“A pretty sight from here,” said Tapling, gazing at the town they were approaching, “but closer inspection will show that the eye is deceived. And as for the nose! The stinks of the true believers have to be smelt to be believed. Lay her alongside the jetty there, Mr Hornblower, beyond those xebecs.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said the coxswain, when Hornblower gave the order.
“There’s a sentry on the waterfront battery here,” commented Tapling, looking about him keenly, “not more than half asleep, either. And notice the two guns in the two castles. Thirty‑two pounders, without a doubt. Stone shot piled in readiness. A stone shot flying into fragments on impact effects damage out of proportion to its size. And the walls seem sound enough. To seize Oran by a coup de main would not be easy, I am afraid. If His Nibs the Bey should choose to cut our throats and keep our gold it would be long before we were avenged, Mr Hornblower.”
“I don’t think I should find any satisfaction in being avenged in any case, sir,” said Hornblower.
“There’s some truth in that. But doubtless His Nibs will spare us this time. The goose lays golden eggs — a boatload of gold every month must make a dazzling prospect for a pirate Bey in these days of convoys.”
“Way ‘nough,” called the coxswain. “Oars!”
The longboat came gliding alongside the jetty and hooked on neatly. A few seated figures in the shade turned eyes at least, and in some cases even their heads as well, to look at the British boat’s crew. A number of swarthy Moors appeared on the decks of the xebecs and gazed down at them, and one or two shouted remarks to them.
“No doubt they are describing the ancestry of the infidels,” said Tapling. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me, especially when I do not understand them. Where’s our man?”
He shaded his eyes to look along the waterfront.
“No one in sight, sir, that looks like a Christian,” said Hornblower.
“Our man’s no Christian,” said Tapling. “White, but no Christian. White by courtesy at that — French‑Arab‑Levantine mixture. His Britannic Majesty’s Consul at Oran pro tem., and a Mussulman from expediency. Though there are very serious disadvantages about being a true believer. Who would want four wives at any time, especially when he pays for the doubtful privilege by abstaining from wine?”
Tapling stepped up onto the jetty and Hornblower followed him. The gentle swell that rolled up the Gulf broke soothingly below them, and the blinding heat of the noonday sun was reflected up into their faces from the stone blocks on which they stood. Far down the Gulf lay the two anchored ships — the storeship and H.M.S. Indefatigable — lovely on the blue and silver surface.
“And yet I would rather see Drury Lane on a Saturday night,” said Tapling.
He turned back to look at the city wall, which guarded the place from seaborne attack. A narrow gate, flanked by bastions, opened onto the waterfront. Sentries in red caftans were visible on the summit. In the deep shadow of the gate something was moving, but it was hard with eyes dazzled by the sun to see what it was. Then it emerged from the shadow as a little group coming towards them — a half‑naked Negro leading a donkey, and on the back of the donkey, seated side ways far back towards the root of the tail, a vast figure in a blue robe.
“Shall we meet His Britannic Majesty’s Consul halfway?” asked Tapling. “No. Let him come to us.”
The Negro halted the donkey, and the man on the donkey’s back slid to the ground and came towards them — a mountainous man, waddling straddle‑legged in his robe, his huge clay‑coloured face topped by a white turban. A scanty black moustache and beard sprouted from his lip and chin.
“Your servant, Mr Duras,” said Tapling. “And may I present Acting‑Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, of the frigate Indefatigable?”
Mr Duras nodded his perspiring head.
“Have you brought the money?” he asked, in guttural French; it took Hornblower a moment or two to adjust his mind to the language and his ear to Duras’ intonation.