by Dudley Pope
There were dark rings under the lad’s eyes: late nights, heavy drinking, wenching … Sir Pilcher’s young lieutenants never seem to have done much fighting: those two scars over his right eyebrow—slipped with a glass of wine in his hand no doubt, or fell out of some trollop’s bed: they aren’t deep enough to be wounds.
Yet, Smith admitted to himself, the youth’s eyes were intelligent enough: brown, deep-set and almost frightening. He was handsome, too, if you liked that thin-faced aristocratic type: high cheekbones and a hard, firm chin.
The lad was looking at him, and Smith found himself feeling uncomfortable, as if he had been thinking aloud. A curious power seemed to surround the Lieutenant, as though his body was merely the covering for a powerful spring. Smith found it hard to understand why a lad like this was content to hang around as one of the Admiral’s lackeys.
“Forgive me, Lieutenant,” Smith said finally, “I was preoccupied. All this is a great worry to me.”
“To everyone,” Ramage said politely. “Would you care to … ?”
“Yes, of course. Now, what do you want to know?”
Ramage shrugged his shoulders.
“Everything! How the Packet Service is organized … How frequently the packets sail … The routine for loading mails … How long the voyage usually takes … Who actually employs the commanders … Does the Post Office own the ships …”
Smith threw up his hands. “But what’s all that got to do with Sir Pilcher finding out how and why the packets are being captured?” He was conscious of Ramage’s eyes boring into his brain.
“Then tell me, Mr Smith,” he said gently, “where do you think I should start finding out ‘how and why’?”
“Well, my dear fellow, that’s your affair!” Really, these young men had precious little sense of responsibility!
“Suppose it was your job, Mr Smith. Where would you start making your inquiries?” Ramage persisted, taking a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolding it. “For example, the distances involved are quite considerable. Roughly 4,200 miles from Falmouth to Barbados, 300 up to Antigua, and another 900 on to Jamaica. From Jamaica back to Falmouth—well, let’s take it from the Windward Passage. That’s about 3,750 miles, depending on the wind.”
Smith tapped the table impatiently. “I’m quite aware of the distances across the Atlantic Ocean, Lieutenant.”
“Ah, but are we really concerned with distances, Mr Smith?” Ramage’s voice was bantering now, and Smith wondered hurriedly why there had been such emphasis on the word. “We are trying to find something in the Atlantic Ocean, Mr Smith, so aren’t we really concerned with areas?”
When the Postmaster nodded warily, Ramage said: “I hope you’ll take my word for it that, because of the uncertain direction of the wind, a packet could sail some 250 miles either side of the regular route. In other words a packet on its way from Falmouth to Barbados could be lost in a rectangle measuring 4,200 miles by 500 miles. That”—he glanced at the paper—”is an area of more than two million square miles.”
Smith said nothing.
“We’ll ignore the leg from Barbados to Antigua, and say that for the 900 miles from Antigua to Jamaica the packet could be 25 miles either side of the direct course,” Ramage continued. “A rectangle 900 miles by fifty comprises 45,000 square miles.”
Smith was now jotting down the figures, and Ramage paused for a moment. When he saw the Postmaster had stopped writing he said: “Now for the voyage home from Jamaica. It’s roughly 3,750 miles from the Windward Passage to Falmouth, and allowing the 250 miles either side of the direct route gives us nearly two million square miles. For the round voyage, Falmouth, Barbados, Antigua, Jamaica and back to Falmouth, we get”—he glanced at the paper again—”a total of more than four million square miles. Four million and twenty thousand, to be exact,” he added: Smith was a man who would like exact figures. He waited while Smith wrote them down.
“Now, in good conditions a lookout at sea might sight a ship at ten miles—it’d be unlikely, but I’ll be generous with the figures. That means he is looking from the centre of a circle twenty miles in diameter and scanning an area of about 300 square miles. Since a packet can be lost anywhere in more than four million square miles of ocean, I admit it’s only of academic interest to divide it by the 300 covered by the lookout, but—I’m using the precise figures now—the answer is 13,400. Tell me, Mr Smith,” Ramage said quietly, “where would you start your investigation?”
Smith smiled amiably, already regretting his sharp tongue. The lad was right, and he was prepared to admit it. “I’d start right here, Lieutenant, sitting in that very chair and asking me questions!”
As if to emphasize his change of heart he removed three paperweights and put the “Outward packets—Lost” and “Inward packets—lost” piles of paper in front of him, with “Auckland” on top. Tapping them, he said: “All that’s known about the losses is written here.”
“Yes,” Ramage said gently, “but first I want to know how the Packet Service functions.”
The question still puzzled Smith: his whole life had been so wrapped up in the Service he could neither credit that there could be people who knew nothing about it nor really know how to begin describing it.
“The packets,” Ramage prompted. “How long does the average passage take?”
“Forty-five days out to Jamaica, via Barbados, and 35 days back, sailing direct.”
“Who actually owns the ships?”
“They’re owned individually, usually by the commanders—by the commanders and their business associates, in some cases.”
“And the Post Office charters them?”
“Yes, Lombard Street hires the ships.”
“And the crews?”
“They are employed and paid by the Post Office: the commander and the entire ship’s company.”
“Even if the commander owns the ship?”
“Yes, he’s paid a monthly wage as well as the charter fee.”
“Who stands to lose if a packet is captured? Or pays for repairs if she’s damaged in action?”
“The Post Office pays. Of course, the conditions are all set down in the original charter agreement, but in effect the Post Office carries the insurance.”
“How many packets serve the West Indies?”
“Normally there are sixteen—that’s the number needed to maintain a regular fortnightly service.”
“And the losses in the whole war so far?”
“Thirty-two. Not all of them bound to or from the West Indies, of course. Twelve were lost in the first four years of the war. After that there was a lull, although towards the end of ‘97 three more were lost in a month. Then losses were irregular—until this year. We’ve lost nine so far, all West Indies packets.”
“Where do the replacement packets come from?”
“Several new packets are building to Post Office specifications,” Smith said, “but we are having to hire temporary vessels to make sure we have ten available.”
“This year’s losses—you have details?”
Smith sorted through his pile of papers and extracted one sheet.
“Here’s the list.”
Ramage saw that the Princess Royal had been lost in February from the Leeward Islands, the Cartaret from Jamaica homeward-bound in March, the Matilda also in March from Falmouth for the West Indies, three more in May, all homeward-bound from Jamaica, and two outward and one homeward-bound in June.
“You don’t have the actual positions where they were captured?”
Smith shook his head. “The only information sent to me is given there.”
“Out of nine, five were homeward-bound from Jamaica,” Ramage said, slowly scanning the neat writing, “one homeward-bound from the Leeward Islands, and only three outward-bound from Falmouth …”
“That is correct,” Smith said.
“Seems strange,” Ramage mused, reading the list again.
“What does?”
“So many lost on
the way back.”
Smith shrugged his shoulders. “Easier to catch ‘em going back—that’s obvious!” Really, he thought, the youngster looks sharp enough but he doesn’t seem to know much about the way these damned French privateers lurk around the islands!
“Why easier?” Ramage asked, his voice disarmingly innocent.
“Well,” Smith said pompously, “far be it from me … But obviously the privateers just hang around the Windward Passage! Probably waiting in the southern Bahamas.”
Ramage folded the list and tapped the table with it. Quite reasonably, Smith was assuming the losses were due to privateers, yet assumptions at this stage were dangerous. “But they don’t know the date a packet is likely to sail from here, do they?”
“Of course not! I hardly know myself until the last moment. It all depends when one arrives.”
“So if they wanted to be sure of catching the Falmouth-bound packets, privateers would have to patrol all the obvious places all the time?”
“Obviously,” Smith said, with something approaching contempt in his voice. He’s recovering from the effect of those millions of square miles, Ramage noted wryly.
“But surely the mails bound for Jamaica would be more valuable? Anyway, no less valuable.”
Smith shrugged his shoulders, the young fellow seemed to be asking questions just for the sake of it.
“The Jamaica packets,” Ramage said. “They all come here from the Leeward Islands after calling at Barbados and Antigua. None comes direct from Falmouth?”
Smith nodded.
“So in effect we can picture two highways,” Ramage said, running a finger along the table-top. “One goes from Falmouth across the Atlantic to Barbados, up to Antigua, and then right across the Caribbean to Jamaica, and the Jamaica packet sails along that, delivering and collecting mail at the various islands until she arrives here in Kingston about 45 days after leaving Falmouth. The other runs north-east from Jamaica up through the Windward Passage between Cuba and Hispaniola and out into the Atlantic and back to Falmouth and is used by the homeward-bound packets which take about 35 days to reach England.”
Smith nodded. “That is so,” he said patronizingly.
Ramage flicked specks of dust off the hat resting on his lap.
“But I still don’t understand why privateers would concentrate on the homeward-bound packets,” he said almost absent-mindedly. “It would be so much easier to capture them between here and Antigua …”
“Nonsense!” Smith snapped. “It’s hundreds of miles from here to Antigua. The Windward Passage is almost in sight of Jamaica.”
“Ah,” Ramage said dreamily, “but the poor privateersmen would starve if they relied on capturing only homeward-bound Post Office packets …”
“But they don’t!” Smith protested. “There are plenty of small merchantmen and local schooners and droghers—they’re being captured all the time.”
Ramage shook his head. “No, they’re not; that’s what is so puzzling.”
“What? Don’t argue with me! Ask Sir Pilcher—the privateers snatch up almost anything that isn’t in convoy,” Smith said angrily, lifting up and putting down the smooth pebbles he used as paperweights.
“There’s nothing for me to argue with you about, Mr Smith,” Ramage said calmly. “Let’s take it, point by point and you’ll see what I mean. I’m sure we agree that at this moment there are probably dozens of small ships sailing alone between here and, say, the Leeward Islands?”
When Smith nodded impatiently, Ramage continued: “So if you commanded a French privateer you’d reckon to capture a few on that route? Of course,” he said when Smith nodded again. “But you agree that, in contrast, the only ships that go up through the Windward Passage into the Atlantic are in heavily escorted convoys—which privateers rarely dare tackle—or homeward-bound Post Office packets?”
“My dear fellow, that’s elementary; everyone knows that!”
“But that’s why I’m so puzzled, Mr Smith. Why should privateers hang around the Windward Passage—where they risk running into one of Sir Pilcher’s frigates—knowing the only prize they are likely to find is an occasional homeward-bound Post Office packet? Why not cruise between Jamaica and the Leeward Islands where—as you’ve just pointed out—there are always plenty of coasting vessels, as well as the occasional Jamaica-bound packet?”
When Smith said nothing, Ramage continued: “A French privateer captain gets rich by capturing coasting vessels laden with cargo which he can sell. With all due respect to the Post Office, a packet is a poor prize—a privateersman isn’t interested in mail, which I presume a commander would in any case throw over the side before capture. All the privateersman gets is another ship whose only value is her speed, not her cargo or her carrying capacity. He’d find it hard to sell such a ship here in the Caribbean, so if he can’t get enough men to fit her out as another privateer, a packet is hardly worth the bother of capture. Certainly not worth the bother of waiting, possibly for weeks, somewhere out there beyond the Windward Passage.”
Ramage was now examining the inside of his hat, as though speculating whether he needed a new one, but in fact giving the Postmaster time to absorb what he had been told. Smith was staring at his pile of papers, his hands pressed flat on the table. He looked, Ramage thought sympathetically, like a doting husband unexpectedly confronted with evidence of his wife’s unfaithfulness.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Smith whispered. “It must be a coincidence—yes, that’s what it is, Lieutenant, it’s a coincidence. You wait, the next packet they capture will be inward-bound; you’ll see, she’ll be taken between Antigua and here.”
“Perhaps,” Ramage said briskly, “but we can’t afford to wait to find out. And the odds are against it, Mr Smith. Your own figures show that.”
“Aye, they do,” Smith admitted reluctantly. “I’d noticed the high homeward-bound losses, naturally, but I never thought about the privateers’ motives … You’re sure of all that? What does Sir Pilcher think?”
“I don’t know what Sir Pilcher thinks, but if I commanded a French privateer, I’d cruise between here and Antigua.”
“Ah, that’s what you might think, young man,” Smith said, as if suddenly he had found a flaw in Ramage’s reasoning that allowed him to reject the whole argument. “But if you’d ever commanded a ship you’d think differently.”
“I’ve commanded a ship for more than two years,” Ramage said quietly. “A few months ago I captured a couple of privateers off St Lucia and, more recently, a large privateer that made a night attack on the last convoy that came in …”
Smith looked up sharply. “My apologies,” he said. “I’ve heard all about that last one—I didn’t realize you were … Is that why Sir Pilcher … ?”
Ramage shrugged his shoulders and grinned, knowing that at last Smith would trust his judgement. “The nearest he can get to turning a poacher into a gamekeeper? I don’t know, but,” he added, choosing his words carefully, “since you and I are the only people who’ve commented on this odd pattern of losses, it might be an idea if we kept it to ourselves for the time being.”
Smith, flattered at being given such unexpected credit, although still far from sure of the significance of the pattern, gave a broad wink.
“Now,” Ramage said, “you were saying that the Post Office employs and pays the crews of the packets. Do you happen to know how the French treat the men when a packet is captured? Are they dealt with in the same way as Royal Navy men?”
“No, the French have been very fair. They usually exchange them within six weeks or so—a commander was telling me only a few months ago that he was back in England within eight weeks of being captured. Now the poor fellow’s a prisoner again.”
Ramage nodded sympathetically. Six weeks … the prisoners must have been taken direct to France; there would not be time to get them to Europe from the Caribbean. Was that significant? Or was Smith referring to isolated cases?
“Now, Mr Smith, imagine
a letter written by—well, a London merchant to his brother here in Kingston. What happens to it between London and here?”
Smith sat back in his chair and relaxed: he was on familiar ground now, and beginning to understand why Ramage found the background as important as the foreground.
“Well, it’d probably be posted in Lombard Street, right in the City of London. It’d be sorted into the Jamaica bag. The bag—when it was full, or was due to catch a particular mail, since one sails every two weeks—would be sealed. Then it would be taken by coach to Falmouth.”
“And then?”
“There it would be handed over to the Post Office agent, who is in charge of all the Falmouth packets. There’d be many bags for the West Indies—at least half a dozen for each particular island. In the meantime the packet would be ready on its mooring, fully provisioned and with the commander and crew on board. The agent would see the mails loaded and properly stowed.”
“And then the packet would sail?”
“Well, before she actually sailed the searcher would go on board.”
“Searching for what?”
“In case any seaman is carrying his own private cargo!”
“Of what?”
“Well, you know seamen. They try to bring out a few small items. They call ‘em their ventures: leather goods, like boots and shoes, small bales of cloth for women’s dresses—oh yes, and cheeses: they get a good price for cheeses!”
“Since you say they get a good price, Mr Smith, what does the searcher actually do? Just confirm that the men have their ventures?”
“My goodness no! His job is to stop them carrying anything!”
“But he’s not always successful?”
“I don’t think he’s too strict: the men have been carrying ventures for so many years that it’s become a tradition. The profit supplements their pay.”
“But it’s forbidden?”
“Oh yes—by a statute of Charles II, as a matter of fact.”
Ramage stopped himself commenting that for the sake of discipline a regulation that was not enforced ought to be rescinded, and asked, “After the searcher has left, then what?”
