"No, definitely not. All it boils down to, Mr Ramage, is that they've covered themselves in case they do meet one."

Ramage said quietly, "Yes, but they make much more profit if they're captured, Mr Much. Treason pays them a far higher dividend than doing an honest job."

Much held up his hands helplessly. "But they've enough sense not to kill the goose that lays the golden egg."

"Supposing the Royal Navy took over delivery of the mails?" Ramage asked out of curiosity.

"That's what I mean," Much said. "The packetsmen won't risk that. Anyway," he added, "the one time a Navy cutter took the New York mails she was captured on the way back."

When Ramage first thought of the idea the Arabella was running fast in the darkness, the sea sluicing past the hull planking only a few inches from his head and sounding like a cataract. It was not the proverbial flash of inspiration; rather that as he was lying sleepless in his bunk Ramage found the idea had arrived in his mind like a cat coming unobtrusively into a room and waiting to be stroked.

Since he was no stranger to weird ideas thought up during pre-dawn bouts of sleeplessness, he turned over on to his back to consider it again. Ten minutes later he knew there was nothing wild about it, nor did it leave anything to chance, and there was only one real "if". He eased himself out of the bunk and shook Much, who was sleeping deeply and snoring gently. He was awake in moments, whispering, "Whassermarrer?" at someone he could not recognize in the darkness.

"It's Ramage. Tell me, how much do the Post Office pay out to the owner when a packet is lost? What's the cost of building?"

"Phew" - Much sat up, rubbing his head - "give me a moment to wake up properly, sir. Now, let me think - the Halifax, Westmoreland, Adelphi... Yes, about three thousand pounds."

"Thanks," Ramage grunted, and as he turned back to his bunk Yorke spoke from the chair he had drawn in the chairs-cabin sole-bunk lottery with Ramage and Bowen. "Why the sudden interest at this time o' night, Nicholas? Going to make Kerguelen an offer for the Arabella?"

"Yes," Ramage said shortly. "Like to take a half share?"

Ramage heard the chair creaking as Yorke sat upright and said, "Yes."

"Make it a third, sir," Bowen said sleepily, "and I'll take a third."

"Congratulations - not many men can raise three thousand pounds in twenty seconds before dawn out in the Atlantic," Yorke said banteringly. "Now you can tell us how you propose buying the ship."

"Don't misunderstand me," Ramage said. "Three thousand pounds is the Post Office figure. She may be worth six to the French."

"So you are likely to dun Bowen and me for another thousand each, eh?"

Ramage asked the Surgeon, "Can you stand two-"

"Three, if need be," Bowen interrupted, "but no more than three, though."

"Wish I could put up something," Much said miserably. "I've got seven hundred pounds in the Funds, an' that's all, but you're welcome to it."

Ramage leaned over and patted the man's shoulder in the darkness. "Don't start fretting: if all this works, Mr Yorke will buy us out and may offer you a job as well!"

"I certainly will," Yorke said cheerfully. "I can use a good mate in one of my ships."

"Oh dear me!" Much exclaimed, completely overwhelmed. The inadequacy of the words brought home to Ramage the extent of Much's self-control: few men would have been able to resist some blasphemous expression of surprise and pleasure.

"Don't let's declare any dividends yet," Ramage reminded them. "First we have to persuade Kerguelen to sell; then we have to agree on a price."

"If nothing else, he'll drive a hard bargain," Bowen said. "We aren't in a particularly strong position," he added ruefully.

"Stronger than you might think," Ramage said. "Depends on how much of a gambler Kerguelen is."

"Gambler, sir?" Bowen exclaimed, making no attempt to disguise his surprise.

"Yes. He knows he has only a fifty-fifty chance of getting back to St Malo from Lisbon without being captured. Eight or nine hundred miles. Don't forget the Channel is an enormous funnel: the closer you get in, the narrower it is, and the Navy is always watching. Ships are converging on it from all over the world, and apart from patrolling frigates, warships are returning. And plenty of British privateers are out looking for ships such as this - French prizes trying to get back to the Channel ports."

"But he could increase the odds in his favour by sneaking into Brest," said Yorke gloomily. "Save himself a hundred miles. Or Bordeaux."

"No," Ramage said, "from Lisbon he'll head for St Malo - once the Channel Fleet's back in Plymouth. Apart from pride, he'll make for his home port because he'll have rope and canvas in the hold. In St Malo he knows all the officials, and he and his brother probably have a proper base there for fitting out prizes."

"All the more reason why he won't agree to sell," Yorke said. "This packet's fast; she's just the right size for a privateer: easily handled, well-equipped-"

"And her whole stern so rotten we'll be lucky to make Lisbon, let alone St Malo," Much said lugubriously.

There was complete silence in the cabin for a full minute.

"The whole stern?" Ramage repeated incredulously.

"The whole stern^'Much said. "You can punch your fist through the archboard; the last dozen feet of the stringers and shelf are soggy like a bad potato. Don't even dare think about the deadwood; the rudder's hanging on by faith."

"How long have you known all this? The extent of the rot, I mean."

Much waited a minute or two before answering and Ramage wished he could see the man's face.

"I've known we had some rot for six months - I mentioned that was why Stevens wanted a new ship. But it's spreading very quickly, as I found out in Barbados, where I made a complete above-water examination and reported to the Captain. That was the first time I found out how bad it was."

Ramage guessed that by a bitter irony it was probably Much's report that made Stevens decide to break his promise to the Mate: knowledge of how fast the rot was spreading meant it would need only slight pressure from Farrell to make Stevens surrender the ship at the first opportunity.

"Supposing he hadn't known the stern was rotten," Ramage mused. "I wonder what he'd have done about the Rossignol."

"I'd only be guessing," Much admitted, "but I think he might have run. Farrell might have been able to persuade him not to fight if he couldn't get away, but I think he'd have made a more effective attempt to escape." The Mate thought for a few moments and then added wearily, "I'm not sure, though. I begin to wonder."

"Of course," Yorke said casually, "One mustn't forget Stevens does own the ship; up to a point, he can decide what he does."

"I'm not disputing that," Ramage said grimly, guessing Yorke was leading up to something else. "He could own a bank or an abbey as well, but he doesn't own the bags of mail, and treason is still treason."

"Don't pick on him alone," Yorke advised. "Don't forget the other commanders. They surrendered simply because of insurance on the ventures, not because their ships had rotten sterns. Incidentally, Much my dear fellow, bearing in mind we'd all like to stay afloat, were you exaggerating a few minutes ago about the extent of the rot?"

"No, I wasn't. I told Captain Stevens we ought to get some precautionary work done before we left Kingston: doubling some frames for example, and making sure the gudgeons and pintles were held in good wood, in case we lost the rudder. But there wasn't time: the Agent wanted us to sail almost at once, and naturally the Captain didn't want to tell him about it. He wants to get full value for a sound ship."