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?