“You are making a thorough job of those seams, I hope, Mr. Clout,” he said.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Clout.
They had an old sail spread out to sit on, for the purpose of saving the spotless deck from the warm pitch in the iron pot beside them.
“Five seconds to the foot, this quick match burns, sir. You said one foot of slow match, sir?”
“I did.”
Hornblower bent to look at the work. The leather hose was in irregular lengths, from three to five feet; it was typical of the cross-grained ways of nature that animals could not provide longer pieces of leather than that. One of the gunner’s mates was at work with a slender wooden bodkin, dragging the end of a vast length of quick match through a section of hose. When the bodkin emerged he proceeded to slip the hose along the quick match until it joined the preceding section.
“Easy with that, now,” said Clout. “We don’t want a break in that match.”
The other gunner’s mate set to work with needle and palm to sew and double sew the new length to its neighbour. The joint completed, Clout proceeded to apply warm pitch liberally over the joint and down the seam of the new section. Eventually there would be a hundred and twenty feet of hose joined and pitched and with quick match threaded all the way through it.
“I’ve picked a couple of sound kegs, sir,” said Clout. “Fifty-pound kegs, they are. I have bags of dry sand to fill ’em up.”
“Very well,” said Hornblower.
Thirty pounds of powder was what McCullum wanted for his explosive charge, no more and no less.
“I don’t want to shatter the wreck to pieces,” McCullum had said. “I only want to split her open.”
That was a part of McCullum’s special knowledge; Hornblower could not possibly have guessed how much powder, at a depth of a hundred feet, would achieve this result. In a long nine-pounder, he knew, three pounds of powder would throw the shot a mile and a half, random shooting, but this was something entirely different, and in the incompressible medium of water, too. With a fifty-pound keg and only thirty pounds of powder it was necessary to have some indifferent substance like sand to fill the keg full.
“Send me word the moment you are ready,” said Hornblower, and turned back aft again.
Here was Turner, newly come from the shore, hovering about to attract his attention.
“Well, Mr. Turner?”
Turner kept his distance, his manner indicating that he had something very private to say. He spoke in a low voice when Hornblower walked over to him.
“Please, sir, it’s the Mudir. He wants to visit you. I can’t make him out, but there’s something he wants.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said—I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t know what else to do—I said you’d be delighted. There’s something fishy, I think. He said he’d come at once.”
“He did, did he?”
Things were bound to be fishy in these troubled waters, thought Hornblower, with a simultaneous disapproval of the style of that sentiment.
“Midshipman of the watch!”
“Sir!”
“What do you see over towards the town?”
Smiley trained his glass across the Bay.
“Boat putting out, sir. She’s the same lateen we saw before.”
“Any flag?”
“Yes, sir. Red. Turkish colours, it looks like.”
“Very well. Mr. Jones, we’re going to have an official visitor. You may pipe the side for him.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Now, Mr. Turner, you don’t know what the Mudir wants?”
“No, sir. He wanted to see you, urgently, it seems like. ‘Il capitano’ was all he’d say when we landed—the market was supposed to be ready for us, but it wasn’t. What he wanted was to see the Captain, and so I said you’d see him.”
“He gave no hint?”
“No, sir. He wouldn’t say. But he was agitated, I could see.”
“Well, we’ll know soon enough,” said Hornblower.
The Mudir mounted to the deck with a certain dignity, despite the difficulties the awkward ascent presented to his old legs. He looked keenly about him as he came on board; whether or not he understood the compliment that was being paid him by the bosn’s mates and the sideboys could not be determined. There was a keen hawk-like face above the white beard, and a pair of lively dark eyes took in the scene about him without revealing whether it was a familiar one or not. Hornblower touched his hat and the Mudir replied with a graceful gesture of his hand to his face.
“Ask him if he will come below,” said Hornblower. “I’ll lead the way”
Down in the cabin Hornblower offered a chair, with a bow, and the Mudir seated himself. Hornblower sat opposite him with Turner at his side. The Mudir spoke and Turner translated.
“He hopes God has given you the gift of health, sir,” said Turner.
“Make the correct reply,” said Hornblower.
As he spoke he met the glance of the sharp brown eyes and smiled politely.
“Now he’s asking you if you have had a prosperous voyage, sir,” reported Turner.
“Say whatever you think fit,” answered Hornblower.
The conversation proceeded from one formal politeness to another. This was the way of the Levant, Hornblower knew. It could be neither dignified nor tactful to announce one’s business in one’s opening sentences.
“Should we offer him a drink?” asked Hornblower.
“Well, sir, it’s usual over business to offer coffee.”
“Then don’t you think we’d better?”
“You see, sir, it’s the coffee—it’ll be different from what he calls coffee.”
“We can hardly help that. Give the order, if you please.”
The conversation continued, still without reaching any point. It was interesting to note how an intelligent and mobile face like the Mudir’s could give no hint at all of any emotion behind it. But the coffee brought about a change. The sharp eyes took in the thick mugs, the battered pewter coffee pot, while the face remained impassive, and while the Mudir was going through the ceremony of polite refusal and then grateful acceptance; but the tasting of the coffee effected a transformation. Willy nilly, the Mudir could not prevent an expression of surprise, even though he instantly brought his features under control again. He proceeded to sweeten his coffee to a syrup with sugar, and he did not touch the cup, but raised it to his lips by means of the saucer.
“There ought to be little cakes and sweetmeats, too, sir,” said Turner. “But we couldn’t offer him blackstrap and biscuit.”
“I suppose not,” said Hornblower.
The Mudir sipped cautiously at his coffee again, and resumed his speech.
“He says you have a very fine ship, sir,” said Turner. “I think he is coming to the point soon.”
“Thank him and tell him what a wonderful village he has, if you think that’s the right thing,” said Hornblower.
The Mudir sat back in his chair—it was plain that he was not accustomed to chairs—studying first Hornblower’s face and then Turner’s. Then he spoke again; his voice was well modulated, well controlled.
“He’s asking if Atropos is going to stay long, sir,” said Turner.
It was the question Hornblower was expecting.
“Say that I have not completed my stores yet,” he said.
He was quite sure that the preliminary operations of salvage, sweeping for the wreck, buoying it, and sending down the divers, had escaped observation, or at least would be quite unintelligible from the shore. He did not take his eyes from the Mudir’s face as Turner translated and the Mudir replied.
“He says he presumes you will be leaving as soon as you’ve done that,” said Turner.
“Tell him it’s likely.”
“He says this would be a good place to wait for information about French ships, sir. The fishing boats often come in with news.”
“Tell him I have my orders.”
> The suspicion began to form in Hornblower’s mind that the Mudir did not want Atropos to leave. Perhaps he wanted to keep him here until an ambush could be laid, until the guns at the fort could be manned, until the Vali returned with the local army. This was a good way to carry on a diplomatic conversation. He could watch the Mudir all the time, while any unguarded statement of Turner’s could be disavowed on the grounds of poor translation if no other way.
“We can keep an eye on the Rhodes Channel from here, sir, he says,” went on Turner. “It’s the most likely course for any Frenchy. It looks as if he wants to get his twenty guineas, sir.”
“Maybe so,” said Hornblower, trying to convey by his tone that he saw no need for Turner to contribute to the conversation. “Say that my orders give me very little discretion.”
With the conversation taking this turn it was obvious that the best tactics would be to display a reluctance that might with great difficulty be overcome. Hornblower hoped that Turner’s command of lingua franca was equal to this demand upon it.
The Mudir replied with more animation than he had previously shown; it was as if he were about to show his hand.
“He wants us to stay here, sir,” said Turner. “If we do there’ll be much better supplies coming in from the country.”
That was not his real reason, obviously.
“No,” said Hornblower. “If we can’t get the supplies we’ll go without them.”
Hornblower was having to be careful about the expression on his face; he had to say these things to Turner as if he really meant them—the Mudir was not letting anything escape his notice.
“Now he’s coming out in the open, sir,” said Turner. “He’s asking us to stay.”
“Then ask him why he wants us to.”
This time the Mudir spoke for a long time.
“So that’s it, sir,” reported Turner. “Now we know. There are pirates about.”
“Tell me exactly what he said, if you please, Mr. Turner.”
“There are pirates along the coast, sir,” explained Turner, accepting the rebuke. “A fellow called Michael—Michael the—the Slayer of Turks, sir. I’ve heard of him. He raids these coasts. A Greek, of course. He was at Fettech two days back. That’s just along the coast, sir.”
“And the Mudir’s afraid this’ll be the next place he raids?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll ask him so as to make sure, sir,” added Turner, when Hornblower glanced at him.
The Mudir was quite eloquent now that he had taken the plunge. Turner had to listen for a long time before he could resume his translation.
“Michael burns the houses, sir, and takes the women and cattle. He’s the sworn enemy of the Mohammedans. That’s where the Vali is with the local army, sir. He went to head off Michael, but he guessed wrong. He went to Adalia, and that’s a week’s march away, sir.”
“I see.”
With Atropos lying in Marmorice Bay a pirate would never venture in, and the Mudir and his people were safe as long as she stayed there. The purpose of the Mudir’s visit was plain; he wanted to persuade Hornblower to stay until this Michael was at a safe distance again. It was a remarkable piece of good fortune; it was, thought Hornblower, ample compensation for the freak of fate which had left McCullum wounded in a duel. In the same way that in a long enough session the whist player found that the luck evened itself out, so it was with war. Good luck followed bad—and for Hornblower that was an astonishing admission, although he was ready enough to admit that bad luck followed good. But he must on no account show any pleasure.
“It’s a stroke of luck for us, sir,” said Turner.
“Please keep your conclusions to yourself, Mr. Turner,” said Hornblower bitingly.
The tone of his voice and Turner’s crestfallen expression puzzled the Mudir, who had not ceased to watch them closely. But he waited patiently for the unbelievers to make the next move.
“No,” said Hornblower decisively, “tell him I can’t do it.”
At Hornblower’s shake of the head the Mudir actually showed a little dismay even before Turner translated. He stroked his white beard and spoke again, choosing his words carefully.
“He’s offering to bribe us, sir,” said Turner. “Five lambs or kids for every day we stay here.”
“That’s better,” said Hornblower. “Tell him I’d rather have money.”
It was the Mudir’s turn to shake his head when he heard what Turner had to say. He looked, to Hornblower’s searching eye, like a man quite sincere.
“He says there isn’t any money, sir. The Vali took all there was when he was here last.”
“He has our twenty guineas, anyway. Tell him I want them back, and six lambs a day—no kids—and I’ll stay.”
That was how it was decided in the end. With Turner escorting the Mudir back in the launch Hornblower went forward to inspect the gunner’s work. It was nearly completed. A hundred odd feet of hose, carefully coiled, lay on the deck, and one end disappeared into a powder keg covered over with canvas which the gunner was smearing thickly with pitch. Hornblower stooped to examine what must be the weakest point, where the canvas cover of the keg was sewn round the hose.
“That’s as good as I can make it, sir,” said the gunner. “But it’s a mighty long length of hose.”
At a hundred feet below water the pressures were enormous. A minute, indetectable pinprick anywhere in the fabric and water would be forced in.
“We can try it,” said Hornblower. “The sooner the better.”
That was how it always was—“the sooner the better” might be found written on a naval officer’s heart like Queen Mary’s Calais. Man the gig, see that all necessary equipment was packed into it, herd the divers into the bows after their last-minute instructions from McCullum, and start off without a minute wasted. Drink coffee with a Turkish Mudir at one hour, and dabble in underwater explosives the next. If variety was the spice of life, thought Hornblower, his present existence must be an Oriental curry.
“Easy!” he ordered, and the gig drifted slowly up to the moored plank which marked the accessible point of the wreck underneath.
Looney knew his business. The canvas-covered powder keg lay beside him; it was bound with line, and Looney took another short length of line, secured one end to the keg, passed the line round the mooring line of the buoy, and secured the other end to the keg again. He checked to see that the free end of the fuse-hose was properly fastened to the empty keg that was to buoy it up, and then gave a piping order to one of his colleagues, who stood up to take off his clothes. Looney laid hold of the powder keg, but it was too heavy for his spindly arms.
“Help him, you two,” said Hornblower to the two seamen nearest. “See that the line’s clear and see that the hose is clear, too.”
Under Looney’s direction the powder keg was lifted up and lowered over the side.
“Let go! Handsomely! Handsomely!” ordered Hornblower.
It was a tense moment—one more tense moment—to watch the powder keg sink below the choppy surface. By the line attached to it the seamen lowered it slowly down, the fuse-hose uncoiling after it as the keg sank. The loop of line which Looney had passed round the mooring line of the buoy made certain that the keg would sink to the right place.
“Bottom, sir,” said a seaman, as the lowering line went slack in his hands. Several feet of hose remained in the boat.
The diver was sitting on the opposite gunwale; he carried a sheath knife on a string round his naked waist, and he took in his hands the cannon ball that Looney gave him. Then he lowered himself over and vanished under the surface. They waited until he came up; they waited while the next diver went down and came up again, they waited while Looney took his turn too. Dive succeeded dive; apparently it was not too easy an operation to move the powder keg to exactly the right place under the break of the Speedwell’s poop. But presumably, down below the surface, the thing was achieved in the end. Looney came up from what seemed to be an extra long dive; he had to be helped
over the gunwale and he lay gasping in the bows for some time recovering. Then at last he sat up and made to Hornblower the unmistakable gesture of handling flint and steel.
“Strike a light,” said Hornblower to Leadbitter. In all his life he had never properly acquired the knack of it.
Leadbitter opened the tinder box, and struck, and struck again. It did not take Leadbitter more than six times before he succeeded. He bent and blew the spark on the tinder into life, took the piece of slow match and caught the fire on it, blew that into life too, and looked to Hornblower for further orders.
“I’ll do it,” said Hornblower.
Leadbitter handed him the glowing match, and Hornblower sat with it in his hand for a second while he checked once more to see that all was ready. He was tingling with excitement.
“Stand by with the cask!” he said. “Leadbitter, have the stopper ready.”
There were four or five inches of quick match hanging out of the fuse-hose; Hornblower dabbed the glowing match upon it. A second’s hesitation and it took fire. Hornblower watched the spark run along the quick match and vanish down into the hose.
“Stopper it!” said Hornblower, and Leadbitter forced the wooden stopper into the end of the hose, grinding down upon the brittle ashes of the match.
At five seconds to the foot the fire was now, he hoped, travelling down the hose, down, down, far below the level of the sea. At the far end, next to the powder keg, there was a foot of slow match That burned at five minutes to the foot; they had plenty of time—no need for feverish haste, however great the urge to hurry.
“Over with it!” said Hornblower, and Leadbitter picked up the empty cask and lowered it gently into the water. It floated there, holding up above the surface the stoppered end of the fuse-hose.
“Oars!” said Hornblower. “Give way!”
The gig swung away from the floating keg. The spark was still travelling along the quick match, Hornblower presumed; it would be some seconds yet before it even reached the slow match down there by the wreck of the Speedwell. He remembered to take the time by his watch.
“Take her back to the ship,” he ordered Leadbitter; he looked back to where the empty cask bobbed on the surface.