Mr Midshipman Hornblower by C. S. Forester

“An old rat, I suppose,” said Tapling meditatively. “Senile, possibly. Even blind, it may be.”

Hornblower cared nothing about rats, senile or otherwise. He took a step or two back in the direction of the longboat and the civilian officer conformed to his movements.

“Rig that mains’l so that it gives us some shade, Maxwell,” said Hornblower. “We’re here for the rest of the day.”

“A great comfort,” said Tapling, seating himself on a stone bollard beside the boat, “to be here in a heathen port. No need to worry in case any men run off. No need to worry about liquor. Only about bullocks and barley. And how to get a spark on this tinder.”

He blew through the pipe that he took from his pocket, preparatory to filling it. The boat was shaded by the mainsail now, and the hands sat in the bows yarning in low tones, while the others made themselves as comfortable as possible in the sternsheets; the boat rolled peacefully in the tiny swell, the rhythmic sound as the fendoffs creaked between her gunwale and the jetty having a soothing effect while city and port dozed in the blazing afternoon heat. Yet it was not easy for a young man of Hornblower’s active temperament to endure prolonged inaction. He climbed up on the jetty to stretch his legs, and paced up and down; a Moor in a white gown and turban came staggering in the sunshine along the waterfront. His gait was unsteady, and he walked with his legs well apart to provide a firmer base for his swaying body.

“What was it you said, sir, about liquor being abhorred by the Moslems?” said Hornblower to Tapling down in the sternsheets.

“Not necessarily abhorred,” replied Tapling, guardedly. “But anathematized, illegal, unlawful, and hard to obtain.”

“Someone here has contrived to obtain some, sir,” said Hornblower.

“Let me see,” said Tapling, scrambling up; the hands, bored with waiting and interested as ever in liquor, landed from the bows to stare as well.

“That looks like a man who has taken drink,” agreed Tapling.

“Three sheets in the wind, sir,” said Maxwell, as the Moor staggered.

“And taken all aback,” supplemented Tapling, as the Moor swerved wildly to one side in a semicircle.

At the end of the semicircle he fell with a crash on his face; his brown legs emerged from the robe a couple of times and were drawn in again, and he lay passive, his head on his arms, his turban fallen on the ground to reveal his shaven skull with a tassel of hair on the crown.

“Totally dismasted,” said Hornblower.

“And hard aground,” said Tapling.

But the Moor now lay oblivious of everything.

“And here’s Duras,” said Hornblower.

Out through the gate came the massive figure on the little donkey; another donkey bearing another portly figure followed, each donkey being led by a Negro slave, and after them came a dozen swarthy individuals whose muskets, and whose presence at uniform, indicated that they were soldiers.

“The Treasurer of His Highness,” said Duras, by way of introduction when he and the other had dismounted. “Come to fetch the gold.”

The portly Moor looked loftily upon them; Duras was still streaming with sweat in the hot sun.

“The gold is there,” said Tapling, pointing. “In the sternsheets of the longboat. You will have a closer view of it when we have a closer view of the stores we are to buy.”

Duras translated this speech into Arabic. There was a rapid interchange of sentences, before the Treasurer apparently yielded. He turned and waved his arms back to the gate in what was evidently a prearranged signal. A dreary procession immediately emerged — a long line of men, all of them almost naked, white, black, and mulatto, each man staggering along under the burden of a sack of grain. Overseers with sticks walked with them.

“The money,” said Duras, as a result of something said by the Treasurer.

A word from Tapling set the hands to work lifting the heavy bags of gold onto the quay.

“With the corn on the jetty I will put the gold there too,” said Tapling to Hornblower. “Keep your eye on it while I look at some of those sacks.”

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