Hornblower and the Atropos h-6

by Cecil Scott Forester

  The hands went to dinner. Cape Kum went by on the one hand and the Turkish coast on the other, the breeze freshening with the bright sunny day, and Turner droning on as the landmarks went by.

  “Cape Marmorice, sir,” reported Turner.

  The coast dipped here, revealing mountains more lofty close behind. Now was the time to take in sail, ready to enter. It was the time when decisive action had to be taken, too; when Atropos changed from a peaceful ship, cruising placidly along outside territorial waters, to a stormy petrel, whose entrance into a foreign harbour might send despatches hastening from embassies, and might cause cabinets to assemble at opposite ends of Europe. Hornblower tried to give his orders as if he had no care for the importance of the moment.

  “All hands! All hands shorten sail! All hands!”

  The watch below came running to their posts. The officers, at the call of all hands, went to their stations, the one or two who had been dozing down below coming hastily on deck. Courses and top gallants were got in.

  “Mr. Jones!” said Hornblower harshly.

  “Sir!”

  “Ease that sheet and take the strain off the tack! Where did you learn your seamanship?”

  “Aye aye, sir,” answered Jones rather pathetically, but he ran up both clues smartly together.

  The reprimand was deserved, but Hornblower wondered if he would have administered it in just that way if he had not been anxious to show that the responsibilities he was carrying could not distract him from any detail of the management of the ship. Then he decided bitterly that it was unnecessary in any event; not one of those hurrying figures on deck gave a single thought to the responsibilities of his captain, or of what international crisis this shortening of sail might be the preliminary.

  “Red Cliff Point, sir,” said Turner. “Passage Island. Cape Sari over there. The east passage is better, sir—there’s a rock in the middle of the west passage.”

  “Yes,” said Hornblower. There was not much detail in the chart, but that much was clear. “We’ll take the east passage. Quartermaster! Port your helm. Steady! Steady as you go!”

  With the wind on her quarter Atropos headed for the entrance like a stag, even with her sail reduced to topsails and headsails. The entrance became better defined as she approached; two bold points running to meet each other with a lofty island in between. It was obvious why Red Cliff Point was so named; elsewhere there was a dark, straggling growth of pine trees on capes and island, while on the summits could just be seen the rectangular outlines of small forts.

  “They don’t keep those manned, sir,” said Turner. “Gone to rack and ruin like everything else.”

  “You say the east passage is absolutely clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Atropos headed in, with Hornblower giving his orders to the wheel. There was no flag flying on shore, and until one could be seen there was no question of firing a salute. From point to island the entrance extended a scant half mile, possibly less; now they could see through it, to the wide waters of Marmorice Bay, with high mountains surrounding it on nearly every side, except to the northward.

  “There’s the town, sir,” said Turner. “Not much of a place.”

  A white tower—a minaret—caught the afternoon sun.

  “You can see the red mound behind the town now, sir.”

  “Where did the Speedwell go down?” asked Hornblower.

  “Over to port, there, sir. Right in line between the red mound and the fort on Passage Island. The fort on Ada bore sou’sou’ east half south.”

  “Take the bearing now,” ordered Hornblower.

  They were through the entrance now. The water was smooth, not smooth enough to reflect the blue sky. Turner was calling the bearing of the fort on Capa Ada. With his own eye Hornblower could judge the other crossbearing. There was no harm in anchoring close to the projected scene of operations; that would attract less attention than to anchor in one place first and to move to another anchorage later. Jones took in fore and main topsails and headsails smartly enough. Atropos glided quietly on.

  “Hard astarboard,” said Hornblower to the quartermaster. Round came Atropos, the mizzen topsail helping the turn as Jones clued it up. The ship’s way died away almost imperceptibly, the tiny waves lapping against her bows.

  “Let go!”

  The hawser rumbled out. Atropos swung to her anchor, in Turkish waters. The crossing of the threemile limit, even the entrance through the Pass, had been actions that might be argued about, disavowed. But that anchor, its flukes solidly buried in the firm sand, was something of which a diplomatic note could take definite notice.

  “Pass the word for the doctor,” said Hornblower.

  There were many things to do; it was his duty to make contact with the Turkish authorities if they did not make contact with him. But first of all, without wasting a moment, it was necessary to make arrangements for the operation on McCullum. The man’s life hung in the balance, and far more than his life.

  Chapter XII

  Hornblower sat waiting in his cabin. “A few minutes” had been Eisenbeiss’s estimate of the time necessary for the operation. It was necessary, Hornblower knew, to work as quickly as possible, so as to minimize the shock to the patient.

  “In the old Hannibal, sir,” said the sickberth attendant whom Hornblower had questioned regarding his experience, “we took off eleven legs in half an hour. That was at Algeciras, sir.”

  But amputations were relatively simple. A full half of all amputation cases survived—Nelson himself had lost an arm, amputated on a dark night in a moderate storm at sea, and he had lived until a musket bullet killed him at Trafalgar. This was not an amputation. It was something which would be worse than useless if Eisenbeiss’s diagnosis was incorrect and which could easily fail in any case.

  The ship was very still and quiet. Hornblower knew that all his crew were taking a morbid interest in the fate of the “poor gentleman.” They were sentimental about McCullum, lying at death’s door as a result of a bullet wound he need never have received; the fact that he was going to be cut about with a knife had an unholy attraction for them; the fact that in a few minutes he might be dead, might have gone through those mysterious doors they all feared to go through invested his personality with some special quality in their eyes. Sentries had to be posted to keep out all the sentimental, the inquisitive and the morbid-minded among the crew, and now Hornblower could tell by the silence that his men were waiting in shuddering silence for the climax, hoping perhaps to hear a scream or a groan, waiting as they would wait to see a condemned criminal turned off the hangman’s cart He could hear the heavy ticking of his watch as he waited.

  Now there were distant sounds, but sounds in the little wooden ship were susceptible to so many possible interpretations that he would not at first allow himself to think that they might arise as a result of the ending of the operation. But then there were steps and voices outside his cabin door, the sentry speaking and then Eisenbeiss, and then came a knock.

  “Come in,” said Hornblower, trying to keep his voice indifferent; the first sight of Eisenbeiss as he entered was enough to tell Hornblower that all was as well as could be hoped. There was an obvious lightheartedness about the doctor’s elephantine movements.

  “I found the bullet,” said Eisenbeiss. “It was where I thought—at the inferior angle of the scapula.”

  “Did you get it out?” asked Hornblower; the fact that he did not correct Eisenbeiss for omitting the “sir” was proof—if anyone had been present to notice it—that he was not as calm as he appeared.

  “Yes,” said Eisenbeiss.

  He laid something on the table in front of Hornblower, with a gesture positively dramatic. It was the bullet, misshapen, flattened to an irregular disc, with a raw scratch on one surface.

  “That is where my scalpel cut into it,” said Eisenbeiss proudly. “I went straight to the right place.”

  Hornblower picked the thing up gi
ngerly to examine it.

  “You see,” said Eisenbeiss, “it was as I said. The bullet struck the ribs, breaking them, and then glanced off, passing back between the bone and the muscle.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Hornblower.

  “And there are these as well,” went on Eisenbeiss, laying something else in front of Hornblower with the same sort of conscious pride as a conjuror at a fair bringing the rabbit out of the hat.

  “Is this the wad?” asked Hornblower, puzzled, and making no attempt to pick up the horrid little object.

  “No,” said Eisenbeiss, “that is how my forceps brought it out. But see—”

  Eisenbeiss’s large fingers plucked the object into successive layers.

  “I have looked at these through my lens. That is a piece of a blue coat. That is a piece of silk lining. That is a piece of linen shirt. And those are threads of a knitted undershirt.”

  Eisenbeiss beamed with triumph.

  “The bullet carried these in with it?” asked Hornblower.

  “Exactly. Of course. Between the bullet and the bone these portions were cut off, as they might be between the blades of scissors, and the bullet carried them on with it I found them all. No wonder the wound was suppurating.”

  “You address me as ‘sir’,” said Hornblower, realizing, now that the tension had eased, that Eisenbeiss had been omitting the honorific. “The operation was otherwise successful as well?”

  “Yes—sir,” said Eisenbeiss. “The removal of these foreign bodies and the draining of the wound brought immediate relief to the patient.”

  “He did not suffer too much?”

  “Not too much. The men who were ready to hold him still had hardly anything to do. He submitted with good spirit, as he promised you he would. It was well that he lay still. I feared further injury to the lung from the broken ribs if he struggled.”

  “You address me as ‘sir’,” said Hornblower. “That is the last time, doctor, that I shall overlook the omission.”

  “Yes—sir.”

  “And the patient is going on well?”

  “I left him as well as I could hope—sir. I must return to him soon, of course.”

  “Do you think he will live?”

  Some of the triumph evaporated from Eisenbeiss’s expression as he concentrated on phrasing his reply.

  “He is more likely to live now, sir,” he said. “But with wounds—one cannot be sure.”

  There was always the likelihood, the unpredictable likelihood, of a wound taking a turn for the worse, festering and killing.

  “You cannot say more than that?”

  “No, sir. The wound must remain open to drain. When applying the sutures I inserted a bristle—”

  “Very well,” said Hornblower, suddenly squeamish. “I understand. You had better return to him now. You have my thanks, doctor, for what you have done.”

  Even with Eisenbeiss gone there was no chance of quietly reviewing the situation. A knock on the door heralded the appearance of Midshipman Smiley.

  “Mr. Jones’ compliments, sir, and there are boats heading for us from the shore.”

  “Thank you. I’ll come up. And if Mr. Turner’s not on deck tell him I want to see him there.”

  Some of the gailypainted boats in the distance were under oars, but the nearest one was under a lateen sail, lying very close to the wind. As Hornblower watched her she took in her sail, went about, and reset it on the other tack. The lateen rig had its disadvantages. On the new tack the boat would fetch up alongside Atropos easily enough.

  “Now listen to me, Mr. Turner,” said Hornblower, reaching the decision he had had at the back of his mind—overlain until now by a host of other considerations—for the last two days. “When you speak to them you are to tell them that we are looking for a French squadron.”

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “We are looking for a French squadron. Two sail—that will do. A ship of the line and frigate, escaped from Corfu three weeks back. The first thing you ask is whether they have touched here.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Turner was not very clear on the point yet.

  “Admiral—Admiral Harvey has sent us in for news. He’s cruising off Crete looking for them with four sail of the line. Four will do. Enough force to make them respect us.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “You’re quite sure you do?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was irksome being dependent on Turner to interpret for him. With Spanish authorities, or French, Hornblower could have conducted his own negotiations, but not with Turks.

  “Remember, that’s the first thing you ask, the very first. Have two French ships touched here? Then you can go on to get permission to fill the water casks. We’ll buy fresh vegetables, too, and a couple of bullocks, if we can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep it in your mind all the time that we’re scouting for Admiral Harvey. Don’t forget it for a moment, and then everything will be all right.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The lateen boat was nearing them fast, making surprising speed with the small evening wind; there was a respectable bubble of foam under her bow. She came running close alongside and hoveto, the lateen sail flapping until they brailed up the upper portion.

  “Turks, sir, not Greeks,” said Turner.

  Hornblower could have guessed that without Turner’s help; the boat’s crew was dressed in dirty white gowns; they wore on their heads round red hats wreathed in dirty white turbans. The graybearded man who stood up in the stern wore a red sash about his waist, from which hung a curved sword. He hailed Atropos in a thin high voice. Turner hailed back; the jargon he spoke was the lingua franca of the Levant, and Hornblower tried to guess at what was being said. Italian, French, English, Arabic, Greek, all contributed to the language, he knew. It was a little strange to hear the words “Horatio Hornblower” come clearly through the incomprehensible remainder.

  “Who is this fellow?” he asked.

  “The Mudir, sir. The local Jackinoffice. Harbour master—preventive officer. He is asking about our bill of health, sir.”

  “Don’t forget to ask about the French ships,” said Hornblower.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The shouted conversation went on; Hornblower caught the word “fregata” more than once. The graybeard in the boat extended his hands in a negative gesture and went on to supplement it with a further sentence.

  “He says there have been no French ships in here for years, sir,” said Turner.

  “Ask him if he has heard about any along the coast or in the islands?”

  The graybeard clearly disclaimed all knowledge.

  “Tell him,” said Hornblower, “I’ll give him five pieces of gold for news of the French.”

  There was something infectious in the atmosphere, in this Oriental talk—that was the only explanation Hornblower could think of for his using the outlandish expression “pieces of gold.” There was no reason why he should not have said “guineas” to Turner. The graybeard shook his head again; Hornblower, looking keenly at him fancied that the offer impressed him nevertheless. He asked another question and Turner answered.

  “I’ve told him about the British squadron in the offing, sir,” he reported.

  “Good.”

  There was no harm in having the Turks believe he had a powerful force to back him up. Now the graybeard was gesturing with the fingers of one hand outstretched as he answered some question of Turner’s.

  “He says he wants five piastres a hogshead for us to fill our water casks, sir,” said Turner. “That’s a shilling each.”

  “Tell him—tell him I’ll give him half.”

  The conversation continued; the western sky was beginning to redden with the sunset as the sun sank lower. At last the graybeard waved in farewell, and the boat turned away and unfurled her sail to the dying wind.

  “They’ve gone back to spread their mats for the evening prayer, sir,” said Turner. “I�
��ve promised him ten guineas for everything. That gives us the right to land at the jetty over there, to fill our water casks, and to buy in the market that he’ll open in the morning. He’ll take his share of what we pay there, you can be sure, sir.”

  “Very well, Mr. Turner. Mr. Jones!”

  “Sir!”

  “With the first light in the morning I’m going to start sweeping for the wreck. I’ll have the sweep prepared now.”

  “Er—aye aye, sir.”

  “A hundred fathoms of oneinch line, if you please, Mr. Jones. Two ninepounder shot. Have a net made for each, and attach them ten fathoms apart at equal distances from the ends of the line. Is that clear?”

  “Not—not quite, sir.”

  Because he was honest about it Hornblower refrained from remarking on his slowness of comprehension.

  “Take a hundred fathoms of line and attach one shot fortyfive fathoms from one end and another fortyfive fathoms from the other end. Is that clear now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can get the launch and long boat into the water now, ready for the morning. They’ll carry the sweep between them, dragging the bottom for the wreck. Tell off the boats’ crews for duty. I want to start work at first dawn, as I said. And we’ll need grapnels and buoys to mark what we find. Nothing conspicuous—planks will do, with seventeen fathoms of line to each. You understand all that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Carry on, then, Mr. Turner, report in my cabin in fifteen minutes’ time, if you please. Messenger! My compliments to the doctor, and I’d like to see him in my cabin immediately.”