The Young Hornblower Omnibus Page 20

  “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 one 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 sideways far back towards the root of the tail, a vast figure in a blue robe.

  “Shall we meet His Britannic Majesty’s Consul halfway?” said 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.

  “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. Tomorrow, 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 there 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.

  “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 merged 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 pretence 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.”

  Tapling walked over to the slave gang. Here and there he opened a sack, looked into it, and inspected handfuls of the golden barley grain; other sacks he felt from the outside.

  “No hope of looking over every sack in a hundred ton of barley,” he remarked, strolling back again to Hornblower. “Much of it is sand, I expect. But that is the way of the heathen. The price is adjusted accordingly. Very well, Effendi.”

  At a sign from Duras, and under the urgings of the overseers, the slaves burst into activity, trotting up to the quayside and dropping their sacks into the lighter which lay there. The first dozen men were organized into a working party to distribute the cargo evenly into the bottom of the lighter, while the others trotted off, their bodies gleaming with sweat, to fetch fresh loads. At the same time a couple of swarthy herdsmen came out through the gate driving a small herd of cattle.

  “Scrubby little creatures,” said Tapling, looking them over critically, “but that was allowed for in the price, too.”

  “The gold,” said Duras.

  In reply Tapling opened one of the bags at his feet, filled his hand with golden guineas, and let them cascade through his fingers into the bag again.

  “Five hundred guineas there,” he said. “Fourteen bags, as you see. They will be yours when the lighters are loaded and unmoored.”

  Duras wiped his face with a weary gesture. His knees seemed to be weak, and he leaned upon the patient donkey that stood behind him.

  The cattle were being driven down a gangway into another lighter, and a second herd had now appeared and was waiting.

  “Things move faster than you feared,” said Hornblower.

  “See how they drive the poor wretches,” replied Tapling sententiously. “See! Things move fast when you have no concern for human flesh and blood.”

  A coloured slave had fallen to the ground under his burden. He lay there disregarding the blows rained on him by the sticks of the overseers. There was a small movement of his legs. Someone dragged him out of the way at last and the sacks continued to be carried to the lighter. The other lighter was filling fast with cattle, packed into a tight, bellowing mass in which no movement was possible.

  “His Nibs is actually keeping his word,” marvelled Tapling. “I’d ’a settled for the half, if I had been asked beforehand.”

  One of the herdsmen on the quay had sat down with his face in his hands; now he fell over limply on his side.

  “Sir—” began Hornblower to Tapling, and the two men looked at each other with the same awful thought occurring to them at the same moment.

  Duras began to say something; with one hand on the withers of the donkey and the other gesticulating in the air it seemed that he was making something of a speech, but there was no sense in the words he was roaring out in a hoarse voice. His face was swollen beyond its customary fatness and his expression was wildly distorted, while his cheeks were so suffused with blood as to look dark under his tan. Duras quitted his hold of the donkey and began to reel about in half circles, under the eyes of Moors and Englishmen. His voice died away to a whisper, his legs gave way under him, and he fell to his hands and knees and then to his face.

  “That’s the plague!” said Tapling. “The Black Death! I saw it in Smyrna in ’96.”

  He and the other Englishmen had shrunk back on the one side, the soldiers and the Treasurer on the other, leaving the palpitating body lying in the clear space between them.

  “The plague, by St. Peter!” squealed one of the young sailors. He would have headed a rush to the longboat.

  “Stand still, there!” roared Hornblower, scared of the plague but with the habits of discipline so deeply engrained in him by now that he checked the panic automatically.

  “I was a fool not to have thought of it before,” said Tapling. “That dying rat—that fellow over there who we thought was drunk. I should have known!”

  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?”

  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 today,” 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.