enough to sight a vessel; the owner could later be charged with hovering. Now a vessel had to be caught smuggling - a far from easy job, since the larger smugglers were usually faster than the Revenue cutters - and searched for contraband, with the certainty that during the chase the smuggler would, if there was a risk of capture, quietly dump the contraband over the lee side, thus destroying any evidence and leaving himself with the excuse - should anyone claim that flight was proof of guilt - that he had fled because he thought the Revenue cutter was a French privateer.
At midnight Ramage knew very little more about Slushy Dyson's immediate intentions than he did before they slipped the mooring in Folkestone harbour. The two seabags of spare clothing and Rossi's bagpipes were in the cuddy, and Stafford and Rossi were already stretched out on the seats, fast asleep, along with the third man in Dyson's crew.
Thomas Smith, officially the owner and master of the Marie but, from the way he was treated by Dyson, no more than a hand, was at the tiller and to Ramage's surprise (until he remembered Dyson's reference to meeting another smack) steering a very careful compass course, cursing all the while that the wick of the tiny binnacle light had not been properly trimmed.
Dyson had muttered something about the chart and gone below to the cuddy and lit the lantern, leaving Ramage and Jackson sitting on the deck, using a bundle of the smack's nets as cushions.
As far as the Marie was concerned, she might have been the only British vessel at sea. Jackson commented that if the people in England who worried about Bonaparte could see the Channel now, they would lock their doors, hide under their beds and pray to be spared to see the dawn.
Thomas Smith lifted his head from the binnacle long enough to reveal that his mind was on Revenue cutters rather than invasion flotillas. "The Rev'noo won't be takin' a night orf, you can rely on thaat,' he said bitterly.
Ramage suddenly jumped up with an oath: a dark red glow flickered up from the cuddy, as though the smack was on fire and about to explode. But even as Thomas Smith said phlegmatically, 'S'only Slushy wiv the lamps,' the flickering stopped and Ramage realized Dyson must be preparing a signal lantern with a red glass. The light dimmed as Dyson turned down the wick and a moment later began to flash rhythmically through the open hatch, in time with the rolling of the smack, as Dyson hung it from a hook on a beam.
'Shut the bleedin' 'atch, Slushy,' Thomas Smith growled. "The sentries at Dover Castle'll see that light in a minute!'
Dyson climbed up the ladder and slid the hatch closed, leaving a small gap for air to get below. 'Just hanging the lamps up ready,' he explained. 'Quarter of an hour to go, I reckon, then we'll spot 'er.'
'Just one of the local whores or someone we know?' Jackson asked innocently.
Dyson glanced at him in the darkness, his eyes as red as a ferret's in the chink of light escaping from the hatch. 'Our opposite number, o' course!' he said scornfully. 'Wotcher fink'd 'appen if the Marie stayed out fishin' for a month, or 'owever long you want ter stay in France?'
'I was wondering,' Jackson admitted.
'Nah,' Dyson said patronizingly. 'The Marie’llbe back on 'er mooring in Folkestone 'arbour time enough for the early market this morning.'
'Won't have much of a catch, though.'
'Enough,' Dyson said airily. 'Already caught and sorted and boxed by now, it is.'
'So I see,' Jackson said lightly. 'I should think so; you seem to be very slow sometimes.' With that Dyson lapsed into silence and a frustrated Ramage was left little the wiser. At least he now knew they would be transferred to the vessel they were going to meet, and the Marie would return to Folkestone. It was the obvious way of doing it, but would only work if there was a prearranged rendezvous. How would they be able to get back from France? How long did it take to arrange a rendezvous - two or three days? It was going to be a devil of a job sending back reports, and if things went wrong in France there was no chance of a hurried escape.
All of which, he told himself, angrily, was his own fault: he should have forced Dyson to explain everything before they left Folkestone; explain while there was still time to change his plans. Because of his own carelessness, he was in Dyson’s hands. Carrying out the intentions of the First Lord of the Admiralty depended on the whim of a deserter, a former cook's mate and mutineer who had the marks of a flogging on his back and was now a smuggler . . . Afterwards, if the whole thing was a fiasco, he could imagine Lord St Vincent’s questions, in that deceptively quiet voice. And Lord Nelson’s in that slightly nasal tone, the Norfolk accent unmistakable. 'You planned the whole operation so that its success depended on the actions of a deserter, eh Ramage? . . . You stand there and admit that halfway across the Channel you still didn't know what the devil this fellow intended to do? . . . You didn't plan the operation?' The voice would be incredulous. 'You just met this smuggler in a bar and went on board his smack without making any arguments whatsoever?'
If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he could hardly believe it either. In giving him these orders, Lords St Vincent and Nelson had made it more than clear that the safety of the whole nation might depend on his success. Both of them had anticipated that the difficulties and dangers would be in France. Instead, the crisis seemed to be coming in mid-Channel. . .
Dyson hauled a watch from his pocket and bent over the binnacle to catch some light. 'Not a bad guess: quarter past midnight: time for the lanterns.' With that he opened the hatch to the cuddy.
'You'd better rouse Stafford and Rossi,' Ramage said, 'and tell them to bring up the seabags.'
'They'd better stay there out of the way - men and bags,' Dyson said as he climbed down the ladder. 'My fellow and Tom, an' if Jacko'll bear a hand ...'
While a puzzled Ramage was digesting that, Dyson popped up at the hatch again, holding the red lantern. "Ere, Jacko, 'old this a minute while I get the other one. Watch out, Tom; shut an eye when I call, or you'll be completely dazzled.'
Ramage had already turned away to keep his night vision and blinked as he saw a red and then a white spot of light. 'Dyson - red light over white, fine on the larboard bow, less than a mile away.'
The seaman grunted as he scrambled up with the second lantern. The red lantern had lit the Marie's deck and mainsail with a soft glow; the harsh white light showed every seam and made the shadows of the rigging dance on the canvas.
'Red above white, eh?' Dyson murmured. 'Ah yes, I see 'er. Jacko, hold that red lantern as high as you can.' With that he held the white lantern below it. Immediately the distant red and white lights were changed so the red was above. Dyson then held the white lantern so that it was level with the red. The distant lights once again reversed position.
'Challenge and reply,' Dyson muttered, opening the door of the red lantern that Jackson was holding and blowing out the flame. 'That's the fellow we're looking for. Put the lantern down below, Jacko and rouse out my man, will you? Time he woke up.'
As soon as the third man emerged from the cuddy, Ramage saw a new Dyson: a man snapping out orders which had the Marie's heavy mainsail lowered and furled, followed by jib and staysail. The thumping of the boom and rattle of the mainsail hoops brought a sleepy Rossi and Stafford on deck. Within ten minutes the other vessel had sailed down close enough for Ramage to identify her as another smack and as she luffed up and dropped her sails he was puzzled by the fact that her shape was familiar. She had the same curious stern as the Marie - neither typically Kentish nor typically French, but reminiscent of both.
Thomas Smith and the third seaman had by now hauled up the small boat which they had been towing astern. The third man jumped into it, put in the thole pins and then unlashed the oars.
Dyson said to Smith: 'You got the papers in your pocket? Right, off you go, then.'
With that Thomas Smith climbed down into the boat and Dyson let go the painter.
'Time now for a bite to eat,' Dyson muttered as he lashed the tiller which was slamming back and forth as the Marie pitched. He took the lantern and climbed down to the cuddy, A couple of minutes later he pushed a small basket up through the hatch, calling to Jackson to grab it, and followed with the lantern.
'Cold chicken, cold potatoes, bread and' - he put a bottle down beside the basket - 'some good red wine I had stowed in the bilge. May be vinegar by now, what with all the shaking up, but usually it lasts well. I'd like your view on it, sir.'
Ramage almost laughed: Dyson's comment on the wine was spoken with all the proud authority of a gourmet inviting an opinion on the first case he had received of a vintage wine.
As Dyson began unpacking the basket he suddenly swore, "Ere Rosey, nip down and get the mugs, will you? Give 'em a wipe out with the tail o' yer shirt, else the wine'll taste 'o brandy.'
The five of them squatted round the lantern and began eating thankfully as Dyson tore cold roast chicken apart with his fingers and shared it out. The cold potatoes had been roasted in their skins, sliced in half when cold and a piece of butter put inside.
'Greasy p'tater, my mother calls it,' Dyson said as he offered one to Ramage. 'But don't eat it too fast, sir, else it lodges on the breastbone an' gives yer what for.'
They had just finished eating and were wiping greasy fingers on their trousers when there was a hail from the darkness.
'Here 'e comes,' Dyson said matter-of-factly. 'The new master of the lerbong b'tow Marie.'
It took Ramage a moment to realize that Dyson was merely massacring the French language. Would the new master of le bon bateau Marie be French?
The man who scrambled up after throwing the painter on board and pausing only a few moments to lash the oars was indeed French; and as his face was lit up by the lantern on the deck, throwing the eyes into shadow, Ramage saw that by comparison Dyson's face was one which inspired confidence and trust, but only by comparison.
It was as if a wilful Nature had created a face which was the exact opposite of Dyson's: the Frenchman, introduced to Ramage with a brief, 'This 'ere's Louis,' looked like a pumpkin into which had been pressed, too far apart, two black buttons for eyes, two holes which were nostrils - no nose as such was apparent - and two narrow sausages which were his lips, and between which a furry tongue popped out in a grotesque circular motion every minute or so. Occasionally the lips parted to reveal uneven and blackened teeth.
Louis was about five feet four inches tall and his body, a barrel stuck on two short legs, reminded Ramage of a performing bear sitting up and begging while his master played a fiddle. Louis gave the impression of enormous strength. In contrast to his short legs, his arms were long, and he stood with a thumb jammed in his belt, arms akimbo, tongue appearing to circle briefly, like an obscene rodent poking an inquiring head out of its lair.
The Frenchman stared curiously at Ramage for a few moments, and then said to Dyson in heavily-accented English: 'We get the mainsail up, eh?'
From the way he spoke, it was clear that Louis, if not Dyson's superior in the smuggling hierarchy, was at least an equal, but it was equally clear that Dyson resented the fact.
'Got the papers?' he demanded.
The Frenchman tapped a pocket and repeated, 'We get the mainsail up, eh?'
Dyson swung round and walked towards the mainmast. 'Give us 'n 'and,' he said to Stafford and Rossi. 'That throat halyard just about creases me up.'
Jackson threw off the gaskets and as the mainsail was hoisted Ramage noticed that Rossi was hauling down on the throat halyard and Stafford the peak, while Dyson was standing back encouraging them. And that showed more clearly than anything else that Dyson, the Marsh Man, was considerably more artful than Stafford, the sharp-tongued Cockney. With those two vying with each other to avoid the hard work it was inevitable that the good-natured Rossi should end up with the throat halyard. But all the native shrewdness and tricks learned during a childhood spent in Genoa emerged the moment Rossi thought he was 'being took advantage of’, a phrase he had learned from Stafford. With the main halyards belayed, Ramage was not surprised to see that Dyson and Stafford found themselves hoisting both staysail and jib while Rossi walked round, explaining loudly that he was 'tending sheets'.
Louis, hunched over the binnacle, pushed the tiller over as soon as the Marie had steerage way, and grunted his thanks as Ramage trimmed the mainsheet.
Dyson came aft and squatted down on the deck with an exaggerated sigh of weariness. Ramage thought for a moment and then asked: 'Well, what do we do when the Marie goes into Boulogne?'
Dyson glanced up in surprise as he opened the lantern and blew out the flame. In the sudden deeper darkness he said: 'Do sir? Why, we let Louis go on shore and shout loudly there's no fish, an' he takes the papers to the port captain. Then, when it's dark again, you all go on shore. You'll have to stay down in the cuddy while it's still daylight.'
Steady, Ramage told himself; the tone of Dyson's voice made it clear the man was stating what he considered to be obvious.
'I thought you said the Marie had to be back in Folkestone by dawn ...'
'But she will be, sir!'
Ramage struggled to speak quietly; to keep the edge out of his voice - an edge which Louis, if his English was bad might well misinterpret.
'Dyson, one ship can't be in two places at once. The Marie can't be in Boulogne and Folkestone at the same time.'
'But she can,' Dyson protested and then, as Jackson began to laugh, hastily explained: 'There's two Maries, sir; habsolutely hidentical they are. See, it don't matter which one goes into what port, perviding the master's got the right set of papers. The authorities don't know, o' course!'
'Of course,' Ramage said casually; so casually that only Jackson knew how angry he was with himself. 'So Louis will have caught enough fish for Thomas Smith to run into Folkestone market.'
'Five stone,' Louis grunted, revealing his knowledge of English.
'But - you said Louis reports we caught nothing when we get to Boulogne. You don't intend to try on the way in?'
'What, an' get the stink of fish all over us?' Dyson made it clear that as far as he was concerned, the idea was unthinkable, but he added: 'Mind you, if Jacko or someone wants to try his 'and with an 'ook and line ...’
'The French port authorities - won't they get suspicious?' Ramage asked cautiously.
'Never 'ave so far; we pay 'em enough to take their suspicions somewhere else. It's only the English Revenoo men we 'ave to worry about. They're all too stoopid to take bribes.'
'Or too honest,' Ramage said.
'Same thing,' Dyson said bitterly. 'Gawd save us from ‘onest fools. 'Ere, Jacko, in that locker there you'll find a board with 'Boolong' written on it. Take it out and change it for the one that says 'Dover' on the transom. Just slips up and down vertical, like a sliding window.'
Dawn found the Marie running into Boulogne with a Tricolour flying from the leech of the mainsail and only Louis and Dyson on deck. For the previous hour both men had taken it in turns to search the horizon carefully with a night glass.
'It can get like a main highway out here,' Dyson had explained. 'So many of our frigates and cutters keeping a watch. We usually time it so we've got 'em east of us as dawn breaks, so they show up against the lighter sky. That gives us a chance to dodge. Still, quiet enough this morning.'
Louis invited Ramage to watch at the hatch so he would recognize Boulogne from seaward again: there had been many changes, he said, pointing out the stone forts of Pointe de la Crèche and Fort de l'Heurt, and several batteries round the harbour and on the cliffs and hills surrounding it.
'Barges,' he said, pointing at the rows of vessels anchored close inshore and almost hidden in a gloom only lightly washed by pink from a sun still below the horizon. 'Gun-boats, and sloops too. More there - and there. They build there -' he pointed at the shore, where what seemed at first to be several wooden buildings on the sloping foreshore proved to be vessels under construction on crude slipways. 'Very slow. No money, no wood, no shipwrights. No sails and no ropes either. Even when money and wood, still slow. Butchers’ and bakers' apprentices is all they have, twenty old men and boys to every shipwright, and sometimes conscripts. The Admiral - he goes crazy. Much trouble when the Corsican makes a visit . . .'
He pushed a hip against the tiller and pointed again: 'You see the camps? Five so far - have you ever seen so many tents?'
Boulogne seemed as martial as Folkestone was peaceful, and Ramage felt a brief dismay. This was what the lists had said, but somehow he had not actually pictured what they had told him. Twenty barges - yes, it didn't seem much when written down, but the devil of a sight it looked, with them moored bow to stern! The Norman - for Ramage had at last managed to identify his accent - made no secret of his contempt for Bonaparte, a contempt that seemed both deep-seated and genuine. As he stared at the rows of barges, Ramage said: ‘Do you think Admiral Bruix is ready to sail his flotilla to England?'
Louis shrugged his shoulders. 'They brag like Gascons; all the invasion talk is gasconade. Yes, he could sail a flotilla ...’ But there was no mistaking the contempt in his voice. 'Anyone could sail a flotilla from Boulogne. But to reach the English coast - that is another question! Boxes, these barges; they are beyond management.'
He gestured to Ramage to get his head below the level of the hatch. 'We pass close to the watch tower in a few minutes. You stay down now.'
Dyson, anxious to seem well informed, said: 'Once you go on shore you'll be able to walk around and look for yourself, sir; they don't have guards or nothink, just patrols roaming the streets like stray dogs.'
'Dogs can bite,' Ramage heard Stafford mutter from the forward end of the cuddy.
Louis said sharply: 'Mainsheet, Sloshy!'
Dyson hauled the sheet hurriedly. 'Enough?' he asked hopefully.
'You are too lazy to haul in too much,' Louis said sarcastically. 'Now the staysail sheet. Then you drop the flying jib.'
The Frenchman was a good seaman who obviously took a delight in keeping Dyson running about the deck. The flying jib had not been down five minutes before he wanted it hoisted again and sheeted home, explaining that the wind was falling light, and a puffing Dyson had only just completed that task before Louis wanted the boat painter shortened in.
'Give us a luff,' Dyson gasped as he tried to haul the boat closer to the smack, 'there's too much weight: I can't haul in an inch wiv you racin' acrorst the 'arbour.'
'I'm not loffing,' Louis snapped crossly. 'You haul him in, and make the rush; we are alongside the quay in two minutes, and then you 'ave the 'urry.'
Jackson called up through the hatch: 'You were better off in the Triton, Slushy.'
'At least I could mutiny and only get a couple of dozen lashes,' Dyson gasped glumly. 'I don't fink Louis'd let' me off as lightly.'
'No one else would, either,' Jackson said. 'You were lucky to pick the only captain that would.'
'I know, I know,' Dyson said impatiently, 'an' that's why I'm here, trying to 'elp 'im.'
Ramage felt the Marie heel sharply and then come upright again. 'Leave the boat painter,' snapped an exasperated Louis. 'Drop the jib, then the staysail. Then stand by the main halyards.'
By now the sky was lightening, and down in the cuddy they heard the jib halyard squeaking through the block, and then the rope slatted against the mast. That was followed by the rattle of the staysail halyard, and the sail thumped the deck for a few moments before Dyson stifled it.
A couple of minutes later Louis's order to lower the mainsail turned into a stream of virulent French curses softly spoken but punctuated by grunts of exasperation. Then the light moving round the cuddy warned of a change of course and the water gurgling more slowly told Ramage that the Marie was losing way. There was a gentle thump as Louis put her alongside the quay and Ramage saw him move swiftly across the open hatchway, obviously not trusting to Dyson's alacrity with the dock lines.
'Wish it was always like this, comin' into 'arbour,' Stafford muttered. He turned to Ramage with a grin. 'I'm a born passenger, sir.'
'I noticed that a couple of years ago,' Ramage said sarcastically, 'though I never thought I'd hear you confess it. Still, if you ever serve with me again ...'
Dyson stuck his head down the hatch. 'Welcome to Boo-long, everyone. No Frenchies about, so you can talk, but don't come up on deck. Louis is going up to the 'arbour capting's orfice with the papers.'
'Any food on board, Slushy?' Stafford called. 'If we gotter spend the day down 'ere ...'
Dyson swore and leapt on to the quay, returning in two or three minutes. 'Good job you remembered. Louis is going to buy some grub on the way back. There's still some wine in the bilges.'
'We need some water, too.' Ramage said sharply, using the opportunity to warn his men that they were not going to spend the day drinking wine as they waited for darkness.
'Quite so, sir,' Dyson said. ‘There's a full water breaker up forward there - somebody'll have to climb over the athwartship seat and haul it out.'
The day's waiting in the Marie's crowded cuddy was one of the longest and most tedious that Ramage could remember, and as the sun rose higher the atmosphere became stifling. The water was a good deal less fresh than Dyson thought, and the food brought back by Louis was the only bright spot in the day. The bread was coarse but the cheese excellent, the taste enhanced by the fact it had been a long time since Ramage had tasted fresh French cheese.
Dyson produced a greasy pack of cards and began what seemed to Ramage interminable games with Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, most of which he lost with ill grace. When Louis returned after an absence of several hours and squatted at the top of the hatch, Ramage suggested that if he came on deck and hunched over some rope, pretending to be splicing it, prying eyes would assume it was Dyson. Louis readily agreed though, he said without a smile, the sight of Dyson working was more likely to arouse suspicion than allay it,
As Ramage sat down, the bright sun on grey stone walls and slate roofs emphasized that this was France. In the distance fishermen walking along the quay wore the blue trousers and smocks that were almost a uniform, and the fishing-boats nearby all had the distinctive French transoms. For the moment it was hard to believe this was the enemy's land, and he knew it would take a few hours for his mind to absorb the fact: the transition from Folkestone to here had been too swift.
He talked to Louis for more than two hours, slowly building up the picture of how, in the past year, the tempo of shipbuilding had increased. For years before the Revolution the two local shipyards had built for local owners: anything from small fishing luggers to large chasse-marées, the two- and three-masted vessels that became privateers as soon as war began.
The yards were family affairs, Louis explained; sons and nephews served their apprenticeships with fathers and uncles. And the brothers who owned the yard at any given time were building boats for owners whose fathers and grandfathers had had boats launched from the yards. Just as boat-building stayed in a family for generations, so did fishing - and smuggling.
One of the yards had built one of the Maries, though Louis admitted that after all this time, with scores of Channel crossings, he could not remember which smack was which. He thought the one they were in was French-built, but he was far from sure. The idea for the identical ships, he explained, came originally from a wealthy Englishman. Not a milord, but not far from it. He had the first Marie built at Folkestone, and as soon as she had been launched and registered, and her number was carved in the mainbeam - 'before the war, you understand' - he announced that he was going to visit France in her; go for a cruise, in fact. And what more natural than that she should spring a leak while in Boulogne harbour - Louis gave a broad wink — so that she had to be hauled out on one of the slipways for repairs.
And what more natural than the yard foreman taking the lines off her while caulkers banged away with their mauls? Various internal dimensions were measured, the exact way the number was carved on the main beam - all these things were noted. And one night when it was dark a British-made compass was handed over, still in the maker's box, and several bolts of British-made sailcloth. And while repairs were being done, what was more natural - again Louis winked - than the owner sending his sails round to the local Boulogne sailmaker while waiting for the caulkers to finish their work? Just a matter of some re-stitching. And what more natural than the sailmaker sewing a new suit of sails to the same pattern, including storm canvas, and storing them away in his loft?
Anyway, the British smack Marie left, and everyone had forgotten her by the time the yard - which had been kept busy building many other boats of about the same size - launched a smack which had the name Marie carved on the transom. It was a common enough name, and because the French authorities used a different system of measuring and marking tonnage, and numbering, and anyway French officials are much more understanding - Louis winked for the third time - perhaps it was not surprising she had the same number and tonnage carved on her main beam as the Marie that once visited Boulogne from Folkestone. Indeed, by a curious coincidence the Boulogne-built Marie also had a copper tingle on the starboard side just forward of the chainplates, matching the one on the Folkestone Marie (she had sailed into the quay soon after being launched, and her builders had nailed on a piece of copper sheathing). So if both smacks had anchored near each other - not that they ever had, and very few people knew of the twins - it would have been impossible to tell them apart. And of course the French owner was a law-abiding citizen; naturally he had all the necessary papers providing that the Boulogne-built Marie was a regular Boulogne-based fishing-smack - just as the owner of the Folkestone-built Marie had papers proving she was a regular British smack.
The only thing was - and now Louis tapped the side of his nose - the British Marie with French papers and the French Marie with British papers, could cross the Channel in opposite directions at the same time, meeting briefly in mid-Channel to exchange documents and the British skipper, and visit each other's home ports without anyone being the wiser, The only physical difference was that the board on the transom showing the port of registry was changed - each smack carried both names. Regulations about having the abbreviation for the port of registry painted on the bow and sewn on the sail were ignored . . .
Nor did the English Revenue men pay much attention. For years, in peace and war, they had seen the Marie sail late in the evening to go fishing and return at dawn, time enough for the early market, and everyone knew she could never sail to France and back in that time, so she couldn't be carrying contraband. Maybe a cask or two occasionally, bought from a passing smuggler on a dark night - but certainly not bales of silk and lace lashed up in canvas, boxes of tobacco, cigars and tea, casks of brandy and pipes of wine. Obviously, the Revenue men thought, smuggling contraband on that scale could only be done by the bigger vessels which were away for several days; even the greenest young Customs searcher knew that. So no one ever bothered to see how thick was the layer of fish caught by the Marie; no one ever compared the probable amount - judging by the quantity in the fish hold - with the amount boxed and taken to Folkestone market . . .
It was an ingenious system and, Ramage noted, like all good systems it was simple. Only one lot of bribes had to be paid - to the French officials in Boulogne. Since the French authorities did nothing to hinder smuggling to England, the only risk was from greediness rather than informers. In fact, from what Admiral Nelson had said, it was highly unlikely that bribes needed to be paid: with French currency worthless outside the country, Bonaparte needed foreign currency to pay for goods he bought abroad, and the guineas and shillings paid by the English smugglers for the contraband would fetch a good rate of exchange . . .
'Do you carry contraband only one way - to England?' he asked Louis.
The Frenchman shook his head vigorously. 'No, usually we bring back woollen things (very short of clothes here, unless you wear only silk and lace), rum - the only supply from Guadeloupe is very small these days - and often whisky.'
When Ramage raised his eyebrows in surprise Louis laughed. 'No, the French are not suddenly changing their taste - except to drink more gin from Holland. The British détenus - there are hundreds held at Verdun and such places - like whisky and still have the money to pay for it.'
Ramage wondered if Bonaparte knew that one section of his British prisoners - the hundreds of civilians trapped in France when the war began and since treated as prisoners of war - had a regular supply of their favourite drink smuggled in through his main invasion port . . .
Well, it was all very interesting, but smuggling was only indirectly involved with the job in hand. The question was how much could he trust Louis? The man must know Boulogne very well. If he did not know something, he would know where to find out. Ramage had to balance the need for secrecy with the fact that he had to start gleaning information from somewhere. He thought for a moment of Dyson, who already knew a certain amount and was probably shrewd enough to guess most of the rest of Ramage's task. Anything Dyson knew or guessed must be regarded as information shared with Louis - although Ramage was doubtful if Louis shared much with Dyson.
Thinking that he might one day have to justify his decision to enlist Louis's help to the Admiralty, he realized that it would be almost impossible to put his reasons into words. Louis was rough, though clearly not uneducated, and officially the subject of an enemy nation. But he was a smuggler - and probably had been one for most of his life, and perhaps his father before him. Smuggling was an international calling or, rather, smugglers acknowledged no flag; their allegiance was to money.
He found he could almost argue the smuggler's case. In a Britain where almost everything was in short supply, what shopkeeper could refuse a lady a few yards of French lace for her new ball dress, a bolt of silk, pearls, mother-of-pearl? What shopkeeper could refuse to sell the lady's husband a few pounds of choice tobacco or cigars? What wine merchant could refuse an old and valued customer a pipe of wine, a cask of brandy, a puncheon of port, a couple of dozen of fine sherry? The smuggler knew the answer only too well: shopkeepers, vintners, tobacconists and the like usually had to refuse because they could not get the items, but the smuggler could, and who was to blame him for supplying them at a price which rewarded his risk but was still far below the price when duty was added?
Because of the war, these items could not be imported legally, since they came from the enemy's country. Law-abiding businessmen could not import them even if they paid all the duties in hard cash and with a smile on their faces: that would be trading with the enemy and akin to treason.
So, the smuggler would argue, who can blame me if I risk my life and liberty to go to France and get these items, and risk my life and liberty once again on my return to England? If I declared them so that I paid the regular duty, I'd be put in jail, so I land them on a dark night (thus adding more risk to the whole venture) and satisfy the ladies and gentlemen: the ladies can dress in beautiful clothes and cheer up the gentlemen; the gentlemen can puff a pipe or a cigar after a good dinner which was helped down with a fine wine topped off with a good port. The gentlemen were - however briefly - cheerful enough not to curse the government or bully their wives; the wives were so happy in their new finery they did not nag their husbands.
Ramage chuckled to himself: there was an equally good case for arguing that smugglers should be honoured like other worthy citizens: he could just imagine the announcement that so-and-so had been created a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath 'for distinguished services to smuggling'. One did not have to be very sophisticated to consider it better earned than the knighthoods, baronies and the like that were handed round like buns and ale at a cockfight in return for money paid to a political party. Better if a man earned a knighthood after risking his life than bought it in the same furtive way he would a puncheon of brandy ...
Anyway, there's nothing like sitting on the deck of a smack in the sunshine in the middle of an enemy harbour for getting a fresh perspective. And not only a perspective - the hot sun was doing nothing to disperse the sickly smell of garbage, boiled cabbage and urine that seemed to lie over the quays in an invisible layer many feet thick.
So a smuggler's allegiance was to money rather than a flag, and he was lucky because Louis also had a deep and apparently genuine contempt for the Corsican who, to many Frenchmen, typified France even more than the Tricolour; who so believed in Liberté, égalité and fraternité that apparently he wanted to conquer and rule the whole world.
The first move was to see if Louis was willing to help; after that the price could be settled. So much easier to deal with men whose consciences were uncluttered with complicated loyalties . . . 'Has Slushy told you why I've come to France?' Ramage spoke in French, since there was no need to disguise the fact he spoke it.
'No - all I know is what Thomas Smith said when he came over with the papers in the middle of the Channel: that there was no contraband this voyage, only four passengers.'
'Do you often carry passengers?'
Louis shook his head. 'Not to France. Occasionally one of the leaders - one of the chief smugglers, you understand - visits France to check the accounts and pay or collect money. Twice a year, perhaps. To England? Very occasionally, and usually they are British prisoners of war who have escaped from Verdun or Bitche or one of the other fortresses. A very dangerous traffic for us: it's asking a lot to risk having the authorities here in Boulogne forbid all smuggling to England just for the sake of helping an escaped prisoner.'
'But they pay you well, surely?'
'They offer to, but if we carry them, then they pay only for a small rowing-boat: we take them to within a mile or two of Dover and let them row the rest of the way in the boat. They tell the authorities in Dover they stole or bought the boat and rowed all the way. They say nothing of the Marie or anyone they met. That is the price of our help: silence!'
'It's a price anyone can afford!'
'I have too much imagination,' Louis confessed unexpectedly. 'I just think of myself escaping from a prison fortress, being hunted across two hundred miles of countryside, and then reaching the coast to find I can see my homeland but cannot get across. The fisherman or boatman that drives a hard bargain in such circumstances ought to have a taste of prison...'
"What else did Thomas Smith tell you?' Ramage asked casually.
'Just that a gentleman with three attendants was being taken to Boulogne.'
'Attendants?'
Louis laughed, explaining, "Thomas Smith is proud of his French and practises it on me. I think he liked the sound of "jonty-yomm"' - he made an exaggerated gesture as he imitated the Marsh man's pronunciation, 'whereas "lieutenant" sounds more or less the same (the way Smith pronounces it) in either language. You are a lieutenant, I think?' When Ramage nodded he added: 'I thought so, and these three men served with you?' Without waiting for Ramage's answer he said: 'One can tell there is a rapport between men who have faced death together, no matter what their rank. Well, the fact that the Chief arranged your passage is enough for me to say, if I can be of service to you ...’
‘Thank you, but was that the British chief or the French?'
Louis chuckled, thought for a moment and then said: "There's only one chief, and although I have never seen him, I am sure he regards himself as a citizen of both countries.'
'A man of two worlds, eh?’
Louis repeated the phrase, as though savouring it. 'All of us concerned with contraband have to be. However, contraband is the least of your worries. When you go on shore tonight, have you lodgings arranged?'
'Not yet. Will they be difficult to find?'
'I will help you. The main difficulty is moving about after dark.'
'Is there a curfew?'
'Only for the soldiers, but there are patrols everywhere. Everyone challenged has to show a passport, unless he can prove he lives in Boulogne. A man without a passport or a home in Boulogne goes straight to jail...'
Which shows, Ramage thought to himself, the dangers of not planning an operation carefully. But there had been no time to do more than get to France; there was no way of finding out what conditions were like. One day a government department might make itself responsible for collecting all that kind of information, so that it was available to the Admiralty and War Office, and even the Secretary of State's office. But since captains were having difficulty in getting the Admiralty to agree to print charts because Their Lordships expected captains and masters to have their own (though not specifying where they were to come from), it was unlikely that the Government would ever show any interest in what went on in an enemy country.
'Such documents provide no problem,' the Frenchman said. 'I'll get them before you leave. I need to know what trades you follow though, and you must decide on your names - or what names you want to use, rather. One of the men is not English, I think.'
'One is Italian, one British, and one American. The Italian speaks English and some Spanish. The American speaks a little Spanish - perhaps enough to fool a gendarme. I speak some Spanish, too. The American also speaks some Italian, and so do I.'
'Your Spanish and Italian - is it as good as your French?'
'Better - I've spoken both fairly recently. I haven't used my French since I learned it, unfortunately.'
'You have nothing to worry about. The accent of Paris - it shows. Your teachers made you work hard! But the Englishman - he speaks only English?'
Ramage nodded. 'His own particular brand of it!'
'Then he must be the dumb one, while the two of you must be Italian or Spanish. Italian would be better - the Spanish are not popular in France at the moment, as you probably know.'
'Yes, that gives us one native Italian - a Genovese – and Ican pass for a Tuscan. If the American just grunts and Englishman holds his tongue . . . But trades - what do you suggest?'
'It depends on your task. I'm not prying,' Louis added hurriedly, 'but one trade might be more suitable than another for your -' he broke off, embarrassed and obviously unable to find the right words.
'My masters are worried that Bonaparte's Army of England might suddenly arrive one morning . . .'
'It worries my masters too,' Louis grunted nodding as though Ramage had confirmed his guess. 'That would put every smuggler out of business along the whole French coast. The interests of our respective masters therefore coincide, which makes our task easier.'
Suddenly Ramage remembered the moment when Simpson had changed his mind and agreed to help when, in the comfort of his study, he had finally guessed the substance ol Ramage's orders and realized that, with Bonaparte's threat of invasion, the smugglers' and the Admiralty's interests were perhaps for the first time in history the same.
'Carpenters!' Louis said suddenly. 'Carpenters sent to Boulogne from Italy to help build the ships. You have just arrived. In Italy the French officers - blame the Army - promised you high wages if you went to work on the barges in Boulogne. With your tools —yes, that would help because they are short of tools here -' he saw Ramage's face fall and said reassuringly, 'don't worry, you are poor men and cannot be expected to have a lot of tools, not more than I can provide.'
'All we need is some skill with wood; it looks as if you can provide everything else!'
Louis shrugged his shoulders. 'You and your men know enough about the way ships are built to bluff questioners - and that is all it would be, questions. I doubt if a gendarme would give you a plank of wood to make you demonstrate! And if you want to work in the shipyards for a day or two - well, there is so much chaos there that if each of you carries a piece of timber and some tools and you look busy, you could walk for many hours without anyone asking questions - long enough for you to find out whatever you need to know.'
Ramage looked at his hands. Despite the last few hours spent in the Marie's grubby cuddy, his hands were still soft and well-manicured.
'Don't worry,' Louis said cheerfully, 'you are the foreman, and anyway it has taken you a month to get to Boulogne from Italy: time enough for any man's hands to get soft. Your men's hands are harder, I noticed. Well, you all had to stop from time to time to do some carpentry to pay for food. You found the business, since you speak some French - not very good French,' he warned, 'in fact only just sufficient to make yourself understood - and you made the men do the work, as all good foremen should.' He chuckled at his own joke and added: 'If I wasn't so well known here I would act as the entrepreneur!'
He stood up. 'I will go and arrange the papers and hide some tools where we can pick them up later. We must make up names for all of you, and you must practise signing them. If gendarmes stop you and are suspicious, the first thing they do is make you sign your name. Then they compare it with the signature in the passport.'
‘Tell Rossi to choose short and easy names then,' Ramage said, visualizing Stafford stumbling over something like 'Giuseppe di Montefiore'. 'In fact let me look at the list. But - how can they practise the signatures before they see what names are written on the passports?'
Louis grinned and shook his head slowly. 'You underestimate us, Lieutenant,' he said. 'I shall bring passports complete in all but three details - the owner's name, trade and address. And official paper so that we can draw up a travel document for the four of you. Something impressive to introduce you to the master shipwright at Boulogne.'
'He's the man we must keep away from,' Ramage said cautiously.
'Don't worry, the introduction is only for you to show an inquiring gendarme.' Louis thought for a moment. 'Money- you have money?'
Ramage nodded. 'Sufficient, I think, but if not. . .?’
'If not, a draft on London ...’