The privateer was the Rossignol schooner of St Malo, armed with ten double-reinforced 4-pounder guns, manned by ninety-three Bretons, and at sea for seventeen days. As wild-eyed and raggedly dressed men swarmed over the Lady Arabella's bulwarks from three boats, Ramage was reminded of a horde of starving rats running into a granary.
Few were seamen and most were drunk - that much was obvious the moment they jumped on deck - but they were highly skilled looters. They stripped the passengers' and officers' cabins of valuables in a matter of minutes. To begin with, Ramage did not understand the men's haste in the cabins until he realized they were all from the leading boat.
One of the first on board from the second boat was a man who hastily introduced himself as the Rossignol's Mate and, after formally taking possession of the Lady Arabella, he dashed below with four men following him, pistols in their hands.
A minute or two later a shot was fired. Yorke and Ramage looked at each other in alarm. Was it Bowen? Southwick and Wilson were on deck. Then there was a second shot, and suddenly two dozen frightened privateersmen ran up on deck and went forward, where they stood like a group of naughty schoolboys.
They were followed by the French Mate, who immediately began shouting at them in a fury, his cutlass sending splinters flying as he slashed at the forebitts to emphasize each word.
"What the deuce is he saying?" Yorke exclaimed. 'His accent is too much for me!"
"Breton," said Ramage, and began translating. "He's cursing the men for looting ... Says they were forbidden to go below - no need for it since the prize surrendered ... The dead man - he knows the dead man was the ringleader. They can regard that as punishment for them all... Next time the Captain will make examples and hang every fifth man."
"Hm, so the men are only just under control," Yorke commented as the Frenchman finally stopped talking. "Thank goodness we have Jackson!"
As soon as the privateer hove to and hoisted out boats, Ramage had run below to Stevens' cabin to find the private signals and destroy them, and the American seaman had joined him. "You're all going to lose your watches and rings and everything for sure when they board, sir," he said. "If you'd all like to give me your valuables, there might be a sporting chance of seeing them again, unless they transfer us."
Yorke and Southwick had already handed over their watches and rings without, as far as they could see, anyone noticing: all eyes were on the privateer. Jackson had slipped away as unobtrusively as he came, and now, looking at his left hand, Ramage wondered if the privateersmen would think of checking. His whole hand was suntanned, except for a thin band of white skin on the little finger where his signet ring had been.
With the looters under control and remaining on the foredeck, the French officer went back to Stevens again. Ramage watched the Falmouth man tensely. What would he say? There was a dead packetsman lying on the foredeck, but as far as the French were concerned he could have been killed in the brief action with the privateer. The one or two packetsmen wounded by Tritons had their cuts bandaged by now. If Stevens had any sense he would keep his mouth shut and let the Frenchman assume it was a normal surrender.
Ramage suddenly wondered if - as far as the Frenchman was concerned - it was a normal surrender. Stevens (and Farrell: he was sure of that now) had wanted to surrender without even trying to evade the privateer, which had ignored the Arabella's sternchasers. Would Stevens now explain to the French that the single broadside from the Arabella was due to an interfering naval officer? Did Stevens or Farrell know - or had they guessed - that Ramage was under Admiralty orders to investigate the losses?
He would soon have the answer: if they knew, then Ramage was a threat to them, and a word to the privateer captain would ensure that he had already seen his last sunset.
The Frenchman gave Stevens a slight bow and smiled. "Forgive me," he said in good English, "my men were overzealous. Now, Captain, your papers: certificate of registry, manifests - everything."
"We were carrying mails."
"That is all?"
"Was all," Stevens said significantly.
The Mate shook his head. "My Captain isn't going to like that. I thought I saw you pushing bags through the ports. All that chasing after an empty ship! Have you a surgeon on board?" he asked suddenly.
"Two," Stevens said. "The ship's surgeon and a passenger."
"Good, one of our officers is ill. I'll take the ship's surgeon back to the Rossignol. Now, get your papers and come as well. But first, tell your Mate to start getting these sheets and braces repaired." He waved at the yards swinging noisily overhead. "Tell them to make a good job of it - we have a long way to go."
Ten minutes later Stevens, still clutching his battered hat, and Farrell, his clothing torn from Rossi's assault, were on their way to the Rossignol, which had remained hove-to up to windward. Ramage noticed the privateersmen on board the Lady Arabella stayed on the foredeck. Their officer's threats had been effective. In the meantime Much set the men to work furling the sails before beginning the long and tedious job of splicing the sheets and braces.
An hour later the boat returned with the Mate and another Frenchman who sat on a thwart wrapped in a blanket, and who had to be helped on deck. After he had been taken below the French Mate came back on deck to demand, "Who is Mr Much?" When the Mate stepped forward he said, "Your captain and the surgeon are staying on board the Rossignol as prisoners. You are responsible for the Lady Arabella's men. I see you've made a start on the repairs. Now, point out Mr Bowen."
"He's below."
"Fetch him!"
As soon as Much left, the Frenchman turned to the group of passengers and then looked at a list in his hand.
"Tell me your names." As each of them spoke, he checked them against his list.
"Ramage - which is Ramage? Ah - you know what your name means in French? The song of the birds, that is 'ramage'. No, perhaps 'music' is better. A suitable prisoner for the Rossignol, eh?" He laughed softly. "Well, Captain Stevens says you can speak for the passengers. You are prisoners, of course. You will stay on board this ship, which I am going to sail back to her new home port."
"Might we ask where that is?" Yorke asked.
The Frenchman smiled: he was under thirty, small and well built, blue-eyed with curly black hair and the spare, strong face typical of a certain type of Frenchman.
"St Malo, the home of the corsairs."
"The men of Dunkerque will argue about that," Ramage said.
"And Brest, too," the Frenchman said, "but they are wrong! Alors, Mr Bowen?"
The surgeon stepped forward.
"Your colleague Mr Farrell is incompetent, so you have a patient awaiting you in the saloon, Mr Bowen. He is our - how do you say - accountant. Not purser - almost an agent for the owner. He is very ill. He did not have confidence in Farrell. So now it is your responsibility that he reaches St Malo alive."
Bowen glared at the Frenchman. "I'm responsible only for the treatment, not the original sickness. If your friend is dying ..."
"The responsibility is yours. He must live. He is the armateur's son."
"I'll do my best," Bowen snapped. "But as far as I'm concerned he gets the same treatment whether an able seaman, an admiral or the son of an amateur."
"Armateur," the Frenchman corrected, "but I understand; you are a man of ethics. We too believe in equality. Indeed, you may have heard of our Revolution," he added dryly.
With that he looked round at them. "You are all officers, I see" - he waved his list - "and it's up to you whether you complete your journey in comfort, or in irons. If you give me your parole ... otherwise you will be locked up."
Ramage shook his head, and the others murmured, "No ... no parole..."
Again the Frenchman shrugged. "Then I regret, gentlemen, that I must assume you'll try to recapture the ship, so you'll be locked up as soon as I select suitable cabins. I'll introduce myself: Jean Kerguelen. My brother Robert commands the Rossignol. Now, my men will finish the splicing and then we can get under way."
While he had been talking, the privateersmen had been herding the Lady Arabella's crew below, searching each man carefully before he went down the hatch. Kerguelen called to one of the men, and said politely to the group of Britons, "You have refused your parole, so please submit to be searched."
Ramage felt the seaman's nimble fingers and thought that they were more interested in finding valuables in pockets than pistols or knives. After much argument among their captors, they ended up in the passengers' cabins: Kerguelen decided it was easier to guard them there than anywhere else, much to the annoyance of some of the privateersmen, who had obviously been looking forward to a comfortable voyage back to St Malo.
Ramage and Yorke were locked in their original cabin but had Southwick and Bowen as well, so the four men would have to share the two bunks, two chairs and the cabin sole. As soon as Bowen joined them half an hour later, Ramage looked up expectantly.
"An armateur," Bowen said as the sentry slammed the door and locked it again, "is a backer, the man who puts up the money to finance a privateering voyage."
"I know that," Ramage snapped and then, remembering Bowen had earlier mistaken the word for "amateur", added, "He can also be the owner, or manager."
"Well," Bowen said, "the sick man is his son."
"So Kerguelen said. What's wrong with the fellow?"
"It's hard to say. A fever. He is very debilitated."
"You can cure him?" Ramage asked.
"I don't know, but Kerguelen's silly threats don't make a scrap of difference."
"I know that; I was just curious."
"There's a strange attitude towards the agent," Bowen said. "As though the men like him well enough, but are suspicious."
"The backer's son and the accountant - a glorified purser," Ramage said. "No ship's company likes the purser. They probably think this fellow is the backer's spy, put on board to make sure they don't cheat."
"By the way, sir, I had to treat Much."
"Oh, what's wrong?"
"He had a quarrel with one of the Frenchmen. Ended up with a tap on the head from a pistol butt."
"Badly hurt?"
"I don't think so. With these cases, though, it's sometimes difficult to be sure about damage to the cranium - often several hours pass before anything manifests itself."
"And then what?"
"Collapses, pallor, heavy perspiration..."
"Supposing that happened to Much: where would you nurse him?"
"There's nowhere," Bowen said, "apart from the cabin he's sharing with Wilson."
"It would be more convenient to have him in here, wouldn't it?"
Bowen saw Ramage wink and smiled: "Yes, sir. Much more. Do you want me to arrange it?"
"I badly want to have a chat with our Mr Much. A suitablecollapse and a request to Kerguelen should do the job." Southwick was scratching his head and Ramage guessed that the locked door with an armed sentry outside was affecting the old Master, who asked, "What do you reckon our chances are of being recaptured, sir?"
"Very slight, if these Frenchmen can handle her properly. Sounds as though they've finished the splicing. They'll have her under way soon."
Breakfast next morning was a piece of bread - the Navy's euphemism for tough biscuit - and a bowl of thin watery onion soup whose only merit was its temperature. Yorke was the first to finish his bowl. "I wish I'd soaked this bread a lot more: I'm sure they've chosen the hardest for us."
Ramage offered his bowl. "Pop it in there for a few minutes; that'll soften it."
"I suppose what annoys me most is that we're paying for their food."
There was a banging on the door and the key turned in the lock. "Here," Ramage said to Yorke, "grab your bread; they're probably collecting up the bowls."
But it was Kerguelen, who came into the cabin and said to Bowen, "Go with the seaman outside: that Mate of yours has collapsed."
As the surgeon left, Kerguelen sat down on the bunk.
"You are comfortable?"
Ramage smiled wryly. "Let's say we appreciate you asking the question!"
Kerguelen was tired: his sallow skin had the grey waxiness of strain and weariness.
Yorke asked conversationally, "You and your brother are having a successful cruise?"
The Frenchman made a face. "My comrades in other privateers seem to have cleared the game from the fields. You are only our second prize in more than two weeks."
"My condolences!" Yorke said ironically.
The Frenchman gave a half bow and grinned. "Yes, and you were the more welcome."
"Why?"
"The first was small - little more than a drogher - and gave us bad news."
"Might one ask...?" Ramage said.
"Your Channel Fleet is at sea. There seems a possibility of an attack on Brest."
Ramage felt there was more to it than that - at least as far as Kerguelen was concerned. "And so...?"
"And so we are going to have to stay out of the Channel and the Bay of Biscay for a while."
"You don't mean..."
"No, don't worry, I won't spend a month lying-to in the Atlantic! We haven't enough provisions for that. No, I'm going to Lisbon. It'd be a pity to return to St Malo with empty holds, small as they are in this wretched little ship. Thanks to your blockade, France is very short of just about everything needed to fit out ships. You saw the new rope in the Rossignol? That's from our first prize. So a few tons of rope and canvas from Lisbon will be very welcome in St Malo. Fetch a high price, too."
"Also thanks to the British blockade," Ramage said.
"Ah, of course! But we won't sell all of it: we'll re-rig this ship, make a new suit of sails, and send her to sea privateering. She's just fast enough - and your frigates will recognize her as a packet brig and who knows, perhaps they won't be too inquisitive. Anyway, you'll be able to spend a month or so looking at Lisbon - from the anchorage, of course!"
"Why a month or so?" Yorke asked.
"Until we hear your Fleet has returned to Plymouth. How long do you think it will stay at sea, Mr Ramage?"
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine, since neither of us knows what the Commander-in-Chief's orders are."
"Alors, we'll sample the hospitality of the Portuguese."
Lisbon, Ramage thought; the capital of the only neutral country on the Atlantic coast. He could just imagine the face of the Post Office agent there when he saw not the Lisbon packet from Falmouth coming up the river with the latest mails but the Jamaica packet flying a French Tricolour. Would there be a chance to escape? He pictured himself climbing over the side in the darkness and swimming through the murky water of the Tagus...
One of the guards came into the cabin and whispered to Kerguelen, who stood up and excused himself. "This Mate is apparently very ill - your surgeon wants to see me. I would like to stay and talk, but..."
When he had gone and the door was again locked, Southwick said, "Coincidence, that, sir. Almost as though Much had heard what you were saying last night."
"I'm just hoping he's not badly hurt. A broken skull could be fatal."
Yorke said, "This fellow Kerguelen: he's a cut above what I'd expected."
"Several cuts above," Ramage said. "But his men..."
"Sweepings of the jails," Southwick said. "I'd-"
The key turned in the lock and the door opened. Kerguelen waved Southwick to one side and two seamen carried Much into the cabin and put him in one of the bunks.
"You change places," Kerguelen told Southwick as Bowen entered the cabin, clutching a bag of surgical instruments and his chessboard. "You go to the Mate's cabin next door, and he stays here: then the surgeon is with him all the time."
The Master left the cabin and Kerguelen said, "It is best, eh?"
"Pity he was hit."
"Pity? He's lucky to be alive. Usually we take very few prisoners. But your captain surrendered so swiftly, you can thank him for your lives."
"Are you always so generous?" Ramage asked curiously.
Kerguelen shrugged his shoulders. "Yes - if a ship surrenders without firing a shot. But usually only these Post Office vessels do, so we can afford to be generous."
"You speak good English," Yorke said as Ramage digested the fact that the packets had a reputation among the privateers.
"My mother even better."
Yorke nodded. Only an English parent or long residence in England could give an accent such polish. Kerguelen looked at Yorke and Ramage, and said coolly, as if warning them against attempts to recapture the ship, "I also understand the English character quite well."
Bowen said, "If you'll excuse me," and Kerguelen moved to let him bend over Much, who was lying inert on the bunk, his head and brow swathed in bandages.
"Tell the sentry if you want anything." With that Kerguelen left the cabin and the door was locked once again.
"How was that?" Bowen whispered. "No sooner said than done!"
"What happened?"
"Much had the same idea or, rather, he wanted to pass the word that he had to talk to you."
"Is he badly hurt?"
As Bowen began to reply Ramage saw Much open one eye and wink.
"Yes," Bowen said loudly. "It was a savage attack. The patient will be unconscious for several hours, I fear. I suggest a game of chess while we wait."
Ramage looked startled but Bowen pointed to the door and mimed a sentry listening at a keyhole. Yes, an hour's chess would probably be enough to lull even the most ardent eavesdropper. Bowen took out the board and box of pieces, explaining they were among the few items the privateersmen had left behind in his cabin, and held out both fists. When Ramage touched the left, Bowen opened his hand to show a white pawn.
"You start," he said. As soon as they had set the pieces out on the board, Ramage gingerly moved the king's pawn.
"That move is a great comfort to you and Southwick, sir," Bowen said, "and I can guess your next will be to advance the queen's pawn two squares."
Ramage nodded. "What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, nothing at all," Bowen said cheerfully. "Only chess is a game of the unexpected; of bluff and attack, long-term trap and quickly exploited opportunity. It's truly the game for you, sir, but you play it like the vicar's wife sipping something she half fears will turn out to be a devil's brew!"
"I have an advantage over the vicar's wife," Ramage said heavily. "I know it's a devil's brew!"
An hour later, with the game only a third played, Yorke was sitting with Ramage and they both struggled to defend against Bowen, who seemed possessed of a dozen each of bishops, rooks and knights, most of which had the gift of becoming invisible until the last moment.
Ramage pointed at Much, and signalled to Yorke and Bowen to make conversation. He went to the Mate and bent over him, whispering, "Well, Mr Much?"
"I'm sorry to impose myself on you gentlemen-"
"Don't worry about that," Ramage said. "We were trying to arrange something like this."
"Oh?" Much was startled. "Why, sir?"
"I wanted to talk to you."
"What about, sir?"
"Probably what you want to talk to me about," Ramage grinned reassuringly.
"Ah - yes, well, it's complicated."
"You didn't agree with the way Stevens handled the ship?"
"Indeed I did not!"
"And we weren't really trying to get away?"
"Certainly not! We-"
Ramage held his fingers to his lips: Much's voice was rising in proportion to his indignation.
"-we could have got away, but the Captain's mind was made up long ago to surrender if a Frenchman's topsails lifted over the horizon. If not this voyage, then the next."
"Why?" Ramage gestured to Yorke and Bowen, who had stopped talking, fascinated by what Much was saying. As soon as they began talking again, discussing the game, Much said, "It's all insurance. On the ship and on the ventures. You know what ventures are, sir?"
Ramage nodded.
"Well, everyone carries them. Captain, surgeon, seamen, the two boys. You really do know what ventures are?"
"Leather goods, cheeses, lace, French wines..."
"Yes, things like that outward-bound. And mostly tobacco, spices and rum for Falmouth. Well, they insure their ventures for the round voyage, out to Jamaica and back."
"And back? Why - they sell them out there, don't they?"
"They sell them out there, yes; but nearly all the packets are captured on the way back, aren't they, sir?"
Again Ramage nodded. "I still don't understand, though. Presumably they buy more ventures out there to bring back, so they've lost if the packet is captured."
Much shook his head violently and then winced. "Phew, that hurts! No, sir, let's take an example, Seaman Brown buys £100 of ventures in Falmouth. He insures them out to Jamaica and back, because - so he says, anyway - he may not be able to sell them in the West Indies and would have to bring them back. But he insures them for £400.
"Right, his costs before leaving Falmouth are £100, plus the insurance premium. He gets to Jamaica, and sells the ventures for maybe £200. That's a profit of £100. He gets a draft for £100 and gives it to someone in a merchantman to bring back: a merchantman sailing in convoy. So he knows the £100 profit will get to Falmouth safely."
Much reached up and gingerly pushed up the bandage a fraction of an inch.
"Then he can use the remaining £100 to buy more ventures in Jamaica to sell in Falmouth for £200, which means another £100 profit. Once his draft arrives from Jamaica he has a profit of £200, less the insurance premium."
"Yes, and a one hundred per cent profit is excellent," Ramage said patiently, "but supposing the packet is captured?"
"Ah," said Much, "I was describing what used to happen - up to a year or two ago, just so's you understand the system. But nowadays our Seaman Brown is a lot smarter. Let's start again in Jamaica, Mr Ramage. Our seaman has just sold his ventures for £200. He can do one of two things: either send all the money back in a merchantman, or keep some of it - say £25 - for more ventures. Can you guess which he'll do?"
Ramage shook his head, excitement creeping over him as he realized that at last he was on the verge of discovering -
The key grated and the door swung open without warning and Kerguelen came in. Ramage, bending forward to hear Much, sat up abruptly and was so startled he snapped at Kerguelen, "What do you want?"
It was Kerguelen's turn to be surprised. "I just came to see if Mr Much has recovered. I see he has."
"Just enough to tell me what happened," Ramage said indignantly. "Barbarism, M. Kerguelen, sheer barbarism!"
"You're all alive," Kerguelen said briefly. "Most privateersmen would regard that as barbaric: dead men tell no tales - and cause no problems."
"It can work both ways," Ramage pointed out. "Privateersmen get captured, too."
"True. How is this fellow?" He waved to Much.
"Time," Bowen interrupted. "The patient needs time."
"Well, he has two or three days before we get into Lisbon. After that - who knows?"
"Will you let us go in Lisbon?" Yorke asked hopefully.
Kerguelen shook his head. "Alas, no; I wish I could. Unfortunately I need you with me all the way to France."
"Why?"
"As my insurance," Kerguelen said with a disarmingly frank smile. "Privateersmen are always a little sensitive about their necks. If I was unfortunate enough to be captured, having you with me..."
"Oh quite," Yorke said breezily, tapping the table with one of his pawns. "It's just that the thought of being locked up in a French prison is..."
"Not very agreeable," Kerguelen agreed. "Quite so - I spent a few months as a guest of the British in the prison at Norman's Cross. You know it?"
"I don't know a soul in Huntingdonshire," Yorke said airily, bringing a smile to Kerguelen's face, "although I'm told the hunting is good."
Ramage knew the largest prisoner-of-war camp was now at Norman's Cross, although there was talk of building a great new stone place at Princeton, in the middle of Dartmoor. "The hunting could not have been very good if M. Kerguelen escaped!"
"I had an advantage with my English," Kerguelen said. "I travelled by coach. No one hearing me speak thought I was a 'bloody Frog'."
"No," Yorke said with a grin. "You might almost pass for an Englishman!"
"Almost?"
"Almost," Yorke said firmly. "We're your prisoners, don't forget."
"For the last few minutes I did," Kerguelen said gracefully. "However, if you'll excuse me..."
With that he left the cabin and they heard the key turn in the lock.
"We were in Jamaica with Seaman Brown's £200," Ramage reminded Much, "and deciding whether he'd send it all back in a merchantman or send back £175 and risk the privateers by spending £25 on more ventures."
"Well, you've probably guessed that he'd spend £25 and send the rest home. But you can't guess why?"
"No," Ramage said. "I was trying while Kerguelen was here."
"He gave you a clue," Much said cryptically.
Ramage wrinkled his brow. "Kerguelen only said he couldn't free us in Lisbon because we were his insurance..."
"That's it, sir, insurance! Don't forget that before Seaman Brown left Falmouth he'd insured his £100 worth of ventures for £400 for the outward and return voyage. So his £25 worth of new Jamaica ventures are still insured for £400. Of course, the underwriters don't know he's already sold the ventures he brought out and that his draft for £175 is safely on board a merchantman."
At last Ramage saw what was happening. "And when the homeward-bound packet is captured Seaman Brown loses his £25-worth of new ventures but claims for and collects the whole £400 from the underwriters because he says he was bringing back the original ventures."
"Exactly! As soon as he's exchanged, Seaman Brown goes back to Falmouth to find the £175 draft from Jamaica and collect £400 from the underwriters. He deducts the £25 spent on lost ventures and the original £100 investment, and finds he has a profit of £450..."
"All for six or eight weeks in a French prison."
"Yes, and Seaman Brown can comfortably manage at least two such voyages a year. One voyage out lasts forty-five days and thirty-five days back, plus about twenty days' waiting. That's one hundred days, plus six weeks as a prisoner. So Seaman Brown makes the round voyage, is captured and back in Falmouth before six months is up. Time enough to do it again so that by Christmas - if he's captured a second time - he's made a clear profit of £900 on the year at no risk."
"And at all times his ventures were insured..." Yorke commented quietly. "Where would he get the original £100?"
"That's not difficult. He'd have started as a boy, taking out goods for some Falmouth merchant on commission. Ventures have been carried for many years, Mr Yorke..."
"How can he be sure the packet will be captured?"
"He can't be absolutely sure," Much said, "but he can be sure - unless he's sailing with one of the very few commanders who'll have nothing to do with it - that his packet will surrender if a privateer is so much as sighted. It's not only seamen involved, Mr Yorke: mates, masters and commanders, too."
"Supposing the packet isn't captured," Ramage asked.
"Well, his £25 venture will still make him £50, and he has the £175 draft from Jamaica."
"And if the ship's taken on the way out?"
"Seaman Brown loses £100-worth of ventures and collects £400 from the underwriters as soon as he's exchanged. That's a profit of £300 in less than three months. Believe me, Mr Ramage, Seaman Brown can't lose!"
"I can see that," Ramage said ruefully. "But why has all this spread so quickly in the last year or so? The war's been on a long time!"
"It took a couple of years for the men to be certain the French would always exchange them without long delays."
"Yes, that also puzzles me: seamen - whether merchant or from the King's ships - usually wait years."
"The French - I'm ashamed to say this, Mr Ramage - the French exchange packetsmen quickly because they know they won't fight: they want the men back at Falmouth and off in another packet to surrender again. That way the French Government knows it's disrupting the mails, and it makes sure of a regular supply of prize packets," Much said bitterly. "They like the ships to use as privateers - fast, well built, most of them new, and captured without damage; no shot holes in the hull."
"Yes, the packetsmen, privateersmen and the French Government all get handsome profits. It just chafes across the back of any honest Briton posting a letter," Ramage said bitterly, "not to mention Government business. Downing Street, the Admiralty and the War Office all cut off from governors, ships and troops because of the greed and treason of a few score men. A few score Englishmen who've done what the whole French Fleet have failed to do..."
The four men sat silent, each lost in his thoughts. Finally Ramage asked the Mate, "Why are you telling me all this, Mr Much? Don't you risk having your throat cut?"
"The risk is there all right, but supposing you were in my place? What would you do?"
"Don't you venture?"
"Indeed, I don't," Much exclaimed angrily. '"Tis more vicious than drink - apart from being against the regulations - and 'tis treason, too."
"But you've sailed with Captain Stevens a long time," Ramage said pointedly.
"Aye, to my eternal shame, and I know you wonder why I've done nothing before this. Yes, I've sailed with him a long time, and his father before him. A commander for many years, the old man, and with his dying breath he asked me to stay on as Mate with his son Gideon. I was so upset with the sight of the old man dragging his anchors for the next world that I promised. I kept that promise until yesterday, when Gideon broke his solemn word to me. I think the old man knew he had a bad streak in him; many's the time I heard him round on Gideon and say money wasn't everything in this world; but Gideon reckoned it was..."
Much's voice faded as he roamed alone with his memories, and finally Ramage brought him back to the present. "What started the quarrelling between you and Stevens after the Rossignol was sighted?"
The Mate sighed. "That I should be talking like this of the old man's son. Well, the fact is the Captain - I'll call him Gideon, so we don't get mixed up - has done this twice before. I was wrong to stay with him - but I'd promised the old man. Still, before we left Falmouth this last time, I'd had enough. I made Gideon swear he'd never do it again. But the Master - he felt the same as me - didn't believe him and reported sick, so he didn't sail with us. Me - well, I thought Gideon would stand by his word and I signed on again, seeing I'd promised his father, God rest his soul."
"Why didn't the Master believe him?"
Once again Much tried to ease the bandage round his head. "Because he knows how desperately Gideon wants a new ship," he said simply.
"But the Arabella's almost new," Ramage exclaimed, and a moment later remembered the rot round the eye-bolts of the stern-chase breechings, and the vague remark Stevens had made the evening they had drinks together.
"Yes, she's almost new," Much said, "but the builder was sharper than Gideon: while Gideon was a prisoner that last time, seems the builder used a lot o' green wood in the stern, and most of it's gone rotten already. It'd cost a pretty penny to rip it out ... And Gideon reckoned that rather than pay for repairs out of his own pocket he'd sooner have those gentlemen in Lombard Street buy him a new ship - they paid for the Arabella of course, because the last one was captured. And Gideon would spend another year - on full pay - supervising the construction."
"Yes, but what the devil does Stevens get out of it?" Ramage objected. "He loses charter money and passenger fares..."
"Aye, he'd lose that, but he gets a brand-new ship. Apart from the rot, there's a year or so's depreciation written off just like that!"
Yorke, who had been listening as best he could while carrying out a conversation with Bowen, turned to Ramage and said quietly, "Believe me, Nicholas, as a businessman I can assure you that even if he takes two years to build the new ship he'll make a far greater profit than if he'd been at sea. In effect, he's gained - well, I'd guess a third or half of his original investment."
"I can see the temptation is enormous. But the risk of discovery ..."
"It's been going on for four or five years, much longer than over-insuring ventures," Much said, "and the Post Office suspects nothing. They think it's because there are swarms of French privateers at sea."
"And we know there aren't," Yorke commented. "No wonder the Admiralty are puzzled: I'll bet their frigates don't sight that many!"
Ramage decided to keep his own orders secret: Much seemed quite satisfied at opening his heart - or was it purging his soul? - to a King's officer.
"Did they think they could always keep this a secret - the ventures frauds and the new ships?"
"The new ships, yes: the commanders keep their mouths shut, and who could actually prove anything anyway? There's no secret about carrying ventures - it's been going on for years, and when the Post Office tried to stop it last year the men went on strike: you probably remember it. Lombard Street kept quiet about the reason, but it was ventures. The over-insuring - well, that's something else! That's a secret all right - why, if the underwriters got so much as a hint..."
"But why hasn't the Post Office suspected something?" Ramage persisted. "Surely they question the commanders when they're exchanged? Don't the commanders face a court of inquiry when they lose a ship, like we do? I've gone through three so far!"
"Oh yes; it's a routine business. As soon as he gets back to Falmouth from France, the commander goes to a notary and swears a 'protest' like any other shipmaster, and delivers that to the Post Office Agent. Then a committee - made up of other packet commanders - sit to question him, and that's that. Obviously his brother commanders aren't going to stir up any mud! Sometimes the Inspector of Packets comes down from London, but" - Much shrugged his shoulders - "he's a man who neither sees nor hears evil."
"So that's it," Ramage said. "But you haven't explained why Stevens broke his promise."
"It's Farrell," Much said angrily. "I could see that damnable Surgeon was persuading - or threatening, for he's a wicked man - long before we reached Kingston. It's my belief the Surgeon's carrying very high insurance on his ventures."
"But how can the Surgeon threaten him?"
"On behalf of the snip's company. When they get back to Falmouth, moorings could get cut in the night and the ship drift... she could catch fire ... spring a leak ... Bear in mind, sir, the Post Office only pays out if she's lost due to enemy action."
"Don't forget Stevens wanted a new ship anyway," Yorke muttered. "It'd be enough to persuade an owner. Probably wouldn't seem like treachery or treason: simply safeguarding his interests by submitting to blackmail by the officers and crew. And getting a new ship into the bargain."
Ramage rubbed the scars over his right eyebrow. "I can see that. Wouldn't make any difference in court, of course; it's still treason and Stevens would be hanged."
"Hanged!" exclaimed Much. "Oh my God, what have I done?"
Ramage said nothing and Yorke and Bowen turned back to the chessboard.
"Hanged..." Much whispered. "I told him it was sinful; I warned him before we left Falmouth..."
After a few minutes, Much said to Ramage, "I'm still glad I've told you, sir; I didn't want to meet my Maker without telling someone what's happening to the mails. It seems so dangerous for the country ... I could go back to the other cabin now and let Mr Southwick come back here again."
"No, you'd better stay here for a day or so. We might think of more questions," Ramage added vaguely.
"I'll tell you something, Mr Much," Yorke said bluntly.
"That fellow Stevens deserves to swing. More blameworthy than the Surgeon."
"Oh, sir!" Much said, deeply shocked. "Farrell is a real rascal."
"Make no mistake," Yorke said, "Stevens is more blameworthy because he's the captain. The Surgeon's simply a dirty little rogue. Picking pockets, poaching, treason - it's all the same to him. But not to Stevens; he knows the difference. That's why the Post Office pays him to command. You must understand that. Leaders get paid not for the work they do but for the responsibility they bear. Whatever happened on board the Arabella was Stevens' responsibility."
The Mate nodded numbly. Ramage saw that for all Much's concern and soul-searching he was only now realizing the full extent of the damage done to the Post Office by the greed of short-sighted men. There was just one important question left - after he had the answer to that, Ramage knew he'd carried out his orders, and his remaining duty was to stay alive long enough to report to the Admiralty. "Tell me, Mr Much," he asked, "are you sure the packetsmen - both seamen and commanders - aren't deliberately seeking out privateers and surrendering?"
"No, definitely not. All it boils down to, Mr Ramage, is that they've covered themselves in case they do meet one."
Ramage said quietly, "Yes, but they make much more profit if they're captured, Mr Much. Treason pays them a far higher dividend than doing an honest job."
Much held up his hands helplessly. "But they've enough sense not to kill the goose that lays the golden egg."
"Supposing the Royal Navy took over delivery of the mails?" Ramage asked out of curiosity.
"That's what I mean," Much said. "The packetsmen won't risk that. Anyway," he added, "the one time a Navy cutter took the New York mails she was captured on the way back."