'Red above white, eh?' Dyson murmured. 'Ah yes, I see 'er. Jacko, hold that red lantern as high as you can.' With that he held the white lantern below it. Immediately the distant red and white lights were changed so the red was above. Dyson then held the white lantern so that it was level with the red. The distant lights once again reversed position.
'Challenge and reply,' Dyson muttered, opening the door of the red lantern that Jackson was holding and blowing out the flame. 'That's the fellow we're looking for. Put the lantern down below, Jacko and rouse out my man, will you? Time he woke up.'
As soon as the third man emerged from the cuddy, Ramage saw a new Dyson: a man snapping out orders which had the Marie's heavy mainsail lowered and furled, followed by jib and staysail. The thumping of the boom and rattle of the mainsail hoops brought a sleepy Rossi and Stafford on deck. Within ten minutes the other vessel had sailed down close enough for Ramage to identify her as another smack and as she luffed up and dropped her sails he was puzzled by the fact that her shape was familiar. She had the same curious stern as the Marie - neither typically Kentish nor typically French, but reminiscent of both.
Thomas Smith and the third seaman had by now hauled up the small boat which they had been towing astern. The third man jumped into it, put in the thole pins and then unlashed the oars.
Dyson said to Smith: 'You got the papers in your pocket? Right, off you go, then.'
With that Thomas Smith climbed down into the boat and Dyson let go the painter.
'Time now for a bite to eat,' Dyson muttered as he lashed the tiller which was slamming back and forth as the Marie pitched. He took the lantern and climbed down to the cuddy, A couple of minutes later he pushed a small basket up through the hatch, calling to Jackson to grab it, and followed with the lantern.
'Cold chicken, cold potatoes, bread and' - he put a bottle down beside the basket - 'some good red wine I had stowed in the bilge. May be vinegar by now, what with all the shaking up, but usually it lasts well. I'd like your view on it, sir.'
Ramage almost laughed: Dyson's comment on the wine was spoken with all the proud authority of a gourmet inviting an opinion on the first case he had received of a vintage wine.
As Dyson began unpacking the basket he suddenly swore, "Ere Rosey, nip down and get the mugs, will you? Give 'em a wipe out with the tail o' yer shirt, else the wine'll taste 'o brandy.'
The five of them squatted round the lantern and began eating thankfully as Dyson tore cold roast chicken apart with his fingers and shared it out. The cold potatoes had been roasted in their skins, sliced in half when cold and a piece of butter put inside.
'Greasy p'tater, my mother calls it,' Dyson said as he offered one to Ramage. 'But don't eat it too fast, sir, else it lodges on the breastbone an' gives yer what for.'
They had just finished eating and were wiping greasy fingers on their trousers when there was a hail from the darkness.
'Here 'e comes,' Dyson said matter-of-factly. 'The new master of the lerbong b'tow Marie.'
It took Ramage a moment to realize that Dyson was merely massacring the French language. Would the new master of le bon bateau Marie be French?
The man who scrambled up after throwing the painter on board and pausing only a few moments to lash the oars was indeed French; and as his face was lit up by the lantern on the deck, throwing the eyes into shadow, Ramage saw that by comparison Dyson's face was one which inspired confidence and trust, but only by comparison.
It was as if a wilful Nature had created a face which was the exact opposite of Dyson's: the Frenchman, introduced to Ramage with a brief, 'This 'ere's Louis,' looked like a pumpkin into which had been pressed, too far apart, two black buttons for eyes, two holes which were nostrils - no nose as such was apparent - and two narrow sausages which were his lips, and between which a furry tongue popped out in a grotesque circular motion every minute or so. Occasionally the lips parted to reveal uneven and blackened teeth.
Louis was about five feet four inches tall and his body, a barrel stuck on two short legs, reminded Ramage of a performing bear sitting up and begging while his master played a fiddle. Louis gave the impression of enormous strength. In contrast to his short legs, his arms were long, and he stood with a thumb jammed in his belt, arms akimbo, tongue appearing to circle briefly, like an obscene rodent poking an inquiring head out of its lair.
The Frenchman stared curiously at Ramage for a few moments, and then said to Dyson in heavily-accented English: 'We get the mainsail up, eh?'
From the way he spoke, it was clear that Louis, if not Dyson's superior in the smuggling hierarchy, was at least an equal, but it was equally clear that Dyson resented the fact.
'Got the papers?' he demanded.
The Frenchman tapped a pocket and repeated, 'We get the mainsail up, eh?'
Dyson swung round and walked towards the mainmast. 'Give us 'n 'and,' he said to Stafford and Rossi. 'That throat halyard just about creases me up.'
Jackson threw off the gaskets and as the mainsail was hoisted Ramage noticed that Rossi was hauling down on the throat halyard and Stafford the peak, while Dyson was standing back encouraging them. And that showed more clearly than anything else that Dyson, the Marsh Man, was considerably more artful than Stafford, the sharp-tongued Cockney. With those two vying with each other to avoid the hard work it was inevitable that the good-natured Rossi should end up with the throat halyard. But all the native shrewdness and tricks learned during a childhood spent in Genoa emerged the moment Rossi thought he was 'being took advantage of’, a phrase he had learned from Stafford. With the main halyards belayed, Ramage was not surprised to see that Dyson and Stafford found themselves hoisting both staysail and jib while Rossi walked round, explaining loudly that he was 'tending sheets'.
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?'