Pasha

CHAPTER 8

HMS L’A URORE LAY AT ANCHOR in the fleet rendezvous at Tenedos. The burden of fleeing people had made working the ship through the narrows of the Dardanelles the stuff of nightmares but eventually they had all been safely landed ashore. Except the English ambassador, who still lay ailing in Kydd’s cabin.

On arrival Kydd had been quick to advise Admiral Louis of events. He had orders for the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean in general, but no instructions touching on the situation they found themselves in-that the British had been summarily excluded from Constantinople and its strategic vicinity.

“I’ll send dispatches, of course, but all we can do is resume our cruise north,” Louis decided. “You’ve two days to get your vessel in shape before we sail.”

But then the situation changed completely.

Coming into view around the headland a crowd of sail quickly resolved into a full-scale battle fleet led by a massive three-decker flying the pennant of a senior admiral. As it came to for mooring, sharp eyes noted that the flagship was Royal George, a 100-gun first rate in the same class as Victory. She was followed in line by another three-decker and a host of other battleships.

At the sound of the gun salutes, men tumbled up from below and stared at the apparition. Their lordships at the Admiralty did not send massive assets such as these on jaunts-it must be to some purpose. Officers and men speculated: an invasion of Naples to forestall a French move against Sicily was the favourite, followed by the dark suspicion that the Tsar of Russia had turned again and was now allied with Bonaparte, who had offered Malta to seal the compact.

Rear Admiral Louis was on his way to the great flagship without delay, and while everyone waited for what would come of the visit, there were even wilder conjectures: the Toulon blockade had been broken and a frantic search for the French fleet was under way, or conceivably the Greeks had risen in rebellion and this fleet was sent in support or to suppress it.

When the signal was hung out on Royal George-“All captains”-Kydd wasted no time in making his way there.

He was met at the entry-port and taken down to the great cabin where, along with the other captains, he was introduced to the fleet commander, Vice Admiral of the White Sir John Duckworth, victor of San Domingo and second in command under Collingwood of the Mediterranean fleet. With him was Rear Admiral Sir Sidney Smith.

Kydd knew both men: Duckworth had been a commodore in the taking of Menorca when he had been a junior lieutenant on a signalling mission ashore and he knew him to be bluff, ambitious but cautious. He had missed Trafalgar but gone on to personal glory in the fleet action at San Domingo against the French that had led to their withdrawal from the Caribbean, and was known now to covet Collingwood’s own command.

The other could not have been more different. Kydd had first met Smith in the dramatic defence of Acre, when he had been with a motley band of British seamen and Arab irregulars under Smith’s command that had stood against a siege by Napoleon Bonaparte face to face, to send him back to France in complete defeat, even to the extent of abandoning his army.

Smith was clever, ingenious and restless, but had a knack for irritating his superiors. Yet his courage was undoubted-the Swedish king had knighted him for his role in a titanic battle against the Russians that had cost them sixty-four ships and many thousands of lives. Once he had even been captured as a spy and taken to a Paris fortress but had then escaped in dramatic circumstances.

Kydd had been in his first command, the brig-sloop Teazer, when he had last seen Smith in Alexandria and where he had experienced his jealousy and glory-seeking at first-hand. He wondered what the man was doing in Duckworth’s command, then recalled the rumour that he had been the lover of Princess Caroline of Brunswick, the consort of the Prince of Wales; there had been talk of a child. It was more than likely he had been packed off out of the country.

He knew one other of the dozen commanders seated around the vast polished table-the captain of Ajax, a legendary 74-gun ship-of-the-line. This was Nelson’s Blackwood, the dour frigate captain whom Kydd had served under at Trafalgar and who had first brought the news of the French at Cadiz to Merton. He ventured a smile across the cabin and was rewarded with a slight easing of a frown-but that was Blackwood’s way, and Kydd determined to make a visit when he could, to talk over times still fresh for them both.

“Shall we come to order, gentlemen?” Duckworth’s booming voice cut across the conversations. “There’s much to do, and time presses.”

He was more portly than Kydd remembered, a heavy face and a ready scowl. He wore his full-dress admiral’s uniform, a mass of gold lace, stars and ribbons.

“As of this date, the detached squadron of Rear Admiral Louis is dissolved, its ships to come under my direct command. This is for a particular service for which I have my orders.”

He had their full attention and looked around the table.

“Gentlemen, we are to force the Dardanelles and lie before Constantinople.”

There were gasps of incredulity but Duckworth ignored them. “The government has had word of French intrigue and treachery in the court of the Sultan of Turkey that threatens to gain for Bonaparte what he lost at the Nile and this cannot be tolerated. My task is to reverse that state of affairs in our favour, by force, if necessary.”

“Sir, when you say force, do you mean-”

“My orders are clear. We lie off the city with guns run out. Our demands are simple: the Turk is to eject the chief French troublemaker, one M’sieur Sebastiani, and his crew to us or alternatively yield up their entire navy, ships and stores to prevent their falling into the hands of the French. Failing that, we bombard the city of Constantinople and lay it in ruins.”

“Good God! This is madness!” Smith stuttered, his face reddening. “The work of a lunatic! We can’t just-”

“Admiral Smith!” rapped Duckworth, “Kindly keep yourself under control. These orders are not mine-they’re not even those of the commander-in-chief. They originate in London at the highest-I say, the highest-level. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Smith subsided, his fists bunched.

“I’m further instructed to take advice from the ambassador on this matter. His assessments regarding this grave confrontation are trusted by Whitehall and are, no doubt, the reason why we’re here. Where is the fellow, by the way?”

“He lies indisposed in my ship, Sir John,” Kydd answered quickly.

“Well, see he gets the best treatments. He’s much to be consulted.”

“There seems to be a conundrum at large,” Louis came in.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Are not the Turks our allies? A penetration of the Dardanelles by force must be in breach of our treaty of friendship of 1798, surely.”

“We come in peace,” there was a muffled guffaw from Smith, “so if they open fire, it is the Turk who is in default. Never underestimate the wily Oriental, sir! They know full well what they’re about and it’s up to us to bring them to their senses. That is why we’ve been dispatched on this mission.”

Duckworth sniffed disdainfully, then said, “And, for your information, the Russian Navy in Corfu, under their Admiral Senyavin, has offered to send us ships-of-the-line in the common cause. Naturally I shall not avail myself of this, considering our present armament sufficient against the Navy of the Ottomans.”

There was quiet for a space as the import of what had been said sank in. Then Smith said coldly, “Sir, I have met Sultan Selim, my brother having been the previous ambassador. He’s no fool but has problems with his own people and takes to dithering between two courses of action when pressured. He’s close to the French now but can be swayed back just as easily. In all charity, can we not move forward by diplomacy instead of bludgeoning our way-”

“Your objections are noted, sir. My orders are explicit. I can see no reason to delay. We sail against Constantinople.”

“Very good, sir,” Smith said icily. “That leaves only the question of what to say when we fail.”

“Your attitude borders on the mutinous, sir. Explain yourself!”

“Certainly. I know these waters well-are you aware there are thirty-eight forts and batteries on the shores of the Dardanelles before ever the Sea of Marmora is reached? In a passage a mile or so wide this is hard enough to bear, I would have thought. A single ship is no threat and may pass unmolested, but a fleet such as ours will be an intolerable provocation.”

Duckworth looked as though he was going to say something but stayed quiet.

“Then there are the elements. The strait is long and narrow and there are currents and winds that can set the fairest vessel at a stand-I give you what the Turk calls the meltemi, a remorseless nor’easterly that can blow for days and, of course, is dead foul for passage through.”

There were nods about the table. A ponderous line-of-battle ship could sail no closer than six points off the wind’s eye and it didn’t take a lot of imagination to picture a scene of back-winded ships milling helplessly before the guns of a Turkish fortress.

“And did I say currents? There are some swifter than a man may run, many that will stem a ship motionless in a tops’l breeze. Sir, you may be confident of our first armed incursion into the strait since the Crusaders, but I am not.”

Duckworth glowered. “Why wasn’t I told of this in more detail? Don’t we have pilots as will preserve us through the hazards?”

“You’ll trust a Turk to conn us safely through to fall upon his countrymen?”

“Humph. A good point, o’ course. Thirty-eight fortifications, you say. This will not be easy-to reduce them one by one will take time.”

“And given the narrow width of the channel we cannot concentrate our fire-power at once,” Louis added. “It requires we brave the enemy’s shot ship by ship instead.”

“Quite,” Duckworth said, the frown now permanent. “In view of what I’ve heard on fortresses, winds, restricted waters and currents, I’m minded to delay the expedition until we have a clearer plan in hand. It seems obvious to me now that their lordships were never in possession of all the facts when they drew up their orders.”

“Sir,” Kydd intervened, “as I’m new returned from Constantinople, I’ve seen how fast things are happening there. If we’re indeed to make an impression on the Porte then we should move now, before the French can establish themselves further.”

“Port? What does he mean?”

“The Sublime Porte,” Smith said sharply. “The government of Turkey, named for the gateway where they meet the infidel. And he’s right. If we go through with this madness, better we do it before they get word and set up a resistance.”

“I will be the judge of when we sail. And I say we wait until we can look further into the obstacles that face us. That is my decision.”

An uncomfortable silence was broken by some kind of disturbance outside the cabin. The door opened and the flag-lieutenant poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the ambassador, Mr Arbuthnot, is here and demands entry to any discussion concerning Constantinople.”

“Very well. Send him in.”

Arbuthnot showed no sign of any ailment. He bustled in, eyes a-gleam, seized a chair and sat close to Duckworth.

“I’ve just heard of your arrival, Admiral. How splendid!” he spluttered. “Excellent! London has been listening to what I’ve been saying these last months. A show of force! Nelson’s fleet!”

“I’m happy to see you’ve made a full recovery from your indisposition, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite ready to play my part, Admiral. Now, how then are we to proceed on our great expedition?”

“My orders are to lie off Constantinople and demand the persons of the French delegation. Failing that, to demand the handing over of the entire Ottoman fleet and stores to prevent their falling into French hands.”

“And if they won’t comply?”

“We are to bombard the city until it lies in ruins.”

“Splendid! Our standing among the Turks-who invariably connect power with prestige-will never be higher.”

“Or any other acts as you shall from time to time recommend,” Duckworth said heavily. “And are within my power to undertake.”

“It may not come to that, Admiral. So when might we start our chastising?”

“Sir, I’m not altogether of the opinion that you have a proper regard for the difficulties we are facing.”

“Difficulties?” Arbuthnot said, with surprise. “With a grand fleet such as this? They’ll run like rats at the first sight of it.”

“No, sir. I’m more referring to our forcing of a passage through the Dardanelles. Have you ever given thought to the fact that no hostile armada has ever gone through unopposed since before Drake’s time? There is a reason for that. Fortresses, currents-I won’t weary you with details, sir. Suffice it to say that it is my inviolable decision to delay any sailing until we have thoroughly considered the elements.”

“Delay? I thought I was talking to the fearless hero of San Domingo, sir.”

Duckworth smouldered. “It is not your career that is in jeopardy, Mr Arbuthnot, it is mine. To lose a fleet to the Turk would damn me for ever.”

“You are forgetting something, Admiral.”

“What is that, sir?” Duckworth said stiffly.

“Your orders, sir,” Arbuthnot replied silkily. “Which place my wishes to the fore. And these are that we waste no time in responding to our shameful ejection by the Ottomans by appearing before Constantinople at once. At once, sir!”

“I must first await the arrival of reinforcements from the Russian Navy under Admiral Senyavin before ever I can proceed, sir.”

“Admiral. I write my dispatches at the outset of this expedition tonight. Should you wish me to include the fact that we are lying idle at anchor indefinitely here while our high admiral waits for things to turn more in his favour?”

“I take note of your opinion, Mr Ambassador. Know that I also shall be writing dispatches-to lay before my commander-in-chief the grave professional difficulties we are under.”

“Do so, Admiral. As long as we’re on our way. The triumph will be yours too, never fear.”

“Very well. We get under way tomorrow.”

Smith, who had been listening to the exchange with a lazy smile and with his hands folded behind his head, declared confidently, “I rather think not.”

“What the devil do you mean, sir?”

“Has no one noticed? The wind’s in the north and veering. We’ll be headed by a dead foul wind in the morning-we’re going nowhere.”

As the captains waited for their boats on the spacious quarterdeck of the battleship, Blackwood came up to Kydd. “A pleasure to see you again, old fellow-oh, I do beg your pardon, Sir Thomas.”

“The pleasure is mine also, sir.”

“A trying time, this afternoon. Would you wish to take dinner with me tonight, at all? I’ve some capital lamb cutlets just come aboard that I’d like your opinion of-and perhaps we’ll remember the more uplifting times we’ve had together.”

It was just what he needed to raise his spirits.

Ajax was an old friend. He had seen her first in Alexandria, setting ashore Abercromby’s army that had finished the French in Egypt while he had been a junior commander in Teazer. And then it was Trafalgar-from the deck of his frigate he had seen her take on the bigger French flagship Bucentaure and then the even bigger Santissima Trinidad in an epic fight, nearly invisible in the boiling gun-smoke of the cannonading going on all around her.

Now for the first time he trod her decks-and as a guest.

“Welcome to my ship, Sir Thomas.” Blackwood greeted him warmly, shaking his hand in pleasure. “Shall we go below?”

The evening was settling in, the last dog-watchmen on deck, lanthorns being rigged.

Blackwood’s cabin was as austere as the man: a single polished table set squarely in the middle of the deck, a lamp on gimbals at either side and a candelabrum at the geometric centre. There were few domestic touches, a chaste, almost puritanical feel about it reflecting the personality of the man Kydd remembered.

“I so deplore it when our leaders fall out,” Blackwood murmured, over sherry. “I remember not so long ago the elevated spirit in every heart when Lord Nelson was still with us, every captain burning to do his utmost for the man and his country.”

“When orders were hardly necessary, each knowing his duty and the greater plan,” agreed Kydd.

Blackwood nodded sadly. “Just between you and me, Kydd, I have the gravest reservations about this mission. It’s one as is ill conceived by an interfering Admiralty acting under political pressure and not knowing the facts of the matter.”

These were near treasonable sentiments and Kydd knew that only the worst fears would have driven the loyal Blackwood to utter them.

“Here we have Admiral Duckworth arriving afire for action, and in a day backing and filling with caution when he should be boldly standing on. You know what this implies?”

“That Duckworth is not confiding in his subordinates-he’s had weeks to consult Sir Sidney Smith, who knows these waters and could have warned him of conditions?”

“Just so. I rather think we have an ambitious man overreaching himself, who now sees that, far from a glorious opportunity for fame and distinction, this is threatening to descend into failure and ignominy. Hardly a leader to inspire.”

“And his orders are to defer to the ambassador in both strategy and tactics-a divided command, I believe.”

“Yes, indeed. I’m particularly exercised in how he’ll rein in Sir Sidney. Our Swedish knight is not known for either his tact or strict obedience to orders.”

“His courage is undoubted.”

“As will be tested when we attempt the Dardanelles, of course, but this is not the prime requisite in our case. We shall see.”

More sherry was poured. “You’ve done well, indeed, Sir Thomas,” Blackwood said respectfully. “Since first shipping your swab, Trafalgar within a few months in a new frigate command and then … what was it next? The Cape?”

The dinner passed agreeably, the lamb cutlets superbly cooked and accompanied by a very passable claret.

“Do you miss Euryalus?” Kydd asked.

Blackwood’s frigate had played a central role in Trafalgar even after the battle, acting as flagship for Collingwood, towing the Royal Sovereign to safety in the great storm that followed, and under a flag of truce going into Cadiz to parley for prisoners.

“To be frank, I do. She was only a year or two old and I had her set to rights just as I wanted her. But a frigate … Well, they’re a young man’s command and a ship-of-the-line is a next step to one’s flag, so as of last year, here I have Ajax.”

“A fine command, even so,” Kydd said, with sincere admiration. “I saw her in action at Trafalgar.”

“Of course you did. And did you know it was Lieutenant Pinfold, her first lieutenant, who commanded? Lechmere was called away to a court-martial and the young fellow found himself pitched in without warning.”

“And served nobly, as what I witnessed.”

“I heard he was made post directly and given a frigate command.”

The two men sat back reflectively. It was not so long ago but already it seemed another age, a time for heroes, fighting for survival against fearful odds and the end always in doubt. Now it was the slow but sure acquisition of empire and-

There was a muffled crash that seemed to come from under their feet, perhaps in the wardroom or midshipman’s berth.

Blackwood frowned.

Another. Then the thump of running feet.

Blackwood jumped up, lunging to open the door. He was met by the heart-stopping sight of billowing dark smoke and the stink of burning.

A tearing cry of “Fire!” was taken up, urgently spreading forward and an unseen stampede began.

“If I can do anything …”

But Blackwood was off into the roiling murk, fighting to reach his quarterdeck.

Kydd had a primitive fear of fire and his heart pounded as he thrust after him. In seconds he was staggering in the choking darkness, nearly knocked off his feet by running figures. Bellowed orders and cries of panic rang out.

How had the ’tween decks filled with smoke so fast?

Kydd dimly saw it was puffing up the main-hatch out into the gun-deck-which suggested it had taken hold below first.

It was near impossible to see to manoeuvre a fire-engine in the darkness or even get some idea of where the core of the blaze was. And to get water down to the bowels of the vessel in quantity meant a long and near useless bucket chain, or opening the bilge cocks and risking the ship sinking with no guarantee that the water flooding in could be diverted for fire-fighting.

He hesitated-his every fibre screamed at him to get out of the claustrophobia to the open air; this was not his ship, or the men his to command, and he had no reason to get in the way of those who were trying to stem the rampaging advance of the fire. He heard a lieutenant’s hoarse urging-and stumbled guiltily, eyes streaming, to the ladder and the blessedly clear night air.

The smoke was soon thick and billowing on deck as well, streaming up through the gratings of the main-hatch, a choking hindrance to those trying to rig fire appliances. As yet there were no open flames.

Kydd went to the knot of men he could just see on the quarterdeck. Blackwood was in the centre with a lace kerchief over his mouth and nose, the only officer-the others, no doubt, were below rallying the men. Those about him were the master and boatswain; the carpenter was away knocking down bulkheads to get at the fire.

“If there’s any-”

But Blackwood just looked through him at the extremity of distraction.

“I sent my first luff below to discover the fire but he’s not returned,” he said eventually. “I’ve no idea what’s to do down there.”

In a surge of sympathy Kydd’s hand went out, but it fell away in hopelessness at trying to convey his feelings.

It was one thing to have command and responsibility, quite another to have no knowledge at all on which to base decisions and orders.

An inhuman shriek came clear above the pandemonium and then another-things of horror were happening and they could do nothing.

“All boats in the water,” Blackwood ordered, in not much more than a croak.

The boatswain left, bellowing for hands to muster at the boat skids forward. These would have to be hoisted out by block and tackle at the yardarm, a task normally needing hundreds of men and there was not that number on deck. The smoke was getting worse, now with an acrid edge that made it a choking, suffocating trial. An increasingly impenetrable murkiness hid everything: what it must be like between decks for the heroes at the bucket chains and pumps could not be imagined.

A sudden bright orange light flickered through at the main-hatch. The blaze was now flaring up from the bowels of the ship, hopelessly afire below.

Blackwood hesitated for only a moment. “Abandon ship!” he said, breaking off in a paroxysm of coughing. “Get the men out, every one-abandon ship!”

As if to add point to the inevitability the flames shot up in a sudden blaze amid a hellish chorus of shrieks. The end was not far off-but how could word be spread below? Those it reached might make the safety of the upper deck but many, fighting for the life of their ship, would never hear it.

The smoke was near invisible in the dark so it came as a shock to the other ships at anchor to see flames stabbing up. A gun banged out into the night from forward, Ajax’s anguished cry for help. More cracked out, vivid flashes just piercing the sullen smoke clouds rolling about the deck.

It would take time for boats from the ships to be launched and reach them.

Men stumbled up from below, retching and pitiable. Some took a few breaths and fought their way back down to pass the word and help up shipmates blinded by smoke. Kydd’s heart went out to them.

The main-hatch was turning into an inferno, the sails on the lower yards smouldering and taking fire. Such was its ferocity, Kydd realised, with sick dismay, that in a very short time the after end of the ship would be a death-trap.

He seized Blackwood’s arm and gasped urgently, above the chaos, “We have to get forrard.”

It was a desperate journey: the roaring blaze blinding them with its light in the blackness, the conflagration’s heat and roar beating on them as they passed, paralysing Kydd’s mind with the stark terror of elemental fire, wild and berserk.

On the far side were the long gangways leading over the waist of the ship and past the boats, still on their skids, to the foredeck. There were scores of men at the ship’s side, broken and gasping, staring at the flaring blaze taking pitiless hold aft, then looking down into the inky blackness of the water. Very few could swim and in the blackness their struggles would be invisible, their cries unheard against the crackling din. Every man now faced a stark choice-to be incinerated or drowned.

“They’re not coming,” Blackwood said, in a low voice, gesturing to the other ships.

The few boats that had been launched were hanging back, fearful of what must come. They knew that when the fires reached the grand magazine of the great guns Ajax would cease to be.

“We’ve got to go,” Kydd urged, but he, too, was held in deadly thrall by the still, dark waters.

Blackwood drew himself up. In strong, solemn tones, he told his men, “There’s no hope for it, I’m sorry to say. Cast yourselves over-side is your only chance. God bless you and keep you.”

Several plunged into the sea but many more held back in eye-bulging terror.

Unexpectedly, Blackwood touched Kydd’s arm. “Dear chap. I hesitate to ask it, but if you’d help me, I’d be much obliged to you.”

In the wildness of the night his calmness reached out to Kydd. “Of course. How might I … ?”

It was the act of a brave and intelligent man. Blackwood knew that his ship was destined for destruction but he realised that the rest of those in the anchorage could not escape in time and would be caught up in the holocaust. He had noticed that they were all riding to their anchors facing into the slight night breeze so he was asking Kydd to help him cut the cable of Ajax to let her drift through the fleet and away before the cataclysm.

They stumbled down the fore-hatchway in near pitch dark, the smoke choking, blinding, while they fumbled about for the riding bitts where the anchor cable was belayed, feeling their way in a howling chaos of panic and death. And all the time the fire was raging out of control. The final blast could happen at any moment; the actual time would depend on where the fire had started. If above the level of the magazine, then the rising heat of the blaze would consume the upper part of the vessel before it ate its way down. If not, then the next second could be their last.

They found the massive square bitts. Grabbing a fire-axe from each side of the fore-mast they threw off their coats and, coughing helplessly, eyes streaming, by turns swung in savage hits at the six-inch thick cable.

Obstinately the cable remained iron-hard and unyielding-the thousands of tons of battleship at her anchor tautening it.

In the confined space they couldn’t take a vertical swing or be sure to strike in the same place and, in despair, Kydd saw that their efforts were only stranding the massive rope. Nearly blinded now with sweat and tears he swung and hit mechanically, on and on, until suddenly the rope parted with a bang and slithered and bumped away out of the hawse.

“Let’s be out!” Kydd gasped, and they made for the broad ladder to the foredeck.

He saw by the other ships starkly illuminated in the outer blackness that they had begun imperceptibly to slip away sternwards.

“Shall we go?” he said, hesitating with his leg over the side-rail.

“I’ll-I’ll be along presently,” Blackwood said, his eyes fixed on the raging fire now turning the whole after end of the ship into a white-hot furnace.

Kydd crossed to him quickly, tugging at his sleeve. “We have to go now-she’ll blow any second!”

Blackwood turned slowly to him with a sad smile. “You see, I can’t swim, old chap.”

Kydd ran to one of the boats and pulled out an oar. “Clap hold of this when you’re in the water until they find you.”

He pushed him to the beakhead, the closer for Blackwood to drop into the water. The man swung down on to the small grating above the bowsprit and, hesitating only a little, grabbed a line and lowered himself down, dropping the last few feet into the blackness. Kydd saw him, frantically splashing about, and quickly let the oar go to float near him. Blackwood grabbed it, giving a shamefaced wave.

With a last glance at the terrible scene Kydd peered down at the dark waters to check they were clear, and let go. A half-second of weightlessness and then shocking cold. He spluttered and kicked until he was head above water and looked around.

On one side was the immense bulk of the battleship, on the other the fleet, its boats hanging back in fear and impossibly far off. The cold was ferocious, clamping in and forcing his inner core of warmth smaller and smaller. He knew that when it was finally extinguished he would be dead.

There were men in the water here and there, some splashing and shouting, others ominously still, but no sign of Blackwood.

He stroked clumsily to a piece of wreckage. It turned out to be a chicken coop, drowned fowls still inside and a body slumped half across it. There was no sign of life, its eyes stared sightlessly up. He gently pushed it off and tried to pull himself up. It was a mistake-out of water the wind cut into him cruelly and, reluctantly, he slid back into it.

The burning hulk of Ajax retreated into the distance and the boats finally moved in.

At the last extremity of bitter cold Kydd was dragged out of the water and a rough blanket wrapped tenderly about him. He joined two or three others bundled on the bottom boards. Shuddering uncontrollably he took a gulp from the flask of rum offered, then lay down, letting the fire of the spirit spread through his body.

It was now only a matter of enduring.

“I think I speak for all of us,” Duckworth declared ponderously, “when I say how in sympathy we are for Captain Blackwood on the loss of his ship.”

“And her company,” muttered Smith.

“And at such tragic cost,” he added, glaring at his junior.

“So we think it in the region of some, two-three hundred perished?” Smith remarked drily.

“By muster, two hundred and fifty-two,” snapped Blackwood, looking haggard and drained. “All good men. Most fought and survived at Trafalgar, poor souls.”

“Then we must think it one of the worst disasters the Navy has suffered in these wars,” Smith came back smoothly.

Kydd felt a rush of anger. Petty bickering to make points when the burial parties had not yet returned from Tenedos. Ajax had drifted as planned, taking the ground on the island to detonate in a thunderous cataclysm in the early hours of the morning.

Duckworth shifted uncomfortably. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I won’t have any further talk on the loss of Ajax before the court of inquiry sits. We are in the presence of the enemy as well you know and have decisions to make.”

“Then you have reconsidered this venture, sir?” Smith asked innocently.

Duckworth fiddled with a pencil. “We must reflect on our position, I believe. That no one in modern times has forced the Dardanelles bears hard on our hopes that we might be an exception. And with the wind still foul …”

“As is a delay enabling the Turk to be forewarned and bring up his navy,” Smith said.

“Admiral Smith! I am annoyed and wearied by your attitude. Your duty as a senior officer is to support His Majesty’s arms in any operation ordered by their lordships. You’ll be more positive and helpful in your remarks or, by God, I’ll have you relieved of your command, sir!”

Smith gave a half-smile and looked down.

“Now! The ambassador requires we should proceed in this enterprise. We have no option in the matter.” He tugged at his collar irritably.

“Admiral Smith, do you care to outline the military situation that confronts us?”

“Why, that’s simple enough,” Smith answered easily, as if nothing had happened. “The forts are paired along the strait, one on the north, European, shore and another on the Asiatic side. The chief ones are at the entrance, then the outer castles at Sedil Bahr, where it narrows to a couple of miles. Some nine miles further on we have the inner castles at Chanak Kaleh, where the entire width of the Dardanelles is less than three-quarters of a mile. More defences under Point Pesquies, but if we get past those we’ve clear sailing for a space-until the worst is to be met with at Gallipoli.”

“A hard tale,” Boyles of Windsor Castle remarked softly. “And after Gallipoli what must we face?”

“Afterwards? Nothing. We enter the Sea of Marmora with naught but the open waters between us and Constantinople.”

“Except the Ottoman Navy,” Duckworth said darkly. “My information is that their order of battle includes ships-of-the-line and frigates by the score.”

“I rather fancy these will be in the north, arrayed against the Russians whom they are not fond of, but I could be wrong,” Smith said languidly.

Duckworth glowered, then gave a thin smile. “You are ready enough with your opinions, sir. Now, tell me, is it in your conceiving that the forces opposing us are too formidable to contemplate an attempt on the Dardanelles?”

Smith paused, and Kydd knew why. He was being asked either to hand Duckworth the excuse he needed to call off the operation, or to hazard his reputation on predicting a successful outcome.

“These forces are daunting indeed, yet I believe it will be the fortunes of war that will as ever determine the issue,” he answered.

“Ah! So you see before us no immediate impediment to the expedition?”

“Beyond those I have mentioned, no.”

“Thank you,” Duckworth said. “And with that assurance from you we shall advance the operation.”

So Smith was to be implicated in the event of a failure. It would not stand up in a court-martial but might perhaps colour the findings.

Duckworth leaned back. “My orders are this. If, and only if, a fair wind is squarely in our favour, we shall proceed. You, Admiral Smith, will form one division in the rear, comprising Pompee, Thunderer, Standard, L’Aurore and the two bomb-ketches, while I shall command from Royal George in the van with the heavier class of ships. We shall enter in line-of-battle and engage the forts hotly as we pass.”

There was more: detail on signals, towing and other matters, but it added up to just one thing. The British fleet would penetrate into the Dardanelles. They would go in single line ahead and trust to their fire-power to silence the forts on the way.

There was much to think about as Kydd returned to L’Aurore. A pall was hanging over the whole operation and it wasn’t just from the so-recent distressing scenes of Ajax’s immolation. A divided command, not just politically but in personalities-it cast the worst of omens before them.

He was in Smith’s squadron. While Duckworth’s heavies would stay dutifully together, the restless Smith would take any opportunity for action, however far it strayed from the main mission, if only to prove how active he was compared to his senior.

Why did such a gifted and intelligent man have to be so damned contrary? And was it really so necessary to flatten the ancient city, the beautiful Hagia Sophia and all? It probably wouldn’t happen-the odds were very much against them ever getting past all of thirty-eight fortresses with their hundreds of guns.

In a black mood he took to his cabin and sat by the stern windows, automatically leaving “Renzi’s seat” vacant. But Renzi was part of the past. He was alone now and had to make the best of it. He’d have the old chair struck down in the hold and be damned to it all.

Tysoe appeared, like magic, with a whisky and water and left quickly. How the devil did the villain know?

He sipped appreciatively and let his thoughts wander. It was now more probable than not that some day he would be an admiral himself. How would he have dealt with a junior like Smith? And such a situation with the civil power telling him what he had to do. Well, he wasn’t an admiral yet and therefore didn’t have to find an answer. He began to feel better.

Then his eyes strayed to the work he’d taken out ready from his locked escritoire and his sour mood returned. It was his dispatches to Collingwood, following his return from Constantinople, and they were pressing: a cutter would leave shortly with those from all captains, as well as Arbuthnot’s, and his weren’t ready.

He swore out loud. It wasn’t the communication itself that took the time-it was a plain enough tale-but the ciphering afterwards. A tedious but important task that, until now, Renzi had quietly relieved him of. Some captains told off one of the officers for the duty but he would never do that. First, it involved taking the officer off the watch bill, understandably unpopular with his fellows, but more importantly, he would no longer have the assurance that the captain alone knew the content of the dispatch.

God damn, but he missed Renzi!

He rose reluctantly-then had a thought. He employed a confidential secretary. Why shouldn’t he make use of him?

Admiralty regulations gave no hard and fast rules over who should do the ciphering, merely that the captain must be in a position to assure himself of their strict confidentiality. Renzi, previously a naval officer, had had impeccable credentials. Did Dillon?

He quashed the retort that he could never be another Renzi, for no one could. He had to be taken on his own terms or not at all.

The young man was willing enough, but his romantic leanings were out of place in a man-of-war. Apparently he wrote poetry, had declaimed into his first Mediterranean sunset and had grown soulful over the distant sight of Lesbos-much as Renzi had, Kydd was forced to admit.

Then again he’d seen him dress for a gun-room dinner in a blue velvet jacket and artistically deshabille neck-cloth, his hair unclubbed and long. The rig of a trusted and discreet amanuensis?

With his easy manner Dillon had found acceptance there, a character in his own right. That he didn’t know his nauticals was no bar to fellowship for he’d made it plain that this was not his calling. At the first-night dinner, when Curzon had cattily put him right over the meaning of “martingale” as applied to a bowsprit, he had innocently asked him to explain the word itself. At Curzon’s reluctance, Dillon had lightly mused on its horse-coping usage and then, to the delight of the others, had gone on to trace its probable Middle English origins back to Chaucer and Piers Plowman.

Kydd sighed. If he didn’t trust the man he had no right to engage him as a secretary. He’d served in L’Aurore now for some time and never shown himself unfit for the position or slack in stays as regards diligence-and if he couldn’t bring the man on he would have to do the work himself indefinitely.

It was being forced on him but there was little choice. He’d do it-perhaps with the proviso that Dillon swore himself to confidentiality.

This last idea pleased him, and it led to another. If he was being entrusted with codes, vital national secrets, then surely he was to be trusted with his personal matters. Kydd was a martyr to paperwork, loathing its passive nature, tedium and need for form and correctness, but had not felt able to turn it over to Dillon because it felt a violation of privacy. His humble origins as a wig-maker and pressed man were now behind him, but if he gave access to his papers, his financial details and so on, Dillon would know everything.

He didn’t recall who had said it but the old saw “No man can be a hero to his valet” came to mind.

“Desire Mr Dillon to attend on me,” he ordered at the door, and returned to his chair to consider his decision.

“Sir Thomas?”

As usual he stood loosely, features composed and respectful.

“Ah, Dillon. A word with you,” Kydd harrumphed.

“Sir?”

“I think it time for you to earn your keep. I desire that you assume duties of a more confidential nature.”

“Of course, sir. I’d be delighted.” There was an animation that seemed to show he had been waiting for just this moment-a release from the mundane?

“Then you’ll be instructed in ciphering, for you will be transcribing my dispatches from this point forward.”

“I understand, Sir Thomas. About the grave nature of being privy to such secrets, I mean.”

“Good. I shall, of course, require you swear that you will keep them and so forth. Have you any objection?”

“None, Sir Thomas.”

“Very well. And, further, you are to undertake the care and upkeep of my personal correspondence and papers.”

“I’m honoured by your trust, sir.”

“Yes. Well, that’s decided, then. How are you settling in-the gun-room mess, that is?”

“Happily, thank you, Sir Thomas. In large part I’m obliged to Lieutenant Bowden for his amiable manners and patience, which have enabled me to take my place in such august and hearty company.”

It appeared the young man was succeeding well in fitting in and finding fulfilment in their fellowship.

Kydd continued, “I see you are keeping the young gentlemen to their studies. Are they progressing well?”

“Both in their way, sir. But, you see, there is …”

“Yes?”

“My grasp of mathematicals is slender, I do confess, and their navigation studies require that …”

“Well. Perhaps we shall leave that side to the sailing master.” It was oddly gratifying that he’d discovered a weakness in the young man.

“Thank you, Sir Thomas.”

“I should mention that your confidential work will be carried out in this cabin. You may use the escritoire, for which I have the key, and … and should you have need of good daylight, do feel free to use … that chair.” Renzi’s accustomed seat.

“Right. Well, we’ll begin this afternoon at three bells. Good day to you, Dillon.”

But the next day the winds relented, veering to a playful southerly. Almost as soon as it was light enough to see, Royal George ran up a signal: “Prepare to weigh.”

Kydd felt a lurch of unreality. Against all reason it was going ahead: the British fleet was on its way to force the Dardanelles and level Constantinople to the ground.