“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.”

Hornblower felt like a juggler at a fair, keeping half a dozen balls in the air at once. He wanted to hear from the doctor how McCullum was progressing after the operation; he wanted to discuss with Turner the question of what local authorities might be likely to be present in Marmorice to interfere with his work there; he wanted to make all preparations for the next morning; he wanted to be ready with his own plans for raising the treasure if McCullum was unable to give advice; and night orders for the care of the ship in this harbour of doubtful neutrality had to be written; it was only late in the evening that he remembered something else—something of which he was reminded only by a suddenly noticed feeling of emptiness inside him. He had eaten nothing since breakfast. He ate biscuit and cold meat, crunching the flinty fragments hurriedly at his cabin table before hurrying on deck again into the darkness.

It was a chilly night, and the young moon had already set. No breath of air now ruffled the black surface of the water of the bay, smooth enough to bear faint reflections of the stars. Black and impenetrable was the water, beneath which lay a quarter of a million pounds sterling. It was as impenetrable as his future, he decided, leaning on the bulwark. An intelligent man, he decided, would go to bed and sleep, having done all that his forethought and ingenuity could devise, and an intelligent man would worry no further for the moment. But he had to be very firm with himself to drive himself to bed and allow his utter weariness of body and mind to sweep him away into unconsciousness.

It was still dark when he was called, dark and cold, but he ordered coffee for himself and sipped it as he dressed. Last night when he had given the time for his being called he had allowed for a leisurely dressing before daylight, but he felt tense and anxious as he got out of bed, much as he had felt on other occasions when he had been roused in the night to take part in a cuttingout expedition or a dawn landing, and he had to restrain himself from putting on his clothes in haphazard fashion and hurrying on deck. He forced himself to shave, although that was an operation which had mostly to be carried out by touch because the hanging lamp gave almost no illumination to the mirror. The shirt he pulled on felt clammy against his ribs; he was struggling with his trousers when a knock at the door brought in Eisenbeiss, reporting in obedience to overnight orders.

“The patient is sleeping well, sir,” he announced.

“Is his condition good?”

“I thought I should not disturb him, sir. He was sleeping quietly, so I could not tell if he had fever nor could I examine the wound. I can wake him if you wish, sir—”

“No, don’t do that, of course. I suppose it’s a good symptom that he’s sleeping in any case?”

“A very good one, sir.”

“Then leave him alone, doctor. Report to me if there is any change.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower buttoned his trousers and thrust his feet into his shoes. His eagerness to be on deck overcame his selfrestraint to the extent that he was still buttoning his coat as he went up the companion. On deck as well the atmosphere seemed to be charged with that feeling of impending attack at dawn. There were the dimlyseen figures of the officers, silhouetted against the sky. To the east there was the faintest illumination, a little light reaching halfway up to the zenith, so faint as almost to be unnoticed, and its colour, in its turn, was so faint a shade of pink as hardly to be called that.

“Morning,” said Hornblower in response to the touched hats of his subordinates.

In the waist he could hear orders being quietly given—just like manning the boats for a cuttingout expedition.

“Longboat’s crew starboard side,” said Smiley’s voice.

“Launch’s crew port side.” That was the Prince’s voice. He was acquiring a better accent than Eisenbeiss’s.

“There’s some surface mist, sir,” reported Jones. “But it’s very patchy.”

“So I see,” replied Hornblower.

“Last night we were lying two cables’ lengths from the wreck as near as makes no matter, sir,” said Turner. “We’ve swung during the night, with the wind dropping, but little enough.”

“Tell me when it’s light enough for you to get your bearings.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

In that short time the eastern sky had changed. One might almost have said it had darkened, but perhaps that was because with the tiny increase in the general illumination the contrast was not so marked.

“You took a third bearing at the time when Speedwell went down, Mr. Turner?”

“Yes, sir. It was—”

“No matter.”

Turner could be relied upon to manage a simple piece of business of that sort.

“I don’t expect the wreck has moved an inch, sir,” said Turner. “There’s no tide here. No scour. The two rivers that run into the Bay don’t set up any current you can measure.”

“And the bottom’s firm sand?”

“Firm sand, sir.”

That was something to be thankful for. In mud the wreck might have sunk beyond discovery.

“How the devil did Speedwell come to capsize?” asked Hornblower.

“Sheer bad luck, sir. She was an old ship and she’d been at sea a long time. The weeds and the barnacles were thick along her waterline—she wasn’t coppered high enough, sir. So they were heeling her, cleaning her port side, with the guns run out to starboard and all the weights they could shift over to starboard too. It was a still day, baking hot. Then, before you could say Jack Robinson, there came a gust out of the mountains. It caught her square on the port beam and laid her over before she could pay off. The gun ports were open and the water came up over the sills. That laid her over still more—at least, that’s what the court of inquiry found, sir—and with her hatchways open the water rose over the coamings and down she went.”