"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?"