Ramage & the Guillotine (13 page)

Three years at sea in the King's ships had taught him a lot. When he had called on Mr Simpson at Studfall and told him the tale, he had been welcomed back into the Trade. Within a couple of months a clerk at the Navy Office had passed the word to Mr Simpson that the Two-monthly Book from Dyson's last ship—which was a copy of the Muster Books—had been received, and one letter against the name of Albert Dyson had been carefully erased and two others written in. The changes were simple: originally the letter “R,” for “Run,” the Navy's word for deserting, and the date, had been written in the appropriate column. The clerk had carefully changed “R” to “D.D.,” which was the only legal way of leaving the King's service apart from being so badly wounded or permanently sick as to be no use on board a ship. The record therefore showed that Albert Dyson, cook's mate, had died on the date shown, and been “Discharged Dead.”

Dyson knew that there were too many other reports and logs coming in from the ship during the next few months for that single change in the Two-monthly Book to make him vanish altogether as far as the Navy was concerned. However, the clerk was sure that the general inefficiency in the Navy Board, which had to deal with a Navy which now comprised more than 100,000 men, meant that he was safe enough: clerks tended to deal with discrepancies or contradictions by ignoring them, particularly if there was no widow asking awkward questions. And then, as an insurance, Mr Simpson had obtained a Protection for him: a regular Protection made out in his own name and describing him as a regular waterman. With that Albert Dyson could not be taken up by a naval press-gang: watermen, along with masters, mates and apprentices in merchant ships, and a few others, were admitted by the Admiralty to be better left alone rather than swept into the Navy.

Dyson reached under the seat and pulled out a box, extracting a bottle carefully wrapped in a piece of cloth, and several tin mugs so dented from use they looked like carelessly hammered pewter.

“Best brandy,” he said, pushing a mug across to Ramage. “How about you, sir: a ‘welcome on board' tot?”

Ramage had an inflexible rule that he never drank at sea in his own ship; but the little
Marie
was far from being his ship, and before they sailed he was anxious to find out a great deal more from Dyson than he knew already. Refusing a drink might upset the fellow, who had all the touchy pride of a real rogue.

“A small one, then; just enough for a toast.”

Dyson poured a little into five mugs and passed them round. “Won't do to get drunk; we'll need our wits about us a'fore the night's over.”

Jackson felt the pressure of Ramage's knee and immediately took the hint, asking: “How so, Slushy?”

Dyson lifted his mug: “Here's to a successful cruise.” When the other four had echoed his toast he put his mug down with an exaggerated gesture, as if to lend weight to what he was about to say. “We have a lot of dodgin' to do, an' we're due to meet another smack … let's ‘ope it ain't too rough.”

Jackson knew Mr Ramage must have his reasons for wanting him to question Dyson. “Aye, dodging the Frogs is going to be difficult …”

“The Frogs?” Dyson exclaimed, obviously startled and with more than a hint of outraged indignation in his voice. “T'ain't the Frogs we got to worry about; it's our own bleedin' Revenue cutters first, then ‘Is Britannic Majesty's frigates once we get near the French coast.”

“Why?” Jackson asked innocently. “What harm will they do us?”

“Come orf it,” Dyson growled. “Just give a sniff. Go on, sniff ‘ard.”

Jackson sniffed and shrugged his shoulders. “Can't smell anything odd. Tarred marline—Stockholm tar, from the nets I suppose. Bit musty—some rot around in the planking or the frames …”

“Nothin' else?”

“No-o,” Jackson said cautiously. “Whiff of fish, perhaps.”

“Just a whiff, eh?”

When Jackson nodded, Dyson said contemptuously, “You wouldn't make much of a Customs searcher, Jacko! Just a whiff o' fish in the cuddy of a smack—why it should
stink
o' fish!”

Stafford gave a tentative sniff. “S'fact. What ‘appened, Slushy —all the fish swum away, or you gettin' lazy?”

Dyson looked round the group suspiciously, as though suspecting they were teasing. Then, deciding they were not, he leaned forward and said mysteriously. “It's a special sort o' fishing.”

“Ah, bottle fishin',” Stafford said scornfully. “You're a bleedin' smuggler, Slushy! I couldn't see you ‘auling in ‘alibut, I must say.”

Dyson's face fell and he drank from his mug to hide his disappointment at not being able to reveal his secret with a flourish.

Jackson had been waiting patiently. “You said we have to meet another smack tonight, Slushy, and you hoped the sea wasn't rough …”

Instead of answering the American, Dyson turned to face Ramage. “They left it up to me how much I tell you, sir. They're worried about when you get back: you—well, they—”

“They're frightened I'll inform the Revenue men, eh? Tell me, Dyson, if you get us over to France and back again, do you think I'd be so ungrateful that I'd give you away? Be honest, man; this is your ship and you're free to say what you think.”

Although the anguished look on Dyson's face told him all he needed to know, Ramage waited. The man sipped from his tin mug—whatever else he might be, he was not a heavy drinker—and, suddenly setting the mug down, he said simply: “I owe you my life, sir: any other capting would ‘ave brought me to trial and made sure I ‘anged. I don't forget that in a hurry; in fac', I'll remember it to me dyin' day. No, the trouble is the uvvers, sir; they don't know you and they ‘ave to take my word for it—” he broke off embarrassed.

“Don't they trust you, Slushy?” Jackson asked.

“Well, yus and no. They do as far as bottle fishin' goes—I've proved meself long ago. It's just they're a bit suspicious ‘bout what went on while I was—well, was in the King's service.”

“Why the distinction?” Ramage asked.

“It's like this, sir. When I heard what the password was goin' to be and guessed it was you, I got so excited I told ‘em all about—well, the
Triton
brig business. Instead of that ‘elping, it made ‘em suspicious, on account of them thinking it gave you a sort o' twist on my arm: you'd know I was a deserter, an' you could threaten to hand me over to the authorities if I didn't tell you everything you wanted to know about ‘ow contraband is landed on the Marsh—all that sort o' thing.”

“But nevertheless you managed to persuade them?” Ramage asked quietly.

Dyson looked uncomfortable. “I made a bargain. I can use the
Marie,
but I had to put up a sort o' guarantee. It's all arranged, sir; there's nothin' to worry about.”

“What was the guarantee?” Ramage said.

“Just some money as security for the
Marie,
and my young brother—he usually sails with me as mate. I had to leave him behind.” Dyson saw Ramage's raised eyebrows and added uncomfortably: “Better security than money, my brother, an' they know it.”

Was the brother literally a hostage? Ramage was not sure and phrased his next question carefully: “What does the money and your brother's life guarantee, exactly?”

The seaman shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to say, come to think of it. Our good behaviour, I s'pose. That you don't interfere with the contraband trade and don't hand me over to the authorities; and—well, that I get you there and back and don't take risks with the smacks.”

So the smugglers were quite ruthless: Dyson's brother would get his throat cut if Slushy put a foot wrong. Ramage also pondered over “smacks.” Was another one due to sail with the
Marie,
or was Dyson referring to the one they were supposed to meet? He decided to wait and see: at the moment Dyson seemed angry with his smuggler friends and genuinely anxious to repay what he regarded as a debt to Ramage himself. Yet Ramage was curious at the way Dyson had been treated—it contradicted Simpson's airy and open-handed behaviour of a few hours ago.

“Tell me, do you have much to do with—well, no names, but he lives near Studfall?”

“The gentleman you went to first,” Dyson nodded. “No one sees ‘im. Like the Navy, it is. If he's the Commander-in-Chief—and I ain't sayin' he is,” Dyson added hurriedly, “then the like o' wot I deal wiv is bosuns, and me a bosun's mate.”

“A big organization,” Ramage commented. “But when I talked with the man at Studfall, he promised me everything I asked.”

“I'm sure he did, sir, and meant it too. The trouble starts among the men under him. It's money, Mr Ramage; contraband round the Kent coast brings in a great deal of money, and where there's that kind of money men get greedy and suspicious o' each other. Money never bought loyalty, sir. The gentleman at Studfall won't have any idea about the guarantees I ‘ad to give; fact is, I dare say ‘e'd get very angry. But ‘e'll never know; not from me, anyway: more than my life'd be worth, to make any complaint. An' I ain't complaining, reelly; you was askin' me. Fact is, no man's yer friend as far as bottle fishermen are concerned.”

Rossi tapped the little table with his mug. “So sad, Slushy; I cry for you.
Poco tempo, fa
—not so long ago—you sell off the slush from the
Triton
's coppers to make the extra
soldi;
now you are the
grand signor.
Of course is dangerous; of course is not many friends. But the Navy,
amico mio,
is short of friends, too. The
Triton
after you waved goodbye—two, three times we are in battle. And a hurricane—Madonna! such wind—and we lose our masts and run on a reef. Yes, Slushy, I cry for you—on your saint's day.”

“Thanks,” Dyson grinned. “That'll be a great comfort to my old mother, p'ticularly since she reckons the Devil's a Catholic. You want some more brandy in that mug?”

Before Rossi could reply, Ramage interrupted: “What time do you intend sailing, Dyson?”

The seaman pulled out his watch. “‘Bout eleven, sir—in fact, won't ‘arm any to leave earlier. We can go now. If you'd let my men pass down your sea bags we can stow ‘em and then get under way.”

He made no move as he put his watch away, and Ramage looked questioningly. “Do you have any special orders for me, sir? I mean, is there anything I need to do a'fore we get under way?”

“Is anyone going on shore before we sail?” Ramage asked cautiously.

“No, sir; my two lads are coming with us—part of the trip, anyway.”

Unsure whether Dyson was deliberately talking in riddles or assumed he had guessed more than he had, Ramage decided to wait before asking any more important questions: Dyson seemed to be the kind of man of limited intelligence who thrived on mystery; who for various devious reasons made secrets from what others would regard as idle gossip or the kind of information imparted when passing the time of day.

“What exactly were you told had been arranged with the man at Studfall?” asked Ramage.

“No one seemed right to know. Take you and some men to Boulogne; stand by to bring you out again; mebbe bring some things back in between—reports and the like.”

Ramage felt relieved. “That covers everything,” he said. “How will you be able to stand by?”

“Smack'll be waiting in Boulogne ‘arbour, sir,” Dyson said, his voice showing surprise that Ramage did not know that. “‘Ow else can I be standing by?”

Ramage shook his head, trying to stifle his exasperation. “Dyson, I don't know a dam' thing about how you people run your affairs, so you'd better—” He broke off. The devil take it; he had neither the wish nor the patience (and too much pride?) to squeeze Dyson like a lemon for drops of information.

B
Y 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 judgment 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.