Slushy Dyson knew better than most men that all good things come to an end, whether because of the drunken carelessness of an Uncle Albert, the thoughtless dating of fixed fairs, the sprouting of the whiskers of adolescence or the mischance of the ship of the line in which he was serving being paid off, resulting in the transfer of Albert Dyson, cook's mate, to the Triton brig where he had less than sixty customers for his slush, instead of five hundred or so. It hit a man cruel hard, that sort of luck; indeed there were times when Slushy almost gave up hope. In the end he had realized that this run of bad luck, extending over several years, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Just before Mr Ramage came on board to take command and sail for the West Indies, the whole of the Fleet at Portsmouth had mutinied. Albert Dyson had been caught organizing a mutiny on board the first night out of Portsmouth. The three seamen now sitting round the table had captured him but he had got away with a couple of dozen lashes, been transferred to an inward bound ship, and had later been able to desert.
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 wasgoin' 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.'