The soldier who appeared to be the sergeant in command of the Treasurer’s escort was in explosive conversation with the chief of the overseers of the slaves, both of them staring and pointing at the dying Duras; the Treasurer himself was clutching his robe about him and looking down at the wretched man at his feet in fascinated horror.
“Well sir,” said Hornblower to Tapling, “what do we do now?”
Hornblower was of the temperament that demands immediate action in face of a crisis.
“Do?” replied Tapling with a bitter smile. “We stay here and rot.”
“Stay here?”
“The fleet will never have us back. Not until we have served three weeks of quarantine. Three weeks after the last case has occurred. Here in Oran.”
“Nonsense!” said Hornblower, with all the respect due to his senior startled out of him. “No one would order that.”
“Would they not? Have you ever seen an epidemic in a fleet?”
Hornblower had not, but he had heard enough about them — fleets where nine out of ten had died of putrid fevers. Crowded ships with twenty-two inches of hammock space per man were ideal breeding places for epidemics. He realized that no captain, no admiral, would run that risk for the sake of a longboat’s crew of twenty men.
The two xebecs against the jetty had suddenly cast off, and were working their way out of the harbour under sweeps.
“The plague can only have struck to-day,” mused Hornblower, the habit of deduction strong in him despite his sick fear.
The cattle herders were abandoning their work, giving a wide berth to that one of their number who was lying on the quay. Up at the town gate it appeared that the guard was employed in driving people back into the town — apparently the rumour of plague had spread sufficiently therein to cause a panic, while the guard had just received orders not to allow the population to stream out into the surrounding country. There would be frightful things happening in the town soon. The Treasurer was climbing on his donkey; the crowd of grain-carrying slaves was melting away as the overseers fled.
“I must report this to the ship,” said Hornblower; Tapling, as a civilian diplomatic officer, held no authority over him.
The whole responsibility was Hornblower’s. The longboat and the longboat’s crew were Hornblower’s command, entrusted to him by Captain Pellew whose authority derived from the King.
Amazing how the panic was spreading. The Treasurer was gone; Duras’ Negro slave had ridden off on his late master’s donkey; the soldiers had hastened off in a single group. The waterfront was deserted now except for the dead and dying; along the waterfront, presumably, at the foot of the wall, lay the way to the open country which all desired to seek. The Englishmen were standing alone, with the bags of gold at their feet.
“Plague spreads through the air,” said Tapling. “Even the rats die of it. We have been here for hours. We were near enough to — that —” he nodded at the dying Duras — “to speak to him, to catch his breath. Which of us will be the first?”
“We’ll see when the time comes,” said Hornblower. It was his contrary nature to be sanguine in the face of depression; besides, he did not want the men to hear what Tapling was saying.
“And there’s the fleet!” said Tapling bitterly. “This lot” — he nodded at the deserted lighters, one almost full of cattle, the other almost full of grain sacks — “this lot would be a Godsend. The men are on two-thirds rations.”
“Damn it, we can do something about it,” said Hornblower. “Maxwell, put the gold back in the boat, and get that awning in.”
The officer of the watch in H.M.S. Indefatigable saw the ship’s longboat returning from the town. A slight breeze had swung the frigate and the Caroline (the transport brig) to their anchors, and the longboat, instead of running alongside, came up under the Indefatigable’s stern to leeward.
“Mr Christie!” hailed Hornblower, standing up in the bows of the longboat.
The officer of the watch came aft to the taffrail.
“What is it?” he demanded, puzzled.