Hornblower and the Atropos. C. S. Forester

“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 baring 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 far 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.

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