"No fear. Same either way. And we provide food and bedding."
He wiped the razor and began shaving, his voice distorted as he stretched the skin of his face. "By the way, I've been thinking of your passenger idea. I can see a disadvantage."
"That I end up in England?"
"Yes. You might end up in England and have nothing to report to the Admiralty."
"I know, but I don't think it matters."
"Doesn't matter? But surely-"
"The only place I'll find the answer is at sea in a packet, that's for sure. And being at sea in a packet means departing from one place and arriving at another."
"Still-" Yorke began doubtfully.
"At least it'll mean a packet got safely back to Falmouth," Southwick said.
"And you'll have had a quiet voyage playing chess with Bowen," Ramage said.
Southwick's face dropped as if he was suddenly seeing the packet's progress across every minute of latitude and longitude as a game of chess with the doctor.
"I'll put up a silver cup," Yorke said. " 'The Western Ocean Trophy'. The winner is the man with the most games as the packet enters Faimouth."
"I'll add fifty guineas," Ramage said. "How's that for encouragement."
"Fine, sir," Southwick said gloomily. "Trouble is, it'll only encourage Bowen, not me."
Ramage was talking to the Deputy Postmaster-General in his office when a clerk brought word that the packet had just been sighted passing Fort Charles.
"Do you want to come out with me?" Smith asked.
Ramage shook his head. "No - for the time being I'd prefer it if no one on board the packet knew that there's an investigation under way. You haven't mentioned to your staff..."
"To no one."
"Good, but find out what you can from the commander - if he saw privateers, has news of more losses and so on."
"She left Faimouth before the Hydra sailed," Smith pointed out. "Six days before. And she's come via Barbados."
"Of course," Ramage said, irritated that he'd forgotten. "So they'll have no hint that..."
"None at all." Smith looked at him shrewdly. "You know, Lieutenant, you sound as if you suspect them!"
Ramage was thankful that he had decided not to take Smith into his confidence.
"No - after all, they're one of the packets that hasn't been captured! And what would a packet crew gain by being captured?"
He spoke in a casual voice but watched Smith, who was sorting his inevitable piles of papers as he answered. "Gain? Why, nothing! In fact everything to lose - remember their little ventures that so shocked you."
Indeed, Ramage thought, ten guineas invested by a seaman in ventures would be more than six months' pay for these men and more than a year's pay for a man serving in one of the King's ships.
"What is the pay of a commander?" he asked, almost thinking aloud.
"Nothing lavish - eight pounds a month."
"Only eight pounds?" Ramage exclaimed. It was within a few shillings of his own pay, and lieutenants in a first-rate received seven pounds.
"Yes - but don't forget the Post Office is also paying him to charter his ship. I don't know the rate. And the passengers' passage money - that's paid to the commander."
"So his wages are not much more than a token."
"I suppose you could look at it like that. If he can't sail on a voyage because of illness he receives his pay - against a physician's certificate, of course."
"Who would then command the ship?"
"The master. No packet is allowed to sail with less than a master in command. A fairly recent ruling."
"They had sailed with less - before the ruling?"
"Occasionally," Smith admitted.
"Does a packet often sail with only the master in command?"
"Not too often. One or two commanders suffer from ill-health," Smith said uncomfortably.
"But the Post Office knows about them."
Smith nodded. "They take steps, where they can."
"So such a commander gets his pay and can make his profit from the charter money without stepping out of his house?"
"Yes," Smith admitted angrily, "but see here, Lieutenant, I don't reckon your inquiries into privateering give you a right to criticize the Post Office!"
"I'm not criticizing," Ramage said coolly. "I was merely asking you to confirm something you've just said. If you choose to interpret your own statements as criticism, well..." He shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm sorry," Smith said quickly, "I'm a sight too touchy. Fact is, these losses are getting on my nerves. If only you realized what's at stake."
Ramage's eyebrows lifted, and Smith said: "Communications. Without them London is - well, like a giant without arms and legs!"
Was that all he meant? Ramage wished he could be sure.
"I must see about the boat," Smith said. "You're sure you won't come out with me?"
Ramage shook his head.
"When shall I - er, tell you what the commander has to report?" Smith asked.
"Why don't you dine with me at the Royal Albion?"
"I'm afraid I can't," Smith said apologetically. "It's a custom of mine to dine the commander the night he arrives."
"Ah yes, so you told me. The newspaper?"
"I'll arrange all that. Tomorrow's issue of the Chronicle will announce today's arrival and warn everyone that the mail closes at nine o'clock the following morning."
"If you're dining the commander tonight why don't we meet tomorrow morning? Breakfast at my hotel? Say seven o'clock?"
Chapter Five
Sir Pilcher Skinner had been vastly relieved when his secretary brought in the news from Morant Point that the packet had been sighted. Relieved and surprised, since he had already presumed her lost. Still, it was a relief to know she had sailed before the Hydra, so there would be no unexpected or unwelcome official business in the mails; just private letters, and now he was a widower he found himself taking less and less interest in family or friends. It was unfortunate that his daughter had not found herself a husband but he had long since given up worrying about it.
He pulled out his watch. Eleven o'clock already and Henderson had put out a pile of reports for him to sign, so that they could be sealed and sent home in the packet. As he reached for his pen he reflected crossly that although the Admiralty had given him few enough ships for the station, from the paperwork one would guess he had ten times more than the Channel Fleet.
The Channel Fleet: he shivered at the very thought of it. Jamaica suited him well enough: a splendid climate - although it could be a bit too hot in the hurricane season - and the most comfortable quarters the Navy had to offer. And prize money - by jingo, the prize agents here must be making enormous profits, judging by the fees they charged for their dabblings.
He glanced at the top report, scribbled a signature and put the page to one side. He glanced up. Now Henderson was back again. There was no peace for a commander-in-chief, although he shouldn't really complain since the fellow did a splendid job.
"Lieutenant Ramage, sir. Says it's important."
"Important!" Sir Pilcher snorted. There wasn't a lieutenant in the Navy List who didn't think whatever he was doing was important. "Well, what's he want? He has his orders."
"He wouldn't disclose the substance of it, sir."
Disclose the substance of it! Only Henderson could use a phrase like that. Half the time he sounded like a superannuated judge.
"Oh very well, send him in."
Why can't the boy just go away and carry out his orders? Run into some damned silly little problem, no doubt; scared of taking any responsibility and determined to shove it on the Commander-in-Chief's shoulders. That seemed the ambition of every officer on the station - and every blasted quill-pusher in the Admiralty, too, including the First Lord!