“You will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner, Captain?” asked Collingwood.
“I should be honoured, my lord.”
It was gratifying to bring that phrase out pat like that, with hardly more than the least feeling of embarrassment.
“That is excellent. You will be able to tell me all the gossip of home. I fear there will be no other opportunity for some time, as Atropos will not be staying with the Fleet.”
“Indeed, my lord?”
This was a moment of high excitement, when the future was about to be revealed to him. But of course the excitement must not be allowed to appear; only the guarded interest of a selfcontained captain ready for anything.
“I fear so—not that you young captains with your saucy little ships want to stay tied to a fleet’s apron strings.”
Collingwood was smiling again, but there was something in the words that started a new train of thought in Hornblower’s mind. Of course, Collingwood had watched the advent of the newest recruit to his fleet with a keen eye. Hornblower suddenly realized that if Atropos had been clumsy in taking up station, or dilatory in answering signals, his reception here might not have been so pleasant. He might be standing at attention at this moment submitting with a tightshut mouth to a dressingdown exemplary in its drastic quality. The thought caused a little prickling of gooseflesh at the back of his neck. It reduced his reply to a not very coherent mumble.
“You have this man McCullum and his natives on board?” asked Collingwood.
“Yes, my lord.”
Only a little selfrestraint was necessary to refrain from asking what the mission would be; Collingwood would tell him.
“You are not acquainted with the Levant?”
“No, my lord.”
So it was to be the Levant, among the Turks and the Greeks and the Syrians.
“You soon will be, captain. After taking my dispatches to Malta you will convey Mr. McCullum to Marmorice Bay and assist him in his operations there.”
Marmorice Bay? That was on the coast of Asia Minor. The fleet and transports which had attacked Egypt some years ago had rendezvoused there. It was a far cry from Deptford.
“Aye aye, my lord,” said Hornblower.
“I understand you have no sailing master in Atropos.”
“No, my lord. Two master’s mates.”
“In Malta you will have a sailing master assigned to you. George Turner; he is familiar with Turkish waters and he was with the fleet in Marmorice. He took the bearings when Speedwell sank.”
Speedwell? Hornblower raked back in his memory. She was the transport which had capsized and sunk at her anchors in a sudden gale of wind in Marmorice Bay.
“Yes, my lord.”
“She had on board the military chest of the expeditionary force. I don’t expect you knew that.”
“No, indeed, my lord.”
“A very considerable sum in gold and silver coin for the pay and subsistence of the troops a quarter of a million sterling. She sank in water far deeper than any diver in the service could reach. But as no one knew what our gallant allies the Turks might contrive by way of salvage with infinite leisure it was decided to keep the loss a secret. And for once a secret remained a secret.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Certainly it was not common knowledge that a quarter of a million in coin lay at the bottom of Marmorice Bay.
“So the Government had to send to India for divers who could reach those depths.”
“I see, my lord.”
“Now it will be your duty to go to Marmorice Bay and with the assistance of McCullum and Turner to recover that treasure.”
“Aye aye, my lord.”
No imagination could ever compass the possible range of duties of a naval officer. But it was satisfactory that the words he had just uttered were the only ones a naval officer could say in such circumstances.
“You will have to be careful in your dealings with our friend the Turk. He will be curious about your presence in Marmorice, and when he ascertains the object of your visit he may raise objections. You will have to conduct yourself according to the circumstances of the moment.”
“Aye aye, my lord.”
“You will not find all this in your orders, captain. But you must understand that the Cabinet has no wish for complications with the Turks. Yet at the same time a quarter of a million sterling in cash would be a Godsend to the Government today—or any day. The money is badly needed, but no offense should be offered to the Turks.”
It was necessary to steer clear of Scylla and yet not fall into Charybdis, said Hornblower to himself.
“I think I understand, my lord.”
“Fortunately it is an unfrequented coast. The Turks maintain very small forces, either military or naval, in the locality. That does not mean that you should attempt to carry off matters with a high hand.”
Not in Atropos with eleven popguns a side, thought Hornblower, and then he mentally withdrew the sneer. He understood what Collingwood meant.
“No, my lord.”
“Very well then, captain, thank you.”
The secretary at Collingwood’s elbow had a pile of opened despatches in hand, and was clearly waiting for a break in the conversation to give him an opportunity to intervene, and the flag lieutenant was hovering in the background. Both of them moved in at once.
“Dinner will be in half an hour, my lord,” said the flag lieutenant.
“These are the urgent letters, my lord,” said the secretary.
Hornblower rose to his feet in some embarrassment.
“Perhaps, captain, you would enjoy a turn on the quarterdeck, eh?” asked Collingwood. “Flags here would keep you company, I’m sure.”
When a viceadmiral made suggestions to a captain and a flag lieutenant he did not have to wait long before they were acted upon. But out on the quarterdeck, pacing up and down making polite conversation, Hornblower could have wished that Collingwood had not been so thoughtful as to provide him with company. He had a great deal to think about.
Chapter X
Malta; Ricasoli Point on the one hand and Fort St. Elmo returning the salute on the other, and the Grand Harbour opening up between them; Valetta with its palaces on the promontory; gaily painted small craft everywhere; a fresh northeasterly wind blowing. That wind—the Gregale, the sailing directions called it—did not allow Hornblower any leisure at present for sightseeing. In confined waters a sailing ship before the wind always seemed pigheadedly determined to maintain her speed however much her canvas was reduced, even under bare poles. It called for accurate timing to roundto at the right moment, to take her way off her, to clue up, and drop anchor at the right moment.
Nor would there be any leisure for Hornblower, it appeared, during the few hours that he would be here. He could combine his official calls with his personal delivery of the despatches entrusted to him, which would save a good deal of time, but that saving was immediately eaten up—as the fat kine of Pharaoh’s dream were eaten up by the lean kine—by the demands on his attention, and, just as the lean kine were no fatter after their meal, so he was just as busy even when his planning had saved that much time. It would be quarterday, or as near to it as made no matter, by the time letters from Malta would reach England, so that now he could draw against his pay. Not to any great extent, of course—there were Maria and the children to be considered—but enough to provide himself with a few luxuries in this island where bread was dear and luxuries cheap. Oranges and olives and fresh vegetables—the bumboats were already awaiting permission to come alongside.
McCullum, with his salvage operations in mind, was anxious for an indent to be made for supplies he considered necessary. He wanted a mile of halfinch line and a quarter mile of slow match—a fantastic demand, to Hornblower’s mind, but McCullum knew more about his business than he did, presumably—and five hundred feet of leather “fusehose,” which was something Hornblower had hardly heard of. Hornblower signed the indent wondering vaguely
whether the Navy Office would surcharge him with it, and turned away to face the inevitable fact that every officer in the ship wished to go ashore and was presenting irrefutable reasons to Jones in favour of his so doing. If Atropos had been on fire they could not be more passionately anxious to be out of her.
And here was another complication: a note from His Excellence the Governor. Would Captain Hornblower and one of his officers dine at the Palace this afternoon? It would be impossible to refuse, so no time need be wasted on debate regarding that point—His Excellency was just as anxious as any ordinary mortal to hear the gossip from England and to see a new face—while there was equally no debate regarding which officer he should take with him. His Excellency would never forgive him if he heard who had been on board Atropos and he had not been afforded the opportunity of seating royalty at his table.
“Pass the word for Mr. Prince,” said Hornblower, “and the doctor.”
It would be necessary to have the doctor to interpret to the Prince exactly what was going to happen; the boy had learned a good deal of English during his month on board, but the vocabulary of the gunroom was hardly inclusive enough to permit of discussions of viceregal etiquette. The Prince came in a little breathless, still twitching his uniform into some kind of order; Eisenbeiss was breathing hard too—he had to come the whole length of the ship and through a narrow hatchway.
“Please explain to His Serene Highness,” said Hornblower, “that he is coming ashore with me to dine with the Governor.”
Eisenbeiss spoke in German, and the boy gave his mechanical little bow. The use of German evoked the manners of royalty from under the new veneer of a British midshipman.
“His Serene Highness is to wear his court dress?” asked Eisenbeiss.
“No,” said Hornblower, “his uniform. And if ever I see him again with his shoes as badly brushed as those are I’ll take the cane to him.”
“Sir—” said Eisenbeiss, but words failed him. The thought of the cane being applied to his Prince struck him dumb; fortunately, perhaps.
“So that I am to wear this uniform too, sir?” asked Eisenbeiss.
“I fear you have not been invited, doctor,” said Hornblower.
“But I am First Chamberlain to His Serene Highness, sir,” exploded Eisenbeiss. “This will be a visit of ceremony, and it is a fundamental law of SeitzBunau that I make all presentations.”
Hornblower kept his temper.
“And I represent His Britannic Majesty,” he said.
“Surely His Britannic Majesty cannot wish that his ally should not be treated with the honours due to his royal position? As Secretary of State it is my duty to make an official protest.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower. He put out his hand and bent the Prince’s head forward. “You might be better employed seeing that His Serene Highness washes behind his ears.”
“Sir! Sir!” said Eisenbeiss.
“Be ready and properly dressed in half an hour, if you please, Mr. Prince.”
Dinner at the Palace ran the dreary course it might be expected to take. It was fortunate that, on being received by the Governor’s aide-decamp, Hornblower was able to shuffle on to his shoulders the burden of the difficult decision regarding the presentations—Hornblower could not guess whether His Serene Highness should be presented to His Excellency or vice versa, and he was a little amused to note Her Excellency’s hurried asides when she heard the quality of her second guest; the seating arrangements for dinner needed hasty revision. So Hornblower found himself between two dull women, one of them with red hands and the other with a chronic sniff. He struggled to make polite conversation, and he was careful with his wineglass, contriving merely to sip when the others drank deep.
The Governor drank to His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau, and the Prince, with the most perfect aplomb, drank to His Majesty the King of Great Britain; presumably those were the first words of English he had ever learned, long before he had learned to shout “Vast heaving” or “Come on, you nosailors, you.” When the ladies had withdrawn Hornblower listened to His Excellency’s comments about Bonaparte’s threatening invasion of Southern Italy, and about the chances of preserving Sicily from his clutches; and a decent interval after returning to the drawingroom he caught the Prince’s eye. The Prince smiled back at him and rose to his feet. It was odd to watch him receiving the bows of the men and the curtseys of the ladies with the assurance of ingrained habit. Tomorrow the boy would be in the gunroom mess again—Hornblower wondered whether he was able yet to stand up for his rights there and make sure he received no more than his fair share of gristle when the meat was served.
The gig whisked them across the Grand Harbour from the Governor’s steps to the ship’s side, and Hornblower came on to the quarterdeck with the bos’n’s mates’ pipes to welcome him. He was conscious even before he had taken his hand from his hat brim that there was something wrong. He looked round him at the ship illuminated by the wild sunset the Gregale had brought with it. There was no trouble with the hands, judging by their attitudes as they stood crowded forward. The three Ceylonese divers were there in their accustomed isolation by the knightheads. But the officers grouped aft wore an apprehensive look; Hornblower’s eyes moved from face to face, from Jones to Still, the two lieutenants, to Carslake, the purser, and to Silver, the master’s mate of the watch. It was Jones as senior officer who came forward to report.
“If you please, sir—”
“What is it, Mr. Jones?”
“If you please, sir, there has been a duel.”
No one could ever guess what would be the next burden to be laid on a captain’s shoulders. It might be an outbreak of plague, or the discovery of dry rot in the ship’s timbers. And Jones’s manner implied not merely that there had been a duel, but that someone had been hurt in it.
“Who fought?” demanded Hornblower.
“The doctor and Mr. McCullum, sir.”
Well, somewhere they could pick up another doctor, and if the worst came to the worst they could manage without one at all.
“What happened?”
“Mr. McCullum was shot through the lungs, sir.”
God! That was something entirely different, something of vital importance. A bullet through the lungs meant death almost for certain, and what was he to do with McCullum dead? McCullum had been sent for all the way from India. It would take a year and a half to get someone out from there to replace him. No ordinary men with salvage experience would do—it had to be someone who knew how to use the Ceylonese divers. Hornblower wondered with sick despair whether a man had ever been so plagued as he was. He had to swallow before he could speak again.
“Where is he now?”
“Mr. McCullum, sir? He’s in the hands of the garrison surgeon in the hospital ashore.”
“He’s still alive?”
Jones spread despairing hands.
“Yes, sir. He was alive half an hour ago.”
“Where’s the doctor?”
“Down below in his berth, sir.”
“I’ll see him. No, wait. I’ll send for him when I want him.”
He wanted to think; he needed time and leisure to decide what was to be done. It was his instinct to walk the deck; that was how he could work off the high internal pressure of his emotions. It was only incidentally that the rhythmic exercise brought his thoughts into orderly sequence. And this little deck was crowded with idle officers—his cabin down below was of course quite useless. That was the moment when Jones came forward with something else to bother him.
“Mr. Turner’s come aboard, sir.”
Mr. Turner? Turner? That was the sailing master with experience of Turkish waters whom Collingwood had detailed specially to service in Atropos. He came from behind Jones as the words were said, a wizened old man with a letter in his hand, presumably the orders which had brought him on board.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Turner,” said Hornblower, forcing himself into cordiality while wondering whether he would ever make
use of Turner’s services.
“Your servant, sir,” said Turner with oldfashioned politeness.
“Mr. Jones, see that Mr. Turner’s comfortable.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
That was the only reply Jones could make, however hard of execution the order might be. But clearly Jones meditated some supplementary remark; it could be that was going to suggest putting Turner into McCullum’s quarters. Hornblower could not bear the thought of having to listen to anything of the sort while he had yet to reach a decision. It was the final irritation that roused him to the pitch of acting with the arbitrariness of a captain of the old school.
“Get below, all of you,” he snapped. “I want this deck clear.”
They looked at him as if they had not heard him aright, and he knew they had.
“Get below, if you please,” he said, and the “if you please” did nothing to soften the harshness of his request. “Master’s mate of the watch, see that this deck is kept clear, and keep out of my way yourself.”
They went below—this was an order from the captain who (according to the reports of his gig’s crew) had barely been diverted from hanging a dozen French prisoners for no other reason than a desire to see their death struggles. So he had the quarterdeck to himself, on which to stride up and down, from taffrail to mizzen mast and back again, in the fastfading twilight. He walked rapidly, turning with a jerk at each end, irritation and worry goading him on.
He had to reach a decision. The obvious thing to do was to report to Collingwood and await further orders. But how long would it be before any vessel left Malta with letters for Collingwood, and how long would it be before another returned? A month altogether, probably. No captain worth his salt would keep Atropos lying idle in Grand Harbour for a month. He could guess what Collingwood would think of a man who evaded responsibility like that. He could take Atropos and seek out Collingwood himself, but the same objections applied. And how would he appear in Collingwood’s eyes if he were to arrive off Toulon or Leghorn or wherever the chances of war might have summoned Collingwood, at the moment when he was supposed to be two thousand miles away? No. No. It would never do. At least he had reduced two apparent possibilities to impossibilities.
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