“Well, Mr. Turner?”

Turner kept his distance, his manner indicating that he had something very private to say. He spoke in a low voice when Hornblower walked over to him.

“Please, sir, it’s the Mudir. He wants to visit you. I can’t make him out, but there’s something he wants.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said—I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t know what else to do—I said you’d be delighted. There’s something fishy, I think. He said he’d come at once.”

“He did, did he?”

Things were bound to be fishy in these troubled waters, thought Hornblower, with a simultaneous disapproval of the style of that sentiment.

“Midshipman of the watch!”

“Sir!”

“What do you see over towards the town?”

Smiley trained his glass across the Bay.

“Boat putting out, sir. She’s the same lateen we saw before.”

“Any flag?”

“Yes, sir. Red. Turkish colours, it looks like.”

“Very well. Mr. Jones, we’re going to have an official visitor. You may pipe the side for him.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Now, Mr. Turner, you don’t know what the Mudir wants?”

“No, sir. He wanted to see you, urgently, it seems like. ‘Il capitano’ was all he’d say when we landed—the market was supposed to be ready for us, but it wasn’t. What he wanted was to see the Captain, and so I said you’d see him.”

“He gave no hint?”

“No, sir. He wouldn’t say. But he was agitated, I could see.”

“Well, we’ll know soon enough,” said Hornblower.

The Mudir mounted to the deck with a certain dignity, despite the difficulties the awkward ascent presented to his old legs. He looked keenly about him as he came on board; whether or not he understood the compliment that was being paid him by the bos’n’s mates and the sideboys could not be determined. There was a keen hawklike face above the white beard, and a pair of lively dark eyes took in the scene about him without revealing whether it was a familiar one or not. Hornblower touched his hat and the Mudir replied with a graceful gesture of his hand to his face.

“Ask him if he will come below,” said Hornblower. “I’ll lead the way.”

Down in the cabin Hornblower offered a chair, with a bow, and the Mudir seated himself. Hornblower sat opposite him with Turner at his side. The Mudir spoke and Turner translated.

“He hopes God has given you the gift of health, sir,” said Turner.

“Make the correct reply,” said Hornblower.

As he spoke he met the glance of the sharp brown eyes and smiled politely.

“Now he’s asking you if you have had a prosperous voyage, sir,” reported Turner.

“Say whatever you think fit,” answered Hornblower.

The conversation proceeded from one formal politeness to another. This was the way of the Levant, Hornblower knew. It could be neither dignified nor tactful to announce one’s business in one’s opening sentences.

“Should we offer him a drink?” awed Hornblower.

“Well, sir, it’s usual over business to offer coffee.”

“Then don’t you think we’d better?”

“You see, sir, it’s the coffee—it’ll be different from what he calls coffee.”

“We can hardly help that. Give the order, if you please.”

The conversation continued, still without reaching any point. It was interesting to note how an intelligent and mobile face like the Mudir’s could give no hint at all of any emotion behind it. But the coffee brought about a change. The sharp eyes took in the thick mugs, the battered pewter coffee pot, while the face remained impassive, and while the Mudir was going through the ceremony of polite refusal and then grateful acceptance; but the tasting of the coffee effected a transformation. Willy nilly, the Mudir could not prevent an expression of surprise, even though he instantly brought his features under control again. He proceeded to sweeten his coffee to a syrup with sugar, and he did not touch the cup, but raised it to his lips by means of the saucer.

“There ought to be little cakes and sweetmeats, too, sir,” said Turner. “But we couldn’t offer him blackstrap and biscuit.”

“I suppose not,” said Hornblower.

The Mudir sipped cautiously at his coffee again, and resumed his speech.

“He says you have a very fine ship, sir,” said Turner. “I think he is coming to the point soon.”

“Thank him and tell him what a wonderful village he has, if you think that’s the right thing,” said Hornblower.

The Mudir sat back in his chair—it was plain that he was not accustomed to chairs—studying first Hornblower’s face and then Turner’s. Then he spoke again; his voice was well modulated, well controlled.

“He’s asking if Atropos is going to stay long, sir,” said Turner.

It was the question Hornblower was expecting.

“Say that I have not completed my stores yet,” he said.

He was quite sure that the preliminary operations of salvage, sweeping for the wreck, buoying it, and sending down the divers, had escaped observation, or at least would be quite unintelligible from the shore. He did not take his eyes from the Mudir’s face as Turner translated and the Mudir replied.

“He says he presumes you will be leaving as soon as you’ve done that,” said Turner.

“Tell him it’s likely.”

“He says this would be a good place to wait for information about French ships, sir. The fishing boats often come in with news.”

“Tell him I have my orders.”

The suspicion began to form in Hornblower’s mind that the Mudir did not want Atropos to leave. Perhaps he wanted to keep him here until an ambush could be laid, until the guns at the fort could be manned, until the Vali returned with the local army. This was a good way to carry on a diplomatic conversation. He could watch the Mudir all the time, while any unguarded statement of Turner’s could be disavowed on the grounds of poor translation if no other way.

“We can keep an eye on the Rhodes Channel from here, sir, he says,” went on Turner. “It’s the most likely course for any Frenchy. It looks as if he wants to get his twenty guineas, sir.”

“Maybe so,” said Hornblower, trying to convey by his tone that he saw no need for Turner to contribute to the conversation. “Say that my orders give me very little discretion.”

With the conversation taking this turn it was obvious that the best tactics would be to display a reluctance that might with great difficulty be overcome. Hornblower hoped that Turner’s command of lingua franca was equal to this demand upon it.

The Mudir replied with more animation than he had previously shown; it was as if he were about to show his hand.

“He wants us to stay here, sir,” said Turner. “If we do there’ll be much better supplies coming in from the country.”

That was not his real reason, obviously.

“No,” said Hornblower. “If we can’t get the supplies we’ll go without them.”

Hornblower was baring to be careful about the expression on his face; he had to say these things to Turner as if he really meant them—the Mudir was not letting anything escape his notice.

“Now he’s coming out in the open, sir,” said Turner. “He’s asking us to stay.”

“Then ask him why he wants us to.”

This time the Mudir spoke far a long time.

“So that’s it, sir,” reported Turner. “Now we know. There are pirates about.”

“Tell me exactly what he said, if you please, Mr. Turner.”

“There are pirates along the coast, sir,” explained Turner, accepting the rebuke. “A fellow called Michael—Michael the—the Slayer of Turks, sir. I’ve heard of him. He raids these coasts. A Greek, of course. He was at Fettech two days back. That’s just along the coast, sir.”

“And the Mudir’s afraid this’ll be the next place he raids?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll ask him so as to make sure, sir,” added Turner, when Hornblower glanced at him.

The Mudir was quite eloquent now that he had taken the plunge Turner had to listen for a long time before he could resume his translation.