“He wants to come on board, sir,” reported Turner.
“Let him come,” said Hornblower. “Unlace that netting just enough for him to get through.”
Down in the cabin the Mudir looked just the same as before. His lean face was as impassive as ever; at least he showed no signs of triumph He could play a winning game like a gentleman; Hornblower, without a single trump card in his hand, was determined to show that he could play a losing game like a gentleman, too.
“Explain to him,” he said to Turner, “that I regret there is no coffee to offer him. No fires when the ship’s cleared for action.”
The Mudir was gracious about the absence of coffee, as he indicated by a gesture. There was a polite interchange of compliments which Turner hardly troubled to translate, before he approached the business in hand.
“He says the Vali is in Marmorice with his army,” reported Turner. “He says the forts at the mouth are manned and the guns loaded.”
“Tell him I know that.”
“He says that ship’s the Mejidieh, sir, with fifty‑six guns and a thousand men.”
“Tell him I know that too.”
The Mudir stroked his beard before taking the next step.
“He says the Vali was very angry when he heard we’d been taking treasure from the bottom of the Bay.”
“Tell him it is British treasure.”
“He says it was lying in the Sultan’s waters, and all wrecks belong to the Sultan.”
In England all wrecks belonged to the King.
“Tell him the Sultan and King George are friends.”
The Mudir’s reply to that was lengthy.
“No good, sir,” said Turner. “He says Turkey’s at peace with France now and so is neutral. He said — he said that we have no more rights here than if we were Neapolitans, sir.”
There could not be any greater expression of contempt anywhere in the Levant.
“Ask him if he has ever seen a Neapolitan with guns run out and matches burning.”
It was a losing game that Hornblower was playing, but he was not going to throw in his cards and yield all the tricks without a struggle, even though he could see no possibility of winning even one. The Mudir stroked his beard again; with his expressionless eyes he looked straight at Hornblower, and straight through him, as he spoke.
“He must have been watching everything through a telescope from shore, sir,” commented Turner, “or it may have been those fishing boats. At any rate, he knows about the gold and the silver, and it’s my belief, sir, that they’ve known there was treasure in the wreck for years. That secret wasn’t as well kept as they thought it was in London.”
“I can draw my own conclusions, Mr. Turner, thank you.”
Whatever the Mudir knew or guessed, Hornblower was not going to admit anything.
“Tell him we have been delighted with the pleasure of his company.”
The Mudir, when that was translated to him, allowed a flicker of a change of expression to pass over his face. But when he spoke it was with the same flatness of tone.
“He says that if we hand over all we have recovered so far the Vali will allow us to remain here and keep whatever else we find,” reported Turner.
Turner displayed some small concern as he translated, but yet in his old man’s face the most noticeable expression was one of curiosity; he bore no responsibility, and he could allow himself the luxury — the pleasure — of wondering how his captain was going to receive this demand. Even in that horrid moment Hornblower found himself remembering Rochefoucauld’s cynical epigram about the pleasure we derive from the contemplation of our friends’ troubles.
“Tell him,” said Hornblower, “that my master King George will be angry when he hears that such a thing has been said to me, his servant, and that his friend the Sultan will be angry when he hears what his servant has said.”
But the Mudir was unmoved by any suggestion of international complications. It would take a long, long time for a complaint to travel from Marmorice to London and then back to Constantinople. And Hornblower could guess that a very small proportion of a quarter of a million sterling, laid out in the proper quarter, would buy the support of the Vizier for the Vali. The Mudir’s face was quite unrelenting — a frightened child might have a nightmare about a face as heartless as that.