To a boatbuilder it was a distinction without a difference - an hour's work with an awl and the supply of two Iong 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 seabags 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’llbe 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 seabags.'
'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.