Ramage’s Prize r-5

by Dudley Pope

  "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 is it 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 forty-five 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 thirty-five days to reach England."

  Smith nodded. "That is so," he said patronizingly.

  Ramage flicked some 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 Luci
a 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?"

  "Well, the passengers are always embarked by now, of course, and the agent has had the mails brought on board. Then he musters the ship's company, gives the commander any last-minute instructions, and bids them a safe voyage. Oh yes, he also checks the trim of the packet, to make sure the mails have been properly stowed, so the ship isn't down by the bow or stern - that sort of thing."

  "And then the packet sails for Barbados - whatever the weather?"

  "She sails at once, as long as she can carry a reefed topsail. You can get out of Falmouth in anything but a south-easterly gale - but you know that well enough."

  Ramage nodded: obviously that was why the Post Office had chosen Falmouth in the first place. "And then what happens to that letter?"

  "Well, it gets carried to Barbados first. The packet then calls at two or three of the Windward and Leeward Islands delivering and collecting mail - Antigua would probably be the last - and then comes across the Caribbean direct to Jamaica."

  "Where that letter comes under your care."

  "Yes, indeed," Smith said grimly. "I meet the packet with the Customs Officers and the doctor, take off the bags of inward mail, and bring them here, where they are sorted again and delivered."

  "What happens to the packet and the crew?"

  "The commander provisions the ship, the men are allowed a few hours on shore - they all have Protections, of course, so they don't have to worry about press gangs - and then the packet is ready to sail again, when the fresh mails are loaded."

  "Now," Ramage said slowly, "imagine the brother here is replying to the merchant in London."

  "Well, it's much the same story in reverse, really, except that when the packet sails from here, she doesn't go back across the Caribbean: she goes out to the north-east, touching only at Cape Nicolas Mole on her way through the Windward Passage into the Atlantic and then direct to England."

  "Why the different route?"

  "Well, she has already delivered all the inward and picked up the outward mail at the other islands on her way to Jamaica."

  "So apart from touching at the western end of Hispaniola, Jamaica is the last port of call before England?"

  Smith nodded.

  "And your searcher," Ramage asked. "Is he as diligent as the one at Falmouth?"

  "No more and no less."

  Ramage nodded in turn. "These ventures - do the officers...?"

  "I hope you're not asking me officially. As Deputy Postmaster-General, I have no knowledge of any ventures in any packet. Between you and me, I think the officers also regard themselves as badly paid, and the little profit they might make - well, it balances the books without costing Lombard Street anything."

  "I'd like to ask a question addressed to you, not the Deputy Postmaster-General," Ramage said. "Do you have any suspicion at all of what might be going on?"

  "None," Smith said emphatically. "If I had, I'd tell you. I've thought of every possibility - from spies in the Department to passengers seizing the ships..."

  "Treason?"

  "Out of the question. The commanders and crews are eventually exchanged, and Lombard Street would soon hear. Anyway, the commanders own the ships. They have everything to lose."

  "And when they are exchanged and get back to England, nothing they report has given Lombard Street any hint?"

  "Nothing. The story is always the same: my last communication from Lord Auckland" - he patted the pile of papers -"makes the point again: each packet was overtaken by a privateer and attacked and forced to surrender after sinking the mails."

  Ah, thought Ramage, so we do know for certain that it is privateers...

  "Casualties must be quite heavy."

  "No, I'm thankful to say they aren't. The commanders have orders to run, not linger and fight: that's a long-standing policy established by Lombard Street: the packets rely on their superior speed."

  "Hardly superior, surely, if so many are captured?"

  Again Smith shrugged his shoulders. "I am merely telling you the Post Office's policy, Lieutenant. The West India merchants, for example, think otherwise: they want the packets more heavily armed, so they can fight back."

  "But Lombard Street doesn't agree."

  "No. They prefer the policy of a speedy escape."

  I wonder, Ramage thought, how many packets have to be lost before Lombard Street admits its policy is wrong? He asked, "Who specifies the size and type of ship? I've noticed most of them are similar."

  "They were of diffe
rent designs before the war: whatever the contractors - which usually meant the commanders - wanted. Then Lombard Street specified that they should be the same design - 179 tons burthen, with a ship's company of twenty-eight men and boys, and armed with four 4-pounders and two 9-pounder stern chasers. And small arms, of course."

  "Not much against a privateer."

  "No, but remember that the instructions to the commanders are, in effect, 'Run when you can; fight when you can no longer run; and when you can fight no longer, sink the mails before you strike.'"

  "Tell me, Mr Smith, since the 'run when you can' policy has obviously failed, why hasn't the Post Office tried larger and more heavily armed ships?"

  "The Post Office doesn't want to be a party to privateering!" Smith said, smiling. "Early in the war there was some trouble because a few of the packet commanders were not above going after a prize themselves - and Lombard Street couldn't allow such risks with the mails."

  "One last question," Ramage said. "When is the next packet due?"

  "Using the forty-five-day passage rule, she was due here yesterday. If she hasn't been taken I'd expect to see her at the latest within the next seven days. But I'm not hopeful; in fact I'm refusing to accept mail or passengers for her."

  Ramage stood up and thanked Smith. He had the curious feeling that there was a clue in all the information he'd been given, but discerning it was like trying to recall details of a half-remembered dream.

  Chapter Four

  That evening Ramage sat out on the terrace of the Royal Albion Hotel with Yorke, comfortably sleepy after a good dinner and, like most people in Kingston at that time, waiting for the offshore breeze to set in for the night and give the first relief from the sweltering heat they had endured all day. The palm trees were alive with the buzz of tiny frogs and mosquitoes whined; moths of all colours and sizes battered themselves against the glass of the lamps.

  "You don't feel like changing your mind about the Governor's Ball?" Yorke asked. "There's still time..."

  "It's too hot," Ramage said drowsily. "If it's anything like last night, the offshore breeze won't set in at all. That damned ballroom turns into an oven even with half a gale blowing through it. Anyway, I've had my share of trying to make conversation with planters' dumpy daughters."