Sir Pilcher gave a deep sigh, as if relieved to find someone who agreed with him. "Between you and me, Ramage, that's just what I've hinted in my dispatches to the First Lord. Still, can't say it aloud, can we!" His fingers were still poised over the snuffbox but his earlier agitation had vanished. "Well, Ramage, what about it?"

"Information about losses so far, the way the packets operate...?"

"All taken care of," Sir Pilcher said airily. "The Deputy Postmaster-General here in Kingston has all those sort of details."

His tone implied that they were trivial but that - well, Ramage wondered, that what? He was probably being stubborn (Sir Pilcher would call it mulish), but he felt he was being led along blindfolded. And why had he been chosen? If the situation was as desperate as Sir Pilcher said (and he was certain the Admiral was not exaggerating) surely it was a job for a senior captain on the Jamaica station: someone like Captain Napier of the 74-gun Arrogant, who could ask for three or four frigates if he found he needed a small squadron to root out privateers.

Yet Sir Pilcher had made great play of that "one particular question", as though the real job of destroying the privateers, whatever it was, could not be done until someone had served up the answer on a plate. It made sense - providing the losses conformed to some special plan. Find out what the plan was, and then move quickly to wreck it. Supposing the losses were pure chance; privateers encountering the packets at random? Then no answer existed, and a lot of time would be wasted looking for it.

Ramage was deliberately avoiding looking squarely at his own particular question, but it was nagging at him like toothache. All right, he thought grimly, take a good look at it this time: Why has Sir Pilcher chosen me? He dislikes me - no one makes a secret of that. He has a couple of dozen favourite lieutenants he wants to get promoted and given their own commands, yet none of them was given the job. He has at least a dozen young frigate commanders, low on the list of post-captains but high on his patronage list, any one of whom he would like to single out for special praise in a dispatch to the First Lord.

The Cabinet has told the Admiralty to halt the losses, the First Lord passed the word to Sir Pilcher, and Sir Pilcher has picked Lieutenant Ramage. It was a damned odd sequence, because if Ramage succeeded, the process reversed itself: Sir Pilcher would have to give him the credit in a dispatch to the First Lord, and the First Lord would probably mention his name to the Cabinet. All of which, he thought cynically, would be most gratifying to an admiral, let alone a mere lieutenant, since it would probably result in the lieutenant getting instant promotion.

He looked across at Sir Pilcher, who was still staring fixedly at the enamel snuffbox. You're up to something; there's not the slightest doubt about it. Why haven't you chosen your favourite lieutenant to reap this golden harvest? Or your favourite young frigate captain? Is it because you know there'll be no harvest to reap? That all you will be able to report to the First Lord, and the First Lord to the Cabinet, is abysmal failure? Ramage watched Sir Pilcher's hands for a few moments, saw their slight trembling, and was sure that the Admiral believed the mission was impossible.

Still, it was worth fishing around a bit more to try to be sure why Sir Pilcher had chosen him before he finally refused the job. Ramage decided to bait a hook and lower it gently over the side into what were palpably deep waters.

"The Hydra frigate, sir," Ramage said tentatively, "she brought out the latest news from London about the packet losses?"

"Of course - Lord Spencer sent her because that's the only secure way of passing orders these days."

"Did the First Lord make any suggestions, sir?" Ramage congratulated himself: the diffident note in his voice was perfectly pitched.

"Suggestions? My dear boy, the First Lord doesn't suggest things; he gives orders."

Gently does it, Ramage told himself, the hook is baited and the fish is swimming close to it. Just a little twitch should be enough.

"I hope I'm not being impertinent, sir, but did the First Lord specify a particular officer for this - ah, this task?"

"A particular person? I have my orders from him, naturally," Sir Pilcher said, his eyes never moving from the snuffbox, into which he was peering with all the absorption of a fortuneteller gazing at a crystal ball. Was he being evasive?

"But no particular officer was named...?"

"His orders to me cover the point."

As soon as he saw Sir Pilcher was not taking the bait, Ramage found himself losing both patience and interest. Sir Pilcher's reasons for choosing him were still far from clear and Ramage was damned if he was going to get mixed up in the old man's chicanery. Now's the time to withdraw gracefully, he told himself.

"Well, sir, since you've been kind enough to give me the option of - well, travelling home as a private individual instead of ... ah, receiving fresh orders..." He patted the letter in his pocket as if overcome with nervousness.

It took Sir Pilcher two or three seconds to realize that Ramage was declining. Instead of glaring at him, the Admiral's eyes flickered up for a moment and then resumed their watch on the open snuffbox, as though a solution would crawl out of the brown powder and nestle in the palm of his hand if only he waited long enough.

"Great pity, Ramage, a great pity. You've thrown away a splendid opportunity to distinguish yourself."

"May I ask, sir-"

"Damnation, boy, you're turning it down, aren't you?" Sir Pilcher interrupted angrily, finally snapping the snuffbox shut without using it. "Do you expect me to let you read the First Lord's orders to me?"

Since he had nothing to lose, Ramage could not resist saying, "If you would be so kind, sir."

The Admiral's eyes swung round and focused on Ramage in shocked surprise, his face blotching and his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy breasting a flood tide. Suddenly he took a deep breath and abruptly stood up, waddling over to his desk. Assuming he had been dismissed, Ramage had grasped the arms of his chair to get up when he saw the Admiral open a drawer and take out some papers. He turned and came back, handing them to Ramage.

"Second page," he growled as he sat down heavily. "Third paragraph. Read from there, and be quick about it."

Ramage hurriedly skimmed the words, half expecting the Admiral to change his mind and snatch the letter back.

"... losses of packets became so heavy..." Lord Spencer had written. "... Cabinet ordered a new investigation at Falmouth ... but the Inspector of Packets appears a stupid man ... his report reached no conclusions and is useless ... Lord Auckland has sent all details of the losses on the Lisbon and West Indies routes to the Deputy Postmaster-General at Jamaica ...

"... I have no need to impress upon you the seriousness and urgency of the situation ... Cabinet has instructed the Admiralty to investigate and halt the losses ... I must entrust this to an energetic, young officer with an alert and questioning mind who is unafraid of taking risks or responsibility ... urge upon you to give him the widest latitude and suitable cooperation ... My choice would be Lieutenant Ramage of the Triton brig, who will by now have arrived at Jamaica with Rear-Admiral Goddard's convoy ... He has an unfortunate penchant for acting on his own initiative ... but in no way do I insist if your choice of an officer differs from mine ... In London we find the circumstances of the losses so puzzling, I can give you no guidance of how the investigation should be carried out... But it must succeed..."

Sir Pilcher's hand was outstretched and Ramage gave him back the letter. While the Admiral folded the pages along their original creases he said crossly, almost pettishly, "It so happens that my choice does differ from his Lordship's."