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?
Anyway, the British smack Marie left, and everyone had forgotten her by the time the yard - which had been kept busy building many other boats of about the same size - launched a smack which had the name Marie carved on the transom. It was a common enough name, and because the French authorities used a different system of measuring and marking tonnage, and numbering, and anyway French officials are much more understanding - Louis winked for the third time - perhaps it was not surprising she had the same number and tonnage carved on her main beam as the Marie that once visited Boulogne from Folkestone. Indeed, by a curious coincidence the Boulogne-built Marie also had a copper tingle on the starboard side just forward of the chainplates, matching the one on the Folkestone Marie (she had sailed into the quay soon after being launched, and her builders had nailed on a piece of copper sheathing). So if both smacks had anchored near each other - not that they ever had, and very few people knew of the twins - it would have been impossible to tell them apart. And of course the French owner was a law-abiding citizen; naturally he had all the necessary papers providing that the Boulogne-built Marie was a regular Boulogne-based fishing-smack - just as the owner of the Folkestone-built Marie had papers proving she was a regular British smack.
The only thing was - and now Louis tapped the side of his nose - the British Marie with French papers and the French Marie with British papers, could cross the Channel in opposite directions at the same time, meeting briefly in mid-Channel to exchange documents and the British skipper, and visit each other's home ports without anyone being the wiser, The only physical difference was that the board on the transom showing the port of registry was changed - each smack carried both names. Regulations about having the abbreviation for the port of registry painted on the bow and sewn on the sail were ignored . . .
Nor did the English Revenue men pay much attention. For years, in peace and war, they had seen the Marie sail late in the evening to go fishing and return at dawn, time enough for the early market, and everyone knew she could never sail to France and back in that time, so she couldn't be carrying contraband. Maybe a cask or two occasionally, bought from a passing smuggler on a dark night - but certainly not bales of silk and lace lashed up in canvas, boxes of tobacco, cigars and tea, casks of brandy and pipes of wine. Obviously, the Revenue men thought, smuggling contraband on that scale could only be done by the bigger vessels which were away for several days; even the greenest young Customs searcher knew that. So no one ever bothered to see how thick was the layer of fish caught by the Marie; no one ever compared the probable amount - judging by the quantity in the fish hold - with the amount boxed and taken to Folkestone market . . .
It was an ingenious system and, Ramage noted, like all good systems it was simple. Only one lot of bribes had to be paid - to the French officials in Boulogne. Since the French authorities did nothing to hinder smuggling to England, the only risk was from greediness rather than informers. In fact, from what Admiral Nelson had said, it was highly unlikely that bribes needed to be paid: with French currency worthless outside the country, Bonaparte needed foreign currency to pay for goods he bought abroad, and the guineas and shillings paid by the English smugglers for the contraband would fetch a good rate of exchange . . .
'Do you carry contraband only one way - to England?' he asked Louis.
The Frenchman shook his head vigorously. 'No, usually we bring back woollen things (very short of clothes here, unless you wear only silk and lace), rum - the only supply from Guadeloupe is very small these days - and often whisky.'
When Ramage raised his eyebrows in surprise Louis laughed. 'No, the French are not suddenly changing their taste - except to drink more gin from Holland. The British détenus - there are hundreds held at Verdun and such places - like whisky and still have the money to pay for it.'
Ramage wondered if Bonaparte knew that one section of his British prisoners - the hundreds of civilians trapped in France when the war began and since treated as prisoners of war - had a regular supply of their favourite drink smuggled in through his main invasion port . . .
Well, it was all very interesting, but smuggling was only indirectly involved with the job in hand. The question was how much could he trust Louis? The man must know Boulogne very well. If he did not know something, he would know where to find out. Ramage had to balance the need for secrecy with the fact that he had to start gleaning information from somewhere. He thought for a moment of Dyson, who already knew a certain amount and was probably shrewd enough to guess most of the rest of Ramage's task. Anything Dyson knew or guessed must be regarded as information shared with Louis - although Ramage was doubtful if Louis shared much with Dyson.