“Belay!” ordered Jones as the tricing lines came taut.

“Too taut, Mr. Jones! I told you that before. Slack away on those falls!”

Taut boarding nettings, triced up trimly as far as they would go, might look seamanlike, but were not as effective when their function as obstacles was considered. A loose, sagging netting was far more difficult to climb or to cut. Hornblower watched the netting sag down again into lubberly festoons.

“Belay!”

That was better. These nettings were not intended to pass an admiral’s inspection, but to keep out boarders.

“Boarding nettings rigged, sir,” reported Jones, after a moment’s interval, to call his captain’s attention to the fact that the ship’s company was awaiting further orders; Hornblower had given the last one himself.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

Hornblower spoke a trifle absently; his gaze was not towards Jones, but was directed far away. Automatically Jones followed his glance.

“Good God!” said Jones.

A big ship was rounding Red Cliff Point, entering into the bay. Everyone else saw her at the same moment, and a babble of exclamation arose.

“Silence, there!”

A big ship, gaudily painted in red and yellow, coming in under topsails, a broad pendant at her mainmast head and the flag of the Prophet at her peak. She was a great clumsy craft, oldfashioned in the extreme, carrying two tiers of guns so that her sides were unnaturally high for her length; and her beam was unnaturally wide, and her bowsprit steved higher than present fashions in European navies dictated. But the feature which first caught the eye was the lateen rig on the mizzen mast; it was more than thirty years since the last lateen mizzen in the Royal Navy had been replaced by the square mizzen topsail. When Hornblower had first seen her through his glass the triangular peak of her mizzen beside her two square topsails had revealed her nationality unmistakably to him. She looked like something in an old print; without her flag she could have taken her place in the fighting line in Blake’s navy or Van Tromp’s without exciting comment. She must be almost the last survivor of the small clumsy ships of the lime that had now been replaced by the stately 74; small, clumsy, but all the same with a weight of metal that could lay the tiny Atropos into a splintered Wreck at one broadside.

“That’s a broad pendant, Mr. Jones,” said Hornblower. “Salute her.”

He spoke out of the side of his mouth, for he had his glass trained on her. Her gun ports were closed; on her lofty forecastle he could see men scurrying like ants making ready to anchor. She was crowded with men; as she took in sail it was strange to see men balanced across the sloping mizzen yard—Hornblower had never expected to see a sight like that in his life, especially as the men wore long loose shirts like gowns which flapped round them as they hung over the yard.

The ninepounder forward gave its sharp bang—some powder boy must have run fast below to bring up the onepound saluting charges—and a puff of smoke, followed by a report, showed that the Turkish ship was replying. She had goosewinged her main topsail—another outlandish sight in these circumstances—and was slowly coming into the Bay towards them.

“Mr. Turner! Come here please, to interpret. Mr. Jones, send some hands to the capstan, if you please. Take in on the spring if necessary so that the guns bear.”

The Turkish ship glided on.

“Hail her,” said Hornblower to Turner.

A shout came back from her.

“She’s the Mejidieh, sir,” reported Turner. “I’ve seen her before.”

“Tell her to keep her distance.”

Turner hailed through his speaking trumpet, but the Mejidieh still came on.

“Tell her to keep off. Mr. Jones! Take in on the spring. Stand by at the guns, there!”

Closer and closer came the Mejidieh, and as she did so the Atropos swung round, keeping her guns pointed at her. Hornblower picked up the speaking trumpet.

“Keep off, or I’ll fire into you!”

She altered course almost imperceptibly and glided by, close enough for Hornblower to see the faces that lined the side, faces with moustaches and faces with beards; mahoganycoloured faces, almost chocolate-coloured faces. Hornblower watched her go by. She roundedto, with the goosewinged main topsail closehauled, held her new course for a few seconds, and then took in her sail, came to the wind and anchored, a quarter of a mile away. The excitement of action ebbed away in Hornblower, and the old depression returned. A buzz of talk went up from the men clustered at the guns—it was quite irrepressible by now, with this remarkable new arrival.

“The lateener’s heading this way, sir,” reported Horrocks.

From the promptitude with which she appeared she must have been awaiting the Mejidieh’s arrival. Hornblower saw her pass close under the Mejidieh’s stern; he could almost hear the words that she exchanged with the ship, and then she came briskly up close alongside the Atropos. There in the stern was the whitebearded Mudir, hailing them.

“He wants to come on board, sir,” reported Turner.

“Let him come,” said Hornblower. “Unlace that netting just enough for him to get through.”

Down in the cabin the Mudir looked just the same as before. His lean face was as impassive as ever; at least he showed no signs of triumph He could play a winning game like a gentleman; Hornblower, without a single trump card in his hand, was determined to show that he could play a losing game like a gentleman, too.

“Explain to him,” he said to Turner, “that I regret there is no coffee to offer him. No fires when the ship’s cleared for action.”

The Mudir was gracious about the absence of coffee, as he indicated by a gesture. There was a polite interchange of compliments which Turner hardly troubled to translate, before he approached the business in hand.

“He says the Vali is in Marmorice with his army,” reported Turner. “He says the forts at the mouth are manned and the guns loaded.”

“Tell him I know that.”

“He says that ship’s the Mejidieh, sir, with fiftysix guns and a thousand men.”

“Tell him I know that too.”

The Mudir stroked his beard before taking the next step.

“He says the Vali was very angry when he heard we’d been taking treasure from the bottom of the Bay.”

“Tell him it is British treasure.”

“He says it was lying in the Sultan’s waters, and all wrecks belong to the Sultan.”

In England all wrecks belonged to the King.

“Tell him the Sultan and King George are friends.”

The Mudir’s reply to that was lengthy.

“No good, sir,” said Turner. “He says Turkey’s at peace with France now and so is neutral. He said—he said that we have no more rights here than if we were Neapolitans, sir.”

There could not be any greater expression of contempt anywhere in the Levant.

“Ask him if he has ever seen a Neapolitan with guns run out and matches burning.”

It was a losing game that Hornblower was playing, but he was not going to throw in his cards and yield all the tricks without a struggle, even though he could see no possibility of winning even one. The Mudir stroked his beard again; with his expressionless eyes he looked straight at Hornblower, and straight through him, as he spoke.

“He must have been watching everything through a telescope from shore, sir,” commented Turner, “or it may have been those fishing boats. At any rate, he knows about the gold and the silver, and it’s my belief, sir, that they’ve known there was treasure in the wreck for years. That secret wasn’t as well kept as they thought it was in London.”

“I can draw my own conclusions, Mr. Turner, thank you.”

Whatever the Mudir knew or guessed, Hornblower was not going to admit anything.

“Tell him we have been delighted with the pleasure of his company.”