“Seven thousand golden guineas,” replied Tapling, in reasonably good French.
“Good,” said Duras, with a trace of relief. “Is it in the boat?”
“It is in the boat, and it stays in the boat at present,” answered Tapling. “Do you remember the conditions agreed upon? Four hundred fat cattle, fifteen hundred fanegas of barley grain. When I see those in the lighters, and the lighters alongside the ships down the bay, then I hand over the money. Have you the stores ready?”
“Soon.”
“As I expected. How long?”
“Soon — very soon.”
Tapling made a grimace of resignation.
“Then we shall return to the ships. To-morrow, perhaps, or the day after, we shall come back with the gold.”
Alarm appeared on Duras’ sweating face.
“No, do not do that,” he said, hastily. “You do not know His Highness the Bey. He is changeable. If he knows the gold is here he will give orders for the cattle to be brought. Take the gold away, and he will not stir. And — and — he will be angry with me.”
“Ira principis mors est.” said Tapling, and in response to Duras’ blank look obliged by a translation. “The wrath of the prince means death. Is not that so?”
“Yes,” said Duras, and he in turn said something in an unknown language, and stabbed at the air with his fingers in a peculiar gesture; and then translated, “May it not happen.”
“Certainly we hope it may not happen,” agreed Tapling with disarming cordiality. “The bowstring, the hook, even the bastinado are all unpleasant. It might be better if you went to the Bey and prevailed upon him to give the necessary orders for the grain and the cattle. Or we shall leave at nightfall.”
Tapling glanced up at the sun to lay stress on the time limit.
“I shall go,” said Duras, spreading his hands in a deprecatory gesture. “I shall go. But I beg of you, do not depart. Perhaps His Highness is busy in his harem. Then no one may disturb him. But I shall try. The grain is here ready — it lies in the Kasbah there. It is only the cattle that have to be brought in. Please be patient. I implore you. His Highness is not accustomed to commerce, as you know, sir. Still less is he accustomed to commerce after the fashion of the Franks.”
Duras wiped his streaming face with a corner of his robe.
“Pardon me,” he said, “I do not feel well. But I shall go to His Highness. I shall go. Please wait for me.”
“Until sunset,” said Tapling implacably.
Duras called to his Negro attendant, who had been crouching huddled up under the donkey’s belly to take advantage of the shade it cast. With an effort Duras hoisted his ponderous weight onto the donkey’s hind quarters. He wiped his face again and looked at them with a trace of bewilderment.
“Wait for me,” were the last words he said as the donkey was led away back into the city gate.
“He is afraid of the Bey,” said Tapling watching him go. “I would rather face twenty Beys than Admiral Sir John Jervis in a tantrum. What will he do when he hears about this further delay, with the Fleet on short rations already? He’ll have my guts for a necktie.”
“One cannot expect punctuality of these people,” said Hornblower with the easy philosophy of the man who does not bear the responsibility. But he thought of the British Navy, without friends, without allies, maintaining desperately the blockade of a hostile Europe, in face of superior numbers, storms, disease, and now famine.
“Look at that!” said Tapling pointing suddenly.
It was a big grey rat which had made its appearance in the dry storm gutter that crossed the waterfront here. Regardless of the bright sunshine it sat up and looked round at the world; even when Tapling stamped his foot it showed no great signs of alarm. When he stamped a second time it slowly turned to hide itself again in the drain, missed its footing so that it lay writhing for a moment at the mouth of the drain, and then regained its feet and disappeared into the darkness.