The hands went to dinner. Cape Kum went by on the one hand and the Turkish coast on the other, the breeze freshening with the bright sunny day, and Turner droning on as the landmarks went by.
“Cape Marmorice, sir,” reported Turner.
The coast dipped here, revealing mountains more lofty close behind. Now was the time to take in sail, ready to enter. It was the time when decisive action had to be taken, too; when Atropos changed from a peaceful ship, cruising placidly along outside territorial waters, to a stormy petrel, whose entrance into a foreign harbour might send despatches hastening from embassies, and might cause cabinets to assemble at opposite ends of Europe. Hornblower tried to give his orders as if he had no care for the importance of the moment.
“All hands! All hands shorten sail! All hands!”
The watch below came running to their posts. The officers, at the call of all hands, went to their stations, the one or two who had been dozing down below coming hastily on deck. Courses and top gallants were got in.
“Mr. Jones!” said Hornblower harshly.
“Sir!”
“Ease that sheet and take the strain off the tack! Where did you learn your seamanship?”
“Aye aye, sir,” answered Jones rather pathetically, but he ran up both clues smartly together.
The reprimand was deserved, but Hornblower wondered if he would have administered it in just that way if he had not been anxious to show that the responsibilities he was carrying could not distract him from any detail of the management of the ship. Then he decided bitterly that it was unnecessary in any event; not one of those hurrying figures on deck gave a single thought to the responsibilities of his captain, or of what international crisis this shortening of sail might be the preliminary.
“Red Cliff Point, sir,” said Turner. “Passage Island. Cape Sari over there. The east passage is better, sir — there’s a rock in the middle of the west passage.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower. There was not much detail in the chart, but that much was clear. “We’ll take the east passage. Quartermaster! Port your helm. Steady! Steady as you go!”
With the wind on her quarter Atropos headed for the entrance like a stag, even with her sail reduced to topsails and headsails. The entrance became better defined as she approached; two bold points running to meet each other with a lofty island in between. It was obvious why Red Cliff Point was so named; elsewhere there was a dark, straggling growth of pine trees on capes and island, while on the summits could just be seen the rectangular outlines of small forts.
“They don’t keep those manned, sir,” said Turner. “Gone to rack and ruin like everything else.”
“You say the east passage is absolutely clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well.”
Atropos headed in, with Hornblower giving his orders to the wheel. There was no flag flying on shore, and until one could be seen there was no question of firing a salute. From point to island the entrance extended a scant half mile, possibly less; now they could see through it, to the wide waters of Marmorice Bay, with high mountains surrounding it on nearly every side, except to the northward.
“There’s the town, sir,” said Turner. “Not much of a place.”
A white tower — a minaret — caught the afternoon sun.
“You can see the red mound behind the town now, sir.”
“Where did the Speedwell go down?” asked Hornblower.
“Over to port, there, sir. Right in line between the red mound and the fort on Passage Island. The fort on Ada bore sou’‑sou’ east half south.”
“Take the bearing now,” ordered Hornblower.
They were through the entrance now. The water was smooth, not smooth enough to reflect the blue sky. Turner was calling the bearing of the fort on Capa Ada. With his own eye Hornblower could judge the other cross‑bearing. There was no harm in anchoring close to the projected scene of operations; that would attract less attention than to anchor in one place first and to move to another anchorage later. Jones took in fore and main topsails and headsails smartly enough. Atropos glided quietly on.