Ramage & the Guillotine (15 page)

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 Creche 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. “Gunboats, 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 Boolong, 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 boatbuilding stayed in a family for generations, so did fishing—and smuggling.

One of the yards had built one of the
Marie
s, 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 main beam—”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.