"There'll be a long waiting list of passengers."
"Not on your life!" Yorke exclaimed. "Very few people are so anxious to get to England that they want to risk their necks before it's known what's happening."
"What do 'they' suspect is happening?" Ramage asked quizzically.
Yorke grinned. " 'They' are positive there are just too many French privateers, and 'they' include Mr Smith, the Deputy Postmaster-General, who is in charge of Foreign Mails. I spent half an hour with him yesterday trying to arrange a passage."
"Presumably you'll have the whole packet to yourself."
"No, I didn't even get round to asking the fare. There are simply no packets. And all the Navy's fault, if you listen to the Deputy Postmaster-General. He blames the Navy entirely - or Sir Pilcher, anyway."
Ramage grimaced, irritated at finding himself making excuses for Sir Pilcher. "What does Mr Smith expect - a frigate to escort each packet?"
"No, just more frigates patrolling the more obvious places where privateers can seize the packets after they sail from here."
"I can't imagine privateers lurking in obvious places, can you?"
Yorke signalled to the steward to bring more coffee and turned to Ramage. "To be quite honest, I can't imagine them finding and capturing one packet after another in the middle of the Atlantic either ... Perhaps an occasional one. No, I'm sure they're capturing them just as soon as they get through the Windward Passage - within a couple of days of leaving here, in other words; just as soon as they pass out of the Caribbean into the Atlantic."
"Give Sir Pilcher a little credit," Ramage protested mildly. "He has a standing patrol across the Windward Passage and well out into the Atlantic, and no privateer's been sighted anywhere in the area for weeks."
"You seem well informed. Have you any theories?"
"No, none at all." Yorke noticed that Ramage's eyes glanced down at the letter before he added, "I wish I had."
"Has anyone?" Yorke asked flatly.
Shrugging his shoulders, Ramage said ruefully, "If he has, he's keeping quiet about it in case Sir Pilcher gives him the job."
"What job?" Yorke asked innocently.
"The job of delivering the mail," Ramage said as the steward brought Yorke more coffee. "Albert, I think I'll have some more, too. It's the best I've ever tasted. What's the secret?"
The coloured man smiled happily. "A pinch of salt in the pot, sah."
"Just salt?" Yorke asked doubtfully.
"Nuthin' else, sah," the steward said solemnly. "The beans must be fresh ground, of course."
When the steward had gone back to the kitchen, Yorke said casually, "Any news from Admiralty House?"
"Nothing definite," Ramage said, his eyes again dropping to the letter.
"Any hint as to whether you're in or out of favour?"
Again Ramage shrugged his shoulders and, after a minute's hesitation, passed the letter to Yorke. "Sir Pilcher sent this last night; I can accept or refuse."
Yorke's brow wrinkled as he unfolded the sheet of paper. "Is that usual - having the option, as it were?"
Ramage shook his head. "On the contrary, it's -" He broke off, not wanting to influence Yorke's reaction.
The other man read slowly and finally glanced up. "Interesting."
"You think so?" Ramage asked sarcastically, for once irritated by Yorke's flippant manner.
"Interesting, significant - and suspicious."
"Suspicious?"
"Yes. I don't know quite what it is, but I don't like the option. Surely admirals don't give lieutenants options, do they?"
Ramage shook his head. "I've spent most of the night trying to guess what's behind it."
Yorke stirred his coffee. "I begin to wonder why Sir Pilcher almost labours the point that you have the option. Let's go through the letter slowly."
He spread the letter on the table and ran his finger under the first few lines. "Well, after all the usual routine phrases, he tells you that there have been heavy and unexpected losses among the Post Office packets coming from England and returning. 'Unexpected'? Any clue in that word?"
"That struck me, too, but I don't think so. There were very few losses in the first years of the war; now they've suddenly increased. Obviously it was unexpected..."
"Very well, he goes on to say that increased frigate patrols off the coasts of Cuba, Hispaniola and Puerto Rico prove that far from there being more French and Spanish privateers, fewer than half seem to be operating this year compared with last. Do you believe that?"
Ramage smiled. "In the previous couple of years, frigate captains made small fortunes from head money alone. Privateers have large crews, and at five pounds a head, plus prize money ... There's no doubt the French and Spanish in the Caribbean are now short of both ships and men for privateering."
"In the Caribbean," Yorke emphasized, "and perhaps for a few hundred miles out into the Atlantic. All right," he said in response to an impatient gesture from Ramage, "we'll leave privateers based in Europe out of it for the moment. Now, Sir Pilcher says that while he has no reason to think the packets are being lost on this side of the Atlantic, he has decided to make an investigation ... that seems reasonable enough. However, he goes on to say, he is extremely short of ships, but 'because you are at present unemployed by virtue of having lost the Triton brig', he is prepared to place the investigation in your hands 'as an alternative to you returning to the United Kingdom'."
Yorke read the passage again. "It's rather like blackmail."
"No, he's quite right. I haven't a ship now, and the court of inquiry into the loss of the Triton has cleared me of blame, so there's nothing more to be done about that. If Sir Pilcher has no appointment for me, I return to England. That's the routine."
"It still seems odd," Yorke persisted. "I can't believe he's so short of ships that he can't spare anyone else to make this investigation. It's obviously the most urgent job he and the Navy face! It's not just Jamaica that's affected: there's Barbados, Grenada, St Lucia, St Vincent, Martinique, Antigua, Tortola - dozens of 'em! The whole West Indies must be in turmoil, cut off from England in both directions, yet he..."
Ramage nodded wearily. "Exactly! I can imagine him passing the job to the captain of one of his 74-gun ships, and giving him three or four frigates as well. Or even choosing one of his favourite captains and sending him off with a couple of frigates. But..."
"But you can't see why he'd pick a lieutenant who commands nothing more than a cabin trunk. Neither can I. This sheet of paper," Yorke said, holding up the letter contemptuously, "doesn't tell a tenth of the story. When do you have to give your reply?"
Ramage took out his watch. "In an hour's time, and I'm damned if I know what to say."
"What's in favour of accepting?"
Ramage picked up one of the heavy knives on the table and balanced it horizontally on a finger. "Nothing really, except that it might be amusing to try to find out what is happening to the packets - assuming Sir Pilcher is merely being silly, not cunning."
"Suppose he is being cunning and there's something else involved?"
"I hope I'll find out in time to get out of it."
"That means you'll accept?"
Yorke spoke so sharply that Ramage glanced up in surprise. "You think I should refuse?"
Ramage did not hide his disappointment when Yorke nodded. Despite the vagaries of the letter, he had hoped that somehow it would get him back to sea again. The heat and smell of Jamaica and the noise and bustle of Kingston were little to his liking. Moreover the heavy social pressures brought on eligible young officers by anxious mothers seeking matches for their dumpy daughters drove most young men to the rum bottle before long.