"That reminds me," Stevens said, pulling out his watch, "I gave a dozen men leave last night. They're due back - why, half an hour ago!"

He turned away, excusing himself and calling: "Harry? Pass the word for the Bosun! Oh, there you are. Where are those men? They're half an hour adrift. And damnation, here's Mr Smith's boat with the mails. He'll want to muster the ship's company as soon as the mails are stowed. Harry, get yourself on shore and find the men!"

He turned back to Ramage, "I can't understand it. Never had trouble before."

"I heard there was a hot press last night," Ramage said casually. "Just about cleared the streets of Kingston."

"They've got Protections."

"They can be stolen..."

Ramage watched Stevens nibbling at the idea, picturing his seamen drinking themselves insensible on the local rum ... crimps or doxies relieving them of their cash and their Protections (much more valuable than money) ... the drunken men being seized by the press gang and sobering up under guard in one of the ships of war anchored close by...

"Harry! Changed my mind!" Stevens shouted. "You'd better stay on board and get the mails below. Send Our Ned to find the men."

He turned back to Ramage. "Bad time to have men coming back late: the Agent musters the ship's company, then we're off. Still, mayhap Our Ned will find them. He's the Mate's son."

He turned away again. "Fred!" he bellowed, and when a small, grey-haired man came over he said, "Mr Ramage, this is the Mate, Fred Much. He's Our Ned's dad."

Much shook hands, and then said to Stevens: "What'll we do if Our Ned can't find 'em?"

"Let's wait until he comes back a'fore we start fretting," Stevens said curtly, and Ramage sensed there was little love lost between the two men.

When the Deputy Postmaster-General came on board, Stevens at once took him down to his cabin. The paperwork must be formidable, Ramage thought; Smith was carrying quite a bulky bag.

Meanwhile Fred Much, with a list in his hand, was supervising the men, using a net sling and the stay tackle to hoist the mail on board. The heavy canvas bags, each with its mouth closed by a thick draw-string, the knot of which was secured with a lead seal, were lined up alongside the hatch coaming. When seamen in the boat called that the last one was coming up, the Mate sent a boy for the Captain.

Stevens came back with Smith, who held out his hand to the Mate for the list. He consulted it and began to walk slowly along the row of bags. Ramage noticed that each had a three-figure number stencilled on the side, and Smith was comparing the numbers with those on the list.

Finally he folded the paper and walked back. "All there, Mr Mate?"

"Aye aye, sir."

"Satisfied, Captain?"

Stevens nodded. "I'll sign for 'em, Mr Smith. Right, Fred, get 'em below and pass the word when they're stowed."

As the Captain and the Postmaster disappeared into Stevens' cabin again, Yorke and Southwick walked over to Ramage and Southwick said wryly, "Might be different owners, but the paperwork seems about the same!"

"And the problems, too!"

"You mean the men overstaying their leave, sir?"

"Yes," Ramage said, raising his voice slightly and winking at Southwick. "Not unknown in the Royal Navy, eh, Southwick?"

"Indeed no; but believe me, sir," he said, his voice heavy with disapproval, "I'd never have given men leave within a few hours of sailing! Not in the present circumstances."

The Mate could hear them clearly and Ramage hoped that the conversation would be reported to Stevens. Yorke had seen Ramage's wink and gave a rasping cough. "No, most unwise, and I've a damned good mind to tell Stevens so. Particularly unwise since, for safety's sake, we must sail as soon as possible. Why, I'm sure a French spy's telescope is watching us at this very moment."

One by one the bags were lowered into the hold, and Ramage could hear them being dragged about. Then there was banging, thumping and cursing as the men hauled shifting boards into position, lashing them so that the bags could not slide around as the ship pitched and rolled.

Finally the Mate passed the word that all the bags were stowed, and Smith climbed down into the hold. He was back on deck within a couple of minutes and with a curt "Good, batten down then" to the Mate, returned to Stevens' cabin.

Ramage had seen another man - who had boarded with Smith - wandering about the ship, peering into various corners. "The searcher," he murmured to Southwick.

Southwick surveyed the man, whose clothes were obviously intended for a much fatter person, and who walked with a curious gait, swinging his left arm in unison with his left leg but keeping his right arm rigidly at his side, as though holding up his trousers.

"He can search as much as he wants," Southwick commented, "but he looks to me as though he's completely lost."

At that moment Smith came back on deck, followed by Stevens. Both men were flushed and angry and Smith said abruptly, without bothering to turn his head: "You sail at noon, Captain, whether they come back or not!"

"But how can I? We've barely enough men to handle the ship in heavy weather, thanks to Lombard Street's meanness. And I'm supposed to beat off privateers - with a handful of men and boys. I'm short of the Master, too, since he's sick in Falmouth. No sir, we don't sail."

Ramage knew this was the moment he had been waiting for and walked casually over to join the two men. "Mr Smith - I hope I'm not interfering, but I can't help thinking that some of Mr Stevens' men might have 'run', or been picked up by a press gang."

"They most certainly have not deserted," Stevens said emphatically. "Perhaps got themselves beastly drunk, but they'll be back!"

"But I can't allow you to wait, Captain; I've already made that quite clear," Smith said firmly. "I couldn't even in peacetime - you know full well the packet sails as soon as the mails are on board. In the present circumstances it's most important you sail before the French get the word..."

"But I daren't," Stevens almost wailed. "A dozen men short of my complement! I'll lose the ship for sure."

"Might I suggest Sir Pilcher Skinner?" Ramage said smoothly.

"Sir Pilcher?" Smith repeated. "What - how could..."

"A dozen well-trained seamen from one of his ships ... if it meant the packet could sail at once. Particularly in view of all the circumstances..."

"Oh no, I couldn't do that," Stevens protested. "Not sail with Navy men!"

"Why not?" Smith demanded. "I'll remind you the Post Office has hired your ship; that's why she's called 'His Majesty's packet brig Lady Arabella'. His Majesty has chartered her and pays the wages, Captain. And I am his agent. Yes, Mr Ramage, that seems a very good idea."

"I'll go on shore at once and see what I can arrange," Ramage said. "A dozen men, eh?"

Stevens nodded reluctantly.

"Topmen?"

"If you can get them."

"We can try!"

An hour later Ramage returned with a dozen seamen, led by Jackson, and ordered them to line up in front of Smith, who sat waiting at a small table under the quarterdeck awning with the muster book, a pen and ink in front of him. There was no sign of Captain Stevens.

Swiftly Smith questioned the men: full name, age and nationality; where born and when; rating. When he had written the details in the muster book he dismissed the men and turned to Ramage.

"Is there a receipt you want me to sign?"

Ramage shook his head. "No, there's no need," he assured Smith.

"Well, thanks very much; you've got me out of a very difficult situation. I'm sure Captain Stevens will be grateful, once he's given the matter some thought. Now I just have to muster the rest of the ship's company, and then you'll be under way."

With the muster complete, the dozen new men given their positions in the watch bill, and the searcher reporting lugubriously that he'd found nothing, Smith finally shook hands with the Captain, took his farewell of the passengers and climbed down into his boat.