Free Ramage's Prize by Dudley Pope

forced to surrender after sinking the mails.”
    Ah, thought Ramage, so we do know for certain that it is privateers …
    â€œCasualties must be quite heavy.”
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œHardly 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.”
    â€œBut Lombard Street doesn’t agree.”
    â€œNo. 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.”
    â€œThey were of different 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 28 men and boys, and armed with four 4-pounders, and two 9-pounder stern-chasers. And small arms, of course.”
    â€œNot much against a privateer.”
    â€œNo, 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.’”
    â€œTell 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?”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œOne last question,” Ramage said. “When is the next packet due?”
    â€œUsing the 45-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
    T HAT 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 palms 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.
    â€œYou don’t feel like changing your mind about the Governor’s Ball?” Yorke asked. “There’s still time …”
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œCome now, don’t blame the poor girls; the moment their mothers heard that Lieutenant Lord Ramage had arrived in Jamaica they knew the season’s most eligible bachelor was within their grasp: tall, dark and handsome, two romantic scars won in battle, wealthy and the heir to an earldom … what more could a mother—let alone a