On the afternoon of the last day, as the cloud began to break up and the wind to lessen, Yorke tossed aside the book he was reading and sat up in his bunk.
"You don't fret much about privateers these days."
"I'm taking some leave," Ramage said. "It expires in a couple of days' time."
"Why then?"
"I think we'll find we have to start watching for privateers from then on."
"Two days, eh?" Yorke said slowly. "Neither one nor six, but two. I admire your precision."
Ramage grinned. "Geography. I reckon the majority of privateers from St Malo, Rochefort, Barfleur and such ports patrol no farther out than six hundred miles."
"Why that magic figure?"
"Well, each prize they take must be sailed back to France with only a small prize crew who have to dodge British patrols - and British privateers, too. They'd be lucky to average five knots. Six hundred miles - five days' sailing - seems far enough!"
Yorke waved a hand in agreement. "I'm glad you think like a privateersman!"
"I wish I could: our necks might depend on it!"
"They do, too. Tell me, now we've been on board nearly a month, d'you think this was the best way of carrying out your orders?"
Ramage made a face. He'd spent many a sleepless hour in his bunk asking himself that question. "Too early - or too late - to say. Ask me again as we pick up the mooring in Falmouth."
"That's how I feel," Yorke said ruefully.
"So far," Ramage admitted, "even if we don't know much more than we did in Kingston, I'm still convinced the only way anyone will ever find the answer is to be on board a packet."
"I wonder," Yorke mused. "One privateer capturing one packet and sending her in with a prize crew - what can that really tell you? It's happened twenty or thirty times already and the Post Office discovered nothing!"
"If I knew, obviously I wouldn't be here," Ramage said briskly. "But we know what to look for and what questions to ask. The gentlemen in Lombard Street are land animals. They can only make guesses."
"Are the French really interested in the mails?" Yorke persisted. "Are they trying to get hold of them? Cut communications, perhaps?"
"No. I've thought a lot about that," Ramage said, "but the commanders all report sinking the mails before surrendering. Although I can't imagine them saying otherwise, I believe them. If not, we get into the realms of treachery, and it's too widespread for that. I doubt if the French have got one bag of mails so far. Anyway, if they were trying to cut communications, would they rely on privateers? I doubt it."
"Then I can't understand why the French bother with packets: no cargo to sell; just the hull."
"A fine hull, though: fast and well built. Just the sort of ship to fit out in St Malo and send to sea again as a privateer!"
"Yes, but not a very profitable capture - compared with the value of cargoes. I've carried cargoes in the Topaz worth ten times what the ship was insured for."
"Agreed, agreed," Ramage said. "But you're forgetting the most important thing: obviously a privateer takes what comes along: one day it's a Topaz worth twenty-five thousand pounds with her cargo, the next day it's the Lady Arabella worth - how much? Six thousand pounds?"
"You could build her for that. But, my friend, you're also forgetting something."
"And that is?"
"That twelve months or so ago the packet losses suddenly increased by several hundred per cent, while the losses of merchantmen stayed the same."
Ramage shook his head. "No, I haven't forgotten. That's the puzzle. That's why we're passengers in the Lady Arabella!"
Chapter Nine
Stafford looked at the bags of spices, picked one up, shook it and then sniffed. "Nutmeg, eh? Yer mean to tell me there's money in a bag o' nutmegs, Wally?"
The seaman nodded. "Cost me two shilluns in the Windward Islands, they did. I'll get five pound in Falmouth - mebbe ten if I give 'em to the troachers."
"Poachers?" Stafford exclaimed.
"No - troachers. They're the old women who take our stuff to sell out in the villages. They go from house to house. Probably get a shillun each for nutmegs." He fondled the bag lovingly. "Troachers is best for things like spices. The profit comes in selling 'em one at a time."
"What about rum?" Jackson asked.
"Oh, merchants is best for likker."
"Why's that? Why not house to house?"
"Merchants are more used to arrangin'," the seaman said vaguely.
"Arranging?"
"With the Customs, an' all that sort of thing."
"All helps pay the rent," Jackson said. "Must double your pay."
"Double it?" the seaman exclaimed indignantly. "You've got a pretty daft idea of how much we get paid! That lot there" - he waved at the bags of spices - "and me drop of rum will make the same as five years' pay. An' me outward freight's already made me that - with the money coming home safe in the next convoy from Jamaica."
"Supposing the Arabella is taken?" Jackson asked.
"Don't matter," the seaman said airily. "All this is insured."
"You say a packetsman's pay is bad?" Stafford asked.
"Well – t’aint as bad as what you chaps get, but it's bad enough. The Captain gets only eight pounds a month."
"Pore fellah," Stafford said sarcastically. "But a couple of 'undred pounds of ventures will help - he carries ventures, I suppose?"
The seaman nodded. "And we carry passengers, too. You've seen 'em. Fifty guineas each - that's what they've paid the Captain. Clear profit for the skipper - stands to reason!"
"My 'eart bleeds for you pore men," Stafford said sourly, trying to provoke the seaman.
"We take risks, though," the seaman said defensively. "Look how many packets have been lost in the last year."
"Think how many of the King's ships have been lost, too," Jackson said, "and they have to stand and fight."
"Well, we have to run from the Frenchies - that's orders from Lombard Street," the seaman said angrily. "We're just carrying the mails: we ain't men-o'-war - neither us nor the packets."
"Easy now," Jackson said soothingly, "no one's blaming you; we're just talking. Come on, I'll help you pack up these spices again. Thanks for showing us. We don't have to worry about the strange smell now!"
That night, Jackson slid into Ramage's cabin and reported the conversation.
"Making a profit equal to five years' pay?" Ramage repeated incredulously.
"That's what he said, sir. And that's on this venture alone. He's already made that on the one he took out, and the money goes home on the next convoy."
"But what does he get paid? More than our seamen, anyway. Say a pound a month. Five years' pay is -"
"Sixty pounds," Yorke said in the darkness. "So his profit is one hundred and twenty pounds on a round trip - providing he gets the inward-bound venture back safely."
"Doesn't matter, sir," Jackson said. "It's insured."
"The venture is?" Yorke asked sharply.
"So the fellow said."
"Is this seaman the same chap that told you about making four voyages a year?"
"The same, sir."
Yorke sighed. "And I don't suppose he can read or write..."
"He can't," Jackson said glumly, guessing the point Yorke was going to make.
"He can't, eh? Well, let's not forget he's making four hundred and eighty pounds a year ... How does that compare with the Royal Navy, Nicholas?"
Ramage thought for a moment. "A third less than the captain of a first-rate like the Victory or the Ville de Paris, and twice as much as the master," he said. "Exactly five times as much as Southwick was paid as master of the Triton brig," he added bitterly.