"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!

Henderson announced Ramage.

"Ha! What now, my boy?"

"The packet, sir."

"Yes? She'll be anchoring shortly. Surely you don't want my permission to board her?"

"Not board her, sir."

Now what did he mean by that emphasis on "board"? He's a deep one, this lad. "Just because one packet's got through I hope you don't think..."

"Oh no, sir. I had a proposal-"

"You've got your orders; just carry 'em out!" Wouldn't hurt to shake him up a bit, Sir Pilcher decided.

"Very well, sir: I just wanted to warn you of possible repercussions."

"Repercussions? What the devil are you talking about?"

"I'm proposing to sail in her."

"I should think so. You won't find out what's going on by lounging around Government House!"

"And take Southwick and Bowen - the former master and surgeon of the Triton - and a dozen men with me."

"A dozen men? Seamen?"

"Yes, sir. You were kind enough to warn Captain Napier to keep some Tritons available."

"My goodness! You're not expecting the Admiralty to pay their passage money, are you?" The lad's up to something; that's for sure, Sir Pilcher decided. Why on earth doesn't he just take a passage himself and - oh well!

"Mine, Southwick's, sir, and the surgeon, Bowen; not the seamen."

"Very well, I'll allow you three, just berth, bedding and victuals. No wines and spirits. But the seamen - are they to be guests of the Post Office?"

"In a way, sir. I want to exchange a dozen of them for a dozen of the packet's men."

It was a good idea, but the Post Office would not like it - the protests would be endless. How to lodge the dozen Post Office men left in Kingston, and then crowding them all into the next packet, and no doubt the commander would demand a victualling allowance for them - oh no!

"I'm sorry, Ramage, it's out of the question."

"It's our only chance, sir."

"Your only chance," Sir Pilcher corrected. "You have your orders."

"Yes sir, but - with respect - I can't tackle a privateer by myself!"

"Your orders don't say that you should: you're supposed to inquire, not fight."

"The First Lord mentioned 'halting the losses', sir."

"See here, Ramage, you weren't supposed to see that letter: I exceeded my authority in showing it to you. Forget all about it. And don't plan to fight privateers, either."

"But that's been the trouble, sir. I think we're going to find at least some of the packets have been taken by small privateers: ones from which they could have escaped if they had had the wish."

"That's absurd! You've no grounds for saying that. These privateers carry scores of men."

"Just so. sir. And they're not that fast. They're crammed with men and guns. They can dodge frigates most of the time because they're slippery to windward, but I can't see how they can catch so many of the packets, which are designed for speed."

"Well, they do, and that's that."

Ramage knew he had nearly lost. There was only one more chance. "But if I arrive at Falmouth, sir, I can't help feeling his Lordship will think I've just taken passage in the packet to get home."

"I shouldn't worry about that; you stand a dam' good chance of ending up a prisoner in France." Damn, he shouldn't have said that: it was just the opening the boy wanted.

"Exactly, sir: but with a dozen of my own men, we'd stand a good chance of escaping a privateer."

"What the devil can a dozen men do?"

"They might - er, encourage the rest to do something."

That was true enough; if the Post Office men were shy of the smell of powder, at least men picked by Ramage would stiffen 'em up a bit.

"Very well, if you can get the Postmaster to agree to using a dozen of your men..."

"Thank you, sir." Ramage tried to make sure he would remember the exact phrase Sir Pilcher had used.

If the Postmaster agrees, Sir Pilcher thought to himself, that's his affair. Whatever happens after that is the concern of the Joint Postmasters-General. It won't hurt those lofty fellows in Lombard Street to have their share of responsibility; they're a sight too free in trying to push it on to other people's shoulders.

Sir Pilcher relaxed as Ramage left the room. The Postmaster would never agree to the lad's crazy plan, but if he did ... He shrugged his shoulders. Really, when the Cabinet decided to pass the responsibility to the Admiralty, they had absolutely no idea what it meant in practice.

Once outside Admiralty House, Ramage paused in the blazing sun and scribbled down Sir Pilcher's phrase, "Very well, if you can get the Postmaster to agree to using a dozen of your men." He folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket.

The Deputy Postmaster arrived punctually at the Royal Albion next morning, and even before he sat down at the breakfast table Ramage thought he detected a change in the man. Was it nervousness? Apprehension? His movements seemed jerky; the fingers of his big hands opened and closed, as if he was unsure of himself.

After the usual greetings both men remained silent until the waiters had served them and moved back to stand by the kitchen door, as though on guard. As Smith began eating, Ramage asked: "What news, Mr Smith?"

"About as bad as it could be. Seems that Lord Auckland delayed the Lady Arabella's departure so she did leave after the Hydra. His Lordship tells me that news came in that two Lisbon packets have been lost, and the packet due from here didn't arrive in Falmouth, either."

"And news of the war?"

"Nothing fresh. The French hold out in Malta, though Sir Horatio Nelson has a squadron at Naples and is blockading them. The Czar of Russia is showing more signs of friendship with this man Bonaparte. But no great battles - you knew about Luneville, of course?"

Ramage nodded: the Austrian defeat meant the end of Britain's last ally; from now on she was alone in the war against France and Spain. "The Lisbon packets," he said, helping himself to more fried bacon. "Any pattern? Where were they lost?"

"No pattern," Smith said. "At least, Lord Auckland did not mention any, except that they were homeward bound. One was taken within sight of Porto, so she'd barely cleared Lisbon. The other was only fifty miles from the Scillies."

"The weather?"

Smith wrinkled his brow, obviously casting his mind back over Lord Auckland's letter.

"The first one - light winds. The second - yes, it was blowing more than half a gale from the east, because one of the privateer's boats capsized."

More than half a gale from the east. Ramage could picture the packet beating up to the chops of the Channel when she sighted the privateer. Yet she should have been able to turn and run...

"What were the casualties in the packets?"

"None in the first," Smith said miserably, as though he knew only too well that it belied any serious attempt to avoid capture, "and one wounded in the second, according to the French newspapers."

"But they managed to sink the mails before hauling down their flags?"

"Oh yes - there's not been a single mail taken by the enemy yet." '

"Not one that's been reported, anyway," Ramage said sourly, buttering some toast.

"I resent, that Mr Ramage: quite uncalled for." Yet Smith's voice carried no conviction.