“They’re only green at this time of year, sir,” explained Turner. “The rest of the year they’re brown.”
“Yes.”
Hornblower had read all he could about the Eastern Mediterranean, and he knew something of the climatic conditions.
“Not many people live there now, sir,” went on Turner. “Farmers, a few. Shepherds. Little fishing villages in some of the coves. A little coasting trade in caiques from Rhodes — not so much of that now, sir. There’s piracy in all these waters, on account of the feuds between the Greeks and the Turks. There’s a bit of trade in honey an’ timber, but precious little.”
“Yes.”
It was fortunate the wind had backed southerly, even by so little. It eased one of the myriad complications in his complicated life.
“Ruins a-plenty along that coast, though, sir,” droned on Turner. “Cities — temples — you’d be surprised.”
Ancient Greek civilization had flourished here. Over there had stood Artemisia and a score of other Greek cities, pulsating with life and beauty.
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
“The villages mostly stand where the old cities were,” persisted Turner. “Ruins all round ‘em. Half the cottages are built of marble from the temples.”
“Yes.”
In other circumstances Hornblower could have been deeply interested, but as it was Turner was merely distraction. There was not merely the immediate business in hand of taking Atropos up into Marmorice harbour; there was the business of how to deal with the Turkish authorities; of how to set about the problems of salvage; there was the question — the urgent, anxious question — as to whether McCullum would live. There was the routine of the ship; when Hornblower looked round him he could see the hands and the officers clustered along the ship’s sides gazing out eagerly at the shores. There were Greeks dwelling among the Mohammedans of the mainland — that would be important when it came to a question of keeping liquor from the men. And he would like to fill his water barrels; and there was the matter of obtaining fresh vegetables.
Here was Still with a routine question. Hornblower nodded in agreement.
“Up spirits!”
The cry went through the little ship, and when they heard it the men had no ears for any siren song from the shore. This was the great moment of the day for most of them, when they would pour their tiny issue of rum-and-water down their eager throats. To deprive a man of his ration was like barring a saint from Paradise. The speculations that went on among the men, their dealings with their rum rations, the exchanging, the buying, the selling, made the South Sea Bubble seem small by comparison. But Hornblower decided he need not vaunt himself above the herd, he need not look down with condescension at the men as if they were Circe’s hogs swilling at a trough; it was perfectly true that this was the great moment of their day, but it was because they had no other moment at all, for months and for years, confined within the wooden walls of their little ship, often seeing not a shilling of money in all that time, not a fresh face, not a single human problem on which to exercise their wits. Perhaps it was better to be a captain and have too many problems.
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 cross-bearing. 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 a-starboard,” 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 three-mile 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.