Ramage & the Guillotine (14 page)

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 long 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 sea bags 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
'll be 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 sea bags.”

“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.”