Pasha

CHAPTER 11

THE VOYAGE ACROSS THE SEA OF MARMORA from Gallipoli was uneventful and, as intended, the fleet reached its anchorage as dusk was drawing in.

Kydd stood down L’Aurore but lingered on deck, the moment intense with the knowledge that he was part of an expedition that had as its objective the razing to the ground of ancient Byzantium. The Constantinople of the last Roman emperor. The glory of the Turks for a century or more before Shakespeare’s time.

The war against Bonaparte was reaching new depths of ruthlessness, and who knew what else he would be called upon to wreak on the civilised world?

If his old friend Renzi could see this warlike array, what would he think? He would, no doubt, hear later of it in England, read of the part his former shipmate had played and shake his head sorrowfully.

The doomed city could not be seen from the deck but was in plain view from the tops. Several men had climbed up to look across the water of the Bosporus to the sight so enchanting in the early evening. In the morning those same domes and minarets would know the anger of their guns.

Depressed, Kydd left the deck for the solitude of his cabin. Dillon was still working there but gathered his papers and rose respectfully. If this had been Renzi there would most certainly have been a lively discussion in promise.

Impulsively Kydd asked, “Tomorrow we destroy Constantinople. Does it not trouble you, Dillon?”

“We all have our duty, Sir Thomas,” he replied neutrally.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Sir, it’s not my place to have views on the operations of this ship, whatever the outcome.”

“Not even when it involves the destruction of a great and noble city?”

“Sir.”

“And if I give you leave to say your mind?”

It was unfair to press the issue but Kydd felt a stubborn need to.

“Sir?”

“Say away, Mr Dillon.”

“Then, sir, I’d be obliged to reflect that it will stand on its own as a peerless act of barbarity, and under the flag of England. Will that be all, Sir Thomas?”

Kydd nodded sadly.

In the last of the light Royal George hung out the signal for all captains. Kydd’s barge quickly pushed off to join the others that converged on the flagship.

Admiral Duckworth was at the entry-port in welcome and took them to his day cabin. It was of prodigious size compared to L’Aurore’s modest appointments and easily accommodated the dozen or so captains, seated around the broad table in strict order of seniority.

The admiral assumed his seat at one end, Arbuthnot at the other, looking peevish and ill-at-ease. Kydd sat next to Moubray of Active, another frigate, and opposite Blackwood, now a supernumerary in the flagship.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Duckworth said genially, looking about. “It’s my pleasant duty to congratulate us on our success in penetrating the Dardanelles under arms, as we have, with virtually no loss. This stands as an achievement without parallel in history. Well done, all of you.”

There was a polite murmuring but every face was guarded.

“So, Mr Arbuthnot, what do you say to that, sir? We have fulfilled our mission and lie at the gates of Constantinople, as you have desired us. And tomorrow we are ready for the final sanction.”

He frowned at the ambassador’s sour expression. “Are you not content, sir? So ardent in your martial encouragements, I would have thought-”

“Spare me your comradely cheer, Admiral, if you would,” came the acid reply. “And let us hear your plans for the morrow. I fancy it will be a long day.”

“Which we will endeavour to bear,” Duckworth said, with a sarcasm that appeared lost on him. “So now I address myself to my captains.”

He picked up a paper. “It will be a straightforward enough procedure, I’m persuaded, gentlemen. I have in my hand a note for the Sublime Porte, which will be delivered at first light. It contains a demand laid out in the strongest terms that the French will be ejected forthwith or they shall suffer the consequences.”

“Are these spelled out?”

“They are indeed,” Duckworth grunted. “Failing they hand over Sebastiani and his scurvy crew, they then have the choice of surrendering their entire navy to me-or suffer a bombardment of half a thousand great guns that will leave their precious capital in ruin.”

“A hard chastising for a small enough thing,” Moubray murmured.

“Captain,” Duckworth said, in a tone that suggested a heavy irony, “if you knew what Bonaparte plans in these parts you would be far warmer in your support. As it is, pray leave it that your superiors believe it to be the most devilish plot this age. Do you not agree, Ambassador?”

“I suppose so,” muttered Arbuthnot.

Swallowing his annoyance, Duckworth added huffily, “And I’ve given them one half an hour to reply, after which we sail against them.”

A brooding silence was broken by Smith. “As it doesn’t have to be this way,” he said to no one in particular.

“What is it, Sir Sidney?” Duckworth said irritably. “We’re limited in our manoeuvring by our instructions from Whitehall, I’ll remind you.”

“Which state objectives to be attained, the chief of which is the banishment of the French. Is not this the case?”

“Certainly. And I’d be exercised how else it shall be done, sir!”

“One quick way. I know Selim, he knows me, the wily coot. I whisper sweet reason to him and, with a battle fleet at my back, he cannot fail but to see the error in his ways. Let me go ashore and-”

“Damn it! Who’s in command here? If anyone is to go it will be me, and I’ve no intention whatsoever of putting myself in the power of that Oriental despot. Let him hear the music of our guns and he’ll come around, depend upon it.”

There was no more opposition: the fate of Constantinople was sealed.

“Very well. We being all of the same mind, let us get down to detail.

“L’Aurore frigate will close with Constantinople at dawn and deliver the note. She will wait for the stipulated half an hour and if no reply, or an unsatisfactory response, is received will report the fact to me immediately.

“The fleet will then weigh and proceed to Seraglio Point, wearing in succession to assume line-of-battle southward. Canopus will be in the van and will refrain from opening fire until all vessels are in position opposite the Topkapi Palace and other such. Targeting will be easy enough. The Turk is obliging to have all his major edifices within close gunshot of inshore waters.

“Bombardment will be continuous until all the grander buildings are brought down. No sense in leaving any standing-the beggars will believe it’s because we’re not capable enough, and in any event firing will carry on until a cease-fire is signalled by me. The fleet will then return to this anchorage to await terms.

“Any questions? No? Then my order pack with signals and so on will be waiting for you after we have taken dinner together.”

In the early morning L’Aurore prepared for her duty. As if picking up on Kydd’s mood her seamen moved sombrely as her anchor was brought to her bows and sail was spread abroad.

“I mislike this breeze, sir,” Kendall said, pursing his lips as he looked aloft. The upper sails were catching the slight wind steadily enough but the courses on all three masts were fitfully bellying and collapsing. “Unless it picks up we’ll be hard put t’ cross the strait.”

The northeaster was fair for Constantinople but looking too scant to think to challenge the strong Black Sea current that surged through the narrow strait of the Bosporus.

“Keep us with it,” Kydd told the sailing master. “There’s much depends on L’Aurore.”

The anchorage was on the Asian side among offshore islands; once they rounded the point ahead they would be in the main stream and not two miles from the city across the other side.

But as they reached it Kydd felt the tug of the current across their bows, the give-away sagging off course to leeward.

“We’ll not make it, sir,” Kendall muttered. “It’ll be a sad spectacle afore long.”

It was imperative that the note be delivered: the whole operation was now under way and the first act was Kydd’s to perform. It couldn’t be allowed to fail before it started, in a defeat by the winds and current.

To larboard was the open expanse of the Sea of Marmora, to starboard the continuous low coast of Anatolia a bare mile or so distant.

“I’ll put into the bay beyond the point and anchor, send a boat.” It would be less impressive but better than seeing the frigate carried off helpless in the grip of the current.

It took an exaggerated tacking of nearly an hour to make the bay but they found good holding there and ignored the little fort, which in turn decided to take no heed of them.

“Mr Curzon. Away my barge under the largest flag of truce you can find to the steps of the palace and hand over the note, ensuring you have a signature and recording the time it was done.” The first lieutenant took the sealed packet, so innocent-looking, so deadly.

Kydd watched the boat make off under sail. Its fore and aft rig allowed it to point higher and he saw it reach the far shore. When sail was lowered it could no longer be seen but Kydd remained on deck anxious for its return.

It was more than an hour before Bowden’s sharp eyes picked up the boat’s sails hoisted once more.

Soon it was alongside and Curzon came aboard, spluttering with indignation. “Unable to get it delivered, sir, the rogues!”

Kydd couldn’t believe his ears. “You mean they refused to take it?”

“Not even that. That rogue Kaptan Pasha in his fancy galley kept us off and when I went in anyway he fired on us.”

“With a white flag up? They can’t have seen it.”

“I gave it more’n a few tries, sir,” Curzon said stubbornly.

“Well, rig two flags and lie to until they let you go in. They’ve got to get that note.”

Well into the morning, he was back.

“No damned luck, sir. Lets me sit there until I make a move in and then they fire away.”

Kydd cursed under his breath. Curzon was not to blame and there was no future in sacrificing a boat’s crew in a gesture, but now he had to explain himself to the admiral.

“You-you’ve not even handed over the note?” Duckworth spluttered. “After wasting all this time and they’ve not got our demands?”

He went red with frustration and the other captains pointedly looked away.

“I’m disappointed in you, Kydd, and I don’t care who hears it. If you’d only-”

“He’s not to know.”

“Wh-what did you say, sir?” Duckworth gobbled.

Sidney Smith languidly raised his eyebrows. “Those who’ve been in the Levant more than a dog-watch have learned that a white flag means nothing to your Turk. They probably thought it an impertinence, with that colour topping it the sultan’s flunkey to get on shore.”

“Damn it, Smith, I’ll not hear of such tomfoolery. We’re English, that’s our tradition and they know it. This is a ridiculous state of affairs and I won’t stand for it.”

He smouldered, then rounded on Kydd. “Captain, I desire you to return and, by any means you choose, get that note in the hands of the Ottomans or you’ll answer to me for it. Understood?”

On the way back to his ship Kydd reviewed his options. Force was out of the question; a boat of marines to fire back would only start a war. To capture a native craft and smuggle the note in was not possible: there was nothing prepared to be on the water, which was as clear as a swept board.

Then he remembered the supercilious Kaptan Pasha and his enormous turban-and before he had reached L’Aurore he had a plan.

“Lay ’em out, Tysoe-as quick as you may.”

In minutes he was ready and the weary boat’s crew set out again for the shore, this time with their captain himself in the sternsheets looking grim and unforgiving.

The galley of Kaptan Pasha swept out and muskets were flourished.

“Keep on,” Kydd growled.

There were faint shouts and then the pop of musket fire.

The boat’s crew fearfully ducked below the gunwale but Kydd made his way to the prow of the boat and stood up, dignified and erect.

It was an impressive sight. He was in formal full dress uniform with every star, decoration, length of gold lace and medal he had been able to find, glittering and imposing. It was foolhardy-but it worked.

The musket fire died away at the vision. Was this a great admiral pasha come to parley? A panjandrum of fearsome power demanding the sultan’s presence? It would be folly to fire upon such, inevitably to answer later to the grand vizier for their rash act.

It was enough. The boat hastened to the Topkapi Steps and Kydd lordly stepped ashore. Too late, Kaptan Pasha hurried after him.

Kydd bowed and, with great ceremony, handed the packet to an unsuspecting minion, who unthinkingly presented it to the fuming official. It was then just a matter for Kydd to declaim, “Sir, I have sufficient witnesses to state that this note to the Sublime Porte from my commander has been duly accepted by you.”

“They have it, sir.”

“Thank God for that. Now we’ll see some action. I’d wager the whole palace is in a right commotion now, don’t you think so?”

Arbuthnot got up abruptly and left the cabin.

“Odd fellow,” mused Duckworth, with just a hint of malice.

“We wait, sir?”

“For a space-let them stew.”

The wind was now brisk and fair. The moment the admiral gave the word, in the same hour the entire fleet would have Constantinople under its guns.

After some time the flag-captain diffidently pointed out that the half-hour was well past but was met with a withering blast from Duckworth. “I know that, damn it! Do you want the world to hear I ordered a bombardment without I wait for a reply?”

He glowered at the unfortunate man, then snapped, “They don’t seem to have any notion of what they’re facing. I’ll have to spell it out for them, the useless shabs.”

Within the hour he was back. “Take this, Kydd. Make sure they sign for it or some such.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he replied, only too glad to get away from the tensions and boredom of inactivity.

There were no problems in delivery, and he was able to report its acceptance, even if by blank-faced functionaries.

After midday Duckworth took to his quarterdeck, pacing fiercely up and down. At two he threw his cocked hat to the deck. “Good God! I’ve given those villains every chance but they’ve tried my patience too long. Mr Arbuthnot, we can’t waste this northerly. I’m sailing against them in one hour. How does that please you?”

The ambassador looked uncomfortable. “I’d rather we had our reply, Admiral. Give them a little longer, I beg.”

Duckworth glanced at him with irritation. “Sir, you were the one on fire to bring the Turks to their senses. Why should we indulge ’em any further?”

“I’d be happier if we did.” The steel in his voice was unconcealed.

“Very well. But at four I move-a few hours of daylight is all I need to bring that damned place to a ruin.”

A little short of the deadline the officer-of-the-watch handed his telescope to Duckworth. “Sir-I see a boat under sail come around the point, heading towards us.”

The admiral grunted. “Odd-looking, but has some sort of colours up.”

It drew closer. Kydd recognised the vessel type from a past voyage to Smyrna: a small tekne. It flew a triangular red flag with a moon and stars in white. A dignified gentleman, with a long beard, wearing a large turban, was sitting in its after part.

“Hale him aboard, if you please,” Duckworth ordered, and went down to the entry-port to meet him.

Two stepped on deck, the other plainly a dragoman.

“Great lord, may I present the noble Isaac Bey of Roumelia. He has been charged by the Reis-ul Kuttab to treat with you in this grave matter.”

Duckworth gave a short bow. The old man approached, then waited with glittering black eyes.

“Give him your hand,” hissed Smith, from behind.

“Oh, yes. Pleased to meet you, sir.” He extended his hand-but when Isaac Bey took it, he brought it to his forehead and lowered his head.

In the uncompromising martial simplicity of the ship it was a touching gesture and Duckworth was taken aback.

The man looked up and spoke flowery phrases in a reedy, high-pitched voice. It seemed he was flattered and honoured to be addressing one of Nelson’s great commanders and knew he would be listened to with gracious respect.

“Ah, invite him down into my cabin and pass the word for the ambassador.”

Seated at the polished mahogany expanse of the vast table, where war maps were more likely to be found, their visitor seemed diminutive and vulnerable. His dragoman respectfully drew up a chair, then Arbuthnot entered the cabin.

He saw the old man and started. “Isaac Bey!”

“You know him?” Duckworth asked.

“He is a much-respected man in Constantinople, a childhood friend of the sultan and with a record of service second to none. You may understand him to be the most trustworthy of emissaries, Admiral.”

Pompously, Duckworth told the dragoman, “Tell him that I also am honoured at the presence of such a name in my ship.”

“He is grateful for the opportunity to lay before you the dolorous condition in which the Porte finds itself.”

“Have him go on.” There was undisguised triumph on Duckworth’s features.

He told of widespread fear and anguish in the population at their imminent destruction. Chaos and disorder on a scale that had made proper diplomatic dealings impossible. Worse, even, the helplessness of the Sublime Porte to placate the foreigners, to retain honour in the face of a naked threat to the sultan’s authority, meant that a rising-a revolution by the lower orders-was no longer impossible. Sultan Selim might well be overthrown.

Arbuthnot got up, bent close to the admiral’s ear and whispered, “This is a catastrophic result, Admiral. If Selim goes, the French will step straight into the vacuum-recollect, Marshal Marmont’s veterans are in Dalmatia with artillery and …”

“You bring grave news indeed, Isaac Bey, and I can see why you’ve come out to us with your dilemma. We must discuss this as a matter of urgency.”

It was midnight before the envoy left.

Duckworth wiped his brow in fatigue. There had been no conclusion to the negotiations and he was tired, frustrated and angry.

“The man’s as slippery as an eel,” he spat at Arbuthnot. “Why you humour him so escapes me, sir.”

“For the reason he’s trusted and respected on both sides, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m to bed before I drop of mortal tiredness.”

“The man’s playing with us, can’t you see it? Wasting time, hoping we’ll sail away.”

“Admiral, can’t this wait until the morning? I’m-”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past the blackguards to be hard at it, throwing up defences and similar while we’re wasting time with the old man.”

“There’s nothing you or I can do about it now, in the middle of the night. For God’s sake-let’s get some sleep.”

Kydd awoke muzzily to Curzon’s anxious pleading.

“Sir! It’s first light and the flagship has a signal hung out. Sorry to wake you but-”

“Which?”

“Sir, ‘Fleet prepare to weigh.’”

Kydd swung out of his cot. “Damn! It’s on-turn up the hands and-”

“I’ve piped ‘stations to unmoor’ this minute, Sir Thomas.”

“I’ll be on deck presently, Mr Curzon. I shall expect it to be completed when I am.”

He was damned if he was going up without a shave. An imperturbable Tysoe had razor and strop at the ready.

“Clear for action, sir?”

“No. We’re not in the line-of-battle and, besides, I want the men to get a proper breakfast first.”

He, too, snatched a quick meal and hurried back up. Around him the big battleships were preparing for sea, fo’c’slemen at the cathead with the fish tackle to secure the anchor when it came aboard, others at the braces in the waist trimming the heavy yards for a starboard tack when sail was set. A scene of seaman-like expectation.

At five minutes to eight the signal to weigh was hoisted, with the preparative flag, indicating that the manoeuvre would be executed the instant this was jerked down.

“Fo’c’slemen ready?” Kydd checked. Curzon responded with an injured look and turned back to watch the flagship.

The capstan was manned, the messenger secured to the cable. Joe Martin, L’Aurore’s best fiddler, sat on the capstan head waiting for the word. Aloft, the topmen were ready to lay out along the yard to loose sail to the wind.

Eight bells sounded out from the belfry forward, and from every ship in a discordant chorus.

The men stood expectantly at their stations, gazing across at the flagship for the signal.

After ten minutes there was baffled murmuring on the quarterdeck.

“A mort less than smart in their motions, Mr Curzon.”

“We’re ready, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

More minutes passed and then, at a full hour later, Kydd stood the men down at their stations.

It was incomprehensible. A fleet at a split-yarn’s readiness to sail and the preparative still close up? If the manoeuvre was cancelled, both flags would be struck-as it stood, the signification was that they could expect to proceed to sea at a moment’s notice.

Another hour went by.

By now the men were lying on deck, telling yarns, taking a nap, laughing at well-worn mess-deck dits. If it lasted for much longer there would be real unrest, resentment at the imposition on their off-watch time.

Time stretched on interminably-at eleven another signal was made from Royal George.

“Our pennant, ‘Captain to repair on board.’”

Kydd hastened to obey, as much out of consuming curiosity as duty.

He was not met at the entry-port by Duckworth, and a tight-lipped flag captain hurriedly escorted him to the admiral.

Admiral Duckworth was alone. “Captain Kydd. I’ll not have you misled in this. There has been … That is to say, there is a difference of opinion between myself and Ambassador Arbuthnot that leaves me unable to continue in a productive relationship with the fool.”

“Sir, may I know-”

“He’s tacked right about and now thinks an armed descent on Constantinople a mistake. A mistake! He the one who stirred up Whitehall to get an expedition mounted in the first place, he the one badgering Collingwood for ships and guns-and now he’s gone tepid on the whole idea. So what does he expect me to do with a first-class fighting squadron? Sit about and wait?”

He fumed and retorted, “That’s not my way, Kydd. I’ve done with this pettifogging diplomacy. You’ll take my note of instant destruction by sunset if there’s no favourable reply before that time. The only way to deal with the beggars.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And do go down and see Arbuthnot, there’s a good fellow. He’s in a sulk and insists his note goes along with mine.”

“Sir.”

The ambassador had taken over the first lieutenant’s cabin with its private stern window looking out over the drab anchorage. It was at a gratifying separation from the admiral’s quarters and was away from the noise and fuss of the higher levels.

Kydd knocked quietly on the door. “Ambassador?”

Arbuthnot was seated at the little desk, papers untidily in front of him. He swivelled round.

“Ah, Captain. You’ll be on your way with the admiral’s note, then.”

His eyes were bloodshot, his voice unsteady, and he didn’t hold Kydd’s gaze.

“I am, sir. It was mentioned you had a note as well, sir.”

“I-I have. Which is to say, there will be one shortly. I’ve had a hard time drafting it, you see.”

“Sir. All the same, Admiral Duckworth wishes his note to be delivered forthwith.”

“May I ask you something, Captain?”

“Of course,” Kydd answered warily.

“These several days I’ve been haunted by a vision. One that I … cannot shake off.”

“A vision, sir?”

“Yes.” He played with his pen, then looked up and said, “How would you like to go down in history, Captain? I would think as a brave and resourceful warrior of your sea world.”

“Why, yes.”

“So how would you feel, Sir Thomas, to be known down the ages as the man who destroyed Byzantium, the Hagia Sophia, a thousand and a half years of civilisation? Captain, I’ll be for ever cursed by history. Every school child will learn of Arbuthnot the barbarian and-”

“Sir, in war there are many evil acts we’re called upon to do in the line of duty. But you know better than I the terrible consequences to us of Bonaparte gaining access to India and the world. If this act is the only way we can put a stop to French influence then we have to do it. No matter how we feel.”

That he was needed to put backbone into a state envoy was a sorry state of affairs.

“Then you’re the same as all the others,” Arbuthnot said, with venom. “More concerned to make distinction in the field in place of finer feelings. Do, then, glory in your destruction, Captain.”

Kydd stiffened. “I’ll wait a half-hour on the quarterdeck for your note, sir. After that, I leave. Good day to you, sir.”

Out in the open air under the eyes of the curious watch-on-deck he paced up and down, moodily reflecting on the idiocies he had been witness to. Now Duckworth was going ahead with the bombardment without support and agreement from the civil power.

“You’re still here, Kydd?”

He wheeled around at the admiral’s voice. “The ambassador hasn’t finished his note, sir. I told him I’d wait half an hour before I-”

“Damn his hide. He’s to have it up here in ten minutes or not at all. What’s he said to you?”

Kydd hesitated, but saw no reason to conceal his revelation. “Sir, he feels he’ll be cursed by history if he colludes in the bombarding of Constantinople.”

Duckworth recoiled in disbelief. “The man’s demented! Doesn’t he understand what we’re up against, damn it? God only knows what he’s put in his note but if it crosses mine I’ll see him in hell.”

Just as he was about to leave, the ambassador’s note came up and Kydd added it to the other in his dispatch satchel. He was piped down the side, glad to be quit of the flagship.

Light winds on the way to the Topkapi Steps made for a frustrating passage but the notes were finally delivered and he returned to his ship.

In the short time remaining before sunset a boat put out from the shore. In it was Isaac Bey once more heading straight for Royal George.

Kydd waited for a summons but none came.

And in the morning all options, all alternatives and all opportunities were made null. The light wind had backed into a gentle westerly. Dead foul for Constantinople.

The fleet was as helpless as if it were in a blockaded port. It was going nowhere. The initiative had passed out of their hands.

God only knew when the breeze would relent and give them a chance, but for now there was nothing but to stand down from sea routines and set about seeing to the ship with the never-ending tally of little tasks that could be done only while idle.

Around ten the purser came with a suggestion. “We’re low on green stuff as usual, sir. What do you say we make visit to one of these islands and bargain for some?”

Kydd agreed. As a light frigate L’Aurore had a limited hold stowage and always came to the end of her victuals well before the others.

“Mr Calloway, take away the cutter and a crew of trusties and land at Prota, that big island over there. Mr Owen will tell you what he wants in the way of supplies.”

As an afterthought, he added, “And take along Midshipmen Clinch and Willock. They’ll relish the jaunt.”

“And I, sir?” Dillon asked hopefully.

“Not this time.” Kydd had other plans. Without interruptions the day could be turned to advantage by the handing over of his private papers. It was the last stage of trust, but if he’d misjudged Dillon’s character …

It was not as hard as he’d feared. The young man accepted politely and without question his origins and lack of an estate. Efficiently, and with a pleasing confidence, he set about organising things to best effect, separating ship business from personal matters and quickly finding his way around Kydd’s life.

By mid-morning Kydd was happy to leave him to it. There were people in this world born to organise paperwork, had a gift for it.

He turned his attention to other concerns. The expedition would be over one way or the other in the not too distant future and the ships detached for it would be dispersed. Probably to Cadiz for L’Aurore. Already low on provisions he would need to think about storing and victualling for a transit of the Mediterranean. That meant Malta and-

“Sir?” A grave-looking Bowden popped his head around the door. “I rather think you’re needed on deck.”

Kydd gathered up his papers, passed them to Dillon, then followed him up.

A pale-faced Calloway was standing with Brice.

“Trouble, sir,” the third lieutenant said, seeing Kydd.

“Yes?”

“Calloway has returned from his provisions run.”

“And?”

“He reports four men missing.”

Calloway faced Kydd nervously. “It’s like this, sir. Poulden, Cumby and the two reefers went off to the market-”

“What were you doing?”

“Ah, stayed with the boat-keeper, sir. No taste for gallivanting, like.”

No doubt they had shared a flask of something congenial while the others were away.

“Carry on.”

“When they didn’t come back, as I told ’em, I got worried, went off to see what they was up to. The market was not a good place t’ be, they all hard-faced an’ all. No sign of our people so I went back to the boat, and that’s when we saw ’em.”

“Who, damn it?”

“Up on the sides o’ the hill. In uniform, coming down, and I swear they has muskets!”

“And?”

“Well, we didn’t like the look of ’em, too many for us, so I lies off in the boat, hoping Poulden would come, but he doesn’t. Then someone takes a pop at us like-the ball nearly takes Jevons, sir.”

“You were under fire?”

“Well, a few times. It weren’t like regular soldiers.”

“And you saw uniforms.”

“My oath on it, sir.”

There had been a precautionary sweep of the islands when the fleet had come to anchor. Where had these come from?

“You were right to come back, Mr Calloway.”

It was not like an old hand such as Poulden to stray; the midshipmen were, in the Navy way, nominally in charge but would recognise the coxswain’s moral authority and the steadying influence of the older boatswain’s mate, Cumby.

“Mr Brice, away the cutter, Mr Saxton in charge,” he threw at the officer-of-the-watch.

“We’re going back, Mr Calloway. Get hold of Stirk, ask him for four men, arm them and meet me in ten minutes.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Kydd went down to his cabin to find his secretary.

“We’re missing four men ashore, Dillon. I’ve no right to ask it, but it would be obliging of you to come with us when we look for them, to ask the villagers questions.”

“Sir Thomas, of course I’d be glad to-but the Turkish lingo is like no other. It originates in the great steppe lands and-”

“I’m sure you’ll do your best. Now, I can’t be certain we won’t face a mort of pother. Are you up for it at all?”

“Certainly, sir.” The young man’s eyes shone at the talk of danger.

A grim-faced Stirk and the men were waiting, fingering cutlasses and with a brace of pistols each in their belts. “Shaky dos, sir, L’Aurores gone straggling in among all them Turks.”

Dillon saw the weapons and his eyes widened. “Sir Thomas, you can’t expect me to go on the land unarmed. May I?” He pointed to the lethal grey steel of a cutlass.

“Find Mr Dillon a slasher, if you please.”

The young man was delighted, and even more so when he was also handed a baldric and scabbard to fit over his plain black secretarial clothes.

“Mr Curzon, the ship’s yours. If I’m not back in an hour or two send word to Admiral Duckworth. And no rescue parties-clear?”

“Sir.”

The boat put off and scudded in to the little jetty.

They looked around watchfully, ready for any hostile move.

There was nothing-but Kydd could feel tension in the air. One or two villagers stopped to stare, their features defensive, while others walked hurriedly away.

“Where’s the market?”

“Up the street t’ the left, sir,” Calloway said uneasily.

They strode up the steep incline in a tight group, under orders not to draw weapons unless threatened.

The houses on either side were of nameless antiquity, poor with peeling shutters. The market was on level ground, still in full swing, noisy and crowded, but when the party came into view the babble fell away.

Kydd went to the nearest merchant, an onion-seller in a grubby turban with a seamed face. “Dillon, ask him if he’s seen anything of our friends.”

The man’s beady eyes never left Kydd’s as he listened. Then he spread his hands and shrugged.

Dillon took out a notebook and wrote some words in Greek. The man glanced at them, then drew back and spat on the ground. A murmuring began in the crowd gathering behind him.

Kydd gave a wry smile. “We’ll get nothing out of them. Can’t spy any uniforms here-Calloway, where did you see them?”

He pointed up the steep street where the houses ended and the road continued up the hill.

Kydd knew it unlikely in the extreme that Poulden would lead the lads into temptation in some tavern or worse-had they gone into hiding at the sight of the uniforms?

“Stirk-give ’em a pipe.”

The gunner’s mate pulled out his boatswain’s call. The harsh shrieking of “hands to muster” echoed from building to building across the other side, stopping conversations in the square.

“Again.”

The expressions on the crowd went from astonishment to curiosity, then to suspicion. But no shame-faced L’Aurores emerged.

Kydd faced a dilemma. It could never be justified later that he, a distinguished and valuable post-captain, had gone ashore to rescue stragglers, even with the excuse that on the strength of a vague report of uniforms on the island he had gone to take a look.

But if he gave up on them now and sailed away, the Navy would then consider the men deserters. An accusing “R,” for “run,” would appear next to their name on the ship’s books and on recapture they would face a court-martial and the lash.

And if they were somewhere else? How far should he search in an increasingly hostile island? “Calloway, when you spotted your uniforms, what direction were they going?” he snapped urgently.

“Like I said, sir. From over that hill and down this side, and-”

“I see. Back to the boat then,” Kydd ordered crisply.

They stood out to sea, ostensibly returning to L’Aurore, but then altered as if to report to the flagship and carried on to mingle with the usual ship-to-ship boat traffic.

“We’re not looking any more, Sir Thomas?” Dillon asked.

“We’re not returning on board, are we?” Kydd said, with an arch expression, and nodded to Stirk. He thrust down the tiller, put the cutter about and they stretched out through the passage between Prota and the next island, but as they passed close to the southern end Kydd growled orders that saw them heading for a tiny sandy cove.

They scrambled ashore, leaving the bows on a kedge out to seaward. The boat’s crew, under Saxton, the senior master’s mate, readied the gear for hoisting in preparation for a rapid departure, if need be.

Where the diminutive beach ended to the right, a point of land jutted out. A tumble of brown rocks and scrub hid what was beyond.

Stirk was sent ahead, slipping and sliding up to the ragged crest of the point. He inched his head up-then ducked and beckoned furiously, a finger to his lips.

There were no paths and the pebble shale was loose and dusty, Kydd scurried as fast as he could to Stirk’s side. He raised his head cautiously.

Anchored offshore was an inoffensive merchantman, brig-rigged, the usual maid-of-all-work around the Mediterranean, but it was off-loading field guns on to rafts for the short trip inshore. The Turks were using the delay to secretly land weapons to mount on the summit of the island to menace the British fleet.

Every instinct urged Kydd to get back to his frigate and fall on them but there were larger considerations. If troops and guns were already ashore, destroying the supply ship would do little to lessen the threat to the fleet.

He scanned the side of the hill above and spotted a monastery of the sort so common in these parts, but there was something odd about it: the windows were narrow and vertical. Loopholes! As he gazed at it he saw a line of men coming up from the landing cove, too far away to make out in detail but certainly on their way to it, and they all wore red and grey uniforms.

His duty was to alert Duckworth that his fleet was now under grave threat.

He turned to go-but there was a faint tap of a musket. He looked back: high on the hillside the tell-tale white puff lazily drifted away. Some hawk-eyed individual with a view over the point had seen them.

Kydd snapped, “Back to the boat!” but even as he said it, he saw a craft under sail put about and head their way. It was full of uniformed men and would get to their cutter before they could.

Heart thudding, he looked about desperately. “Follow me!”

He scrambled up the slope, around the side of the hill. After a few minutes they were above the boat and he signalled frantically to them. Saxton caught on and had the cutter under way as the other came around the point.

The officer in command chose to chase the boat instead of landing his soldiers to go after those ashore. They had a chance.

It was brutal going, struggling along the stony hillside, ankles twisting, legs burning with effort.

Then they crashed through thorny scrub, cutlasses swinging, down into a gully, heaving and gasping.

They found themselves on the bare slopes above the little village. It was what Kydd had been hoping to see: beyond the huts, the fleet was anchored majestically in line across his vision.

“We’re safe!” he gasped.

No Turk in his right mind with a boat full of soldiers would come into view of the fleet.

Breathless and hot, they ran on to the jetty and, with perfect timing, Saxton brought the cutter curving in.

“The damned rascals!” roared Duckworth. “They’ve broken the terms of the cease-fire!”

He paced the cabin and stopped. “They can’t be allowed to get away with it. Flags-orders. To Canopus: ‘Land strong reconnaissance party of marines and report.’”

To Kydd, he said gruffly, “Thank you for bringing this villainy to notice, sir. Leave this to me and get back to your ship. There’ll be hot work to do before long, I believe.”

“Sir?”

“This is the last straw. I’m going against Constantinople as soon as there’s a wind fair for that blasted place.”

“Will Mr Arbuthnot agree, do you think?”

“Ha! Mr Ambassador has just taken ill again and begs to be excused any further involvement. We’re on our own at last, Kydd.”

As soon as he was decently able, Kydd returned to the sanity of L’Aurore. He had done what he could for his missing men. A strong body of marines was going to land on Prota; hopefully, they would sort it out.

Now, however, the last check on Duckworth was gone. What lunatic scheme would he dream up to salvage his reputation?

Shortly after midday signs of battle could be seen arising beyond the hill-crest on Prota.

Kydd guessed they were coming up to the monastery on the other side. It raged on-they must be in a stiff fight. A little later one of the landing boats left the jetty and made for the flagship under a press of sail.

“‘Ships to send reinforcements,’” a signal midshipman reported. “Pennants include ours, sir.”

L’Aurore’s contribution mustered in the waist. Twenty Royal Marines with accoutrements in impeccable order. Kydd went down to inspect them, taking a quivering salute from Lieutenant Clinton. He passed down the two ranks slowly, and at the end turned to him and said loudly, “Take care of these men while you’re on shore, Lieutenant. They’re the finest we have.”

He watched as they landed and formed up on the jetty, heading off smartly in a spirited display of scarlet and white. But it failed to lift his heart. Were they marching to disaster, trusting in their superiors to make winning plans and decisions? In his bones he knew they would fail-and good men would pay with their lives.

From Whitehall’s interference to Duckworth’s irresolution in the face of the ambassador’s conflicting advice, he had seen the all-too-human side of high command.

He chased Dillon out of his cabin and took up his favoured chair by the stern windows.

In the past Renzi had sat in his place on the other side with a quizzical smile as Kydd shared his doubts and hopes.

But now came the dawning realisation that he no longer had need of advice, comforting reassurance, the logical perspective. If he felt the necessity for any of them, he would find it within himself. As was right and proper for a leader of men.

The afternoon wore on with no news, but as the shadows lengthened the boats began returning. One of them L’Aurore’s.

In it, a bandaged figure lay full length. Kydd didn’t need to be told. It was Clinton.

He was hoisted aboard, those near hearing him moan softly at the pain as he was taken below to the surgeon. There were other wounded-and Kydd counted only seventeen in the party.

Later he had the lieutenant brought to the coach and placed in an officer’s cot.

Kydd sat with him but it was well after dark before he came back to consciousness and some time before he could recognise his captain.

“How goes it for you, William?” Kydd asked.

“S-sir, what … am I doing here?”

“Never mind. Ship’s company at their grog, too noisy for a sufferer,” he answered gruffly.

The field guns Kydd had seen landed had been turned on the British and a six-pounder ball impacting near Clinton had driven shards of rock into his body and caused a concussion.

The marine had stood at Kydd’s side in the climactic last days of siege in Buenos Aires and other adventures too numerous to recall. His heart wrung with pity at the thought of the young officer leaving his bones to rot here-and for what grand cause?

“Surgeon thinks you’ve a good chance, William.” It wasn’t quite what had been said.

“My r-report, sir.” The voice was weak and slurred but piteously determined.

“Not now, dear fellow,” Kydd said.

But Clinton was going to do his duty. It came out painfully, with pauses to gather his strength.

The first to land had not known the extent of the enemy infiltration until they had rounded the hill and come under fire from concealed gun emplacements protected by the fortified monastery.

They had held their ground until the reinforcements from the fleet had reached them. Jointly it was decided that the guns were too big a threat to be ignored. Mounted on the crest overlooking the fleet, they could place it under a pitiless onslaught of steady, aimed fire.

The problem was that any advance on the gun-pits would be dominated by musket fire from the loopholes of the monastery. One course would have been to land their own guns for an artillery duel but that would take time.

It had to be a frontal assault with no wavering and this had been bravely accomplished. The monastery was taken, the guns spiked and the enemy in full retreat. But before it had ended Clinton had lost three men killed and much of his detachment wounded.

Then orders had come to return on board.

Without knowledge of events on the island Duckworth had obliged them to break off and leave it to the Turks.

“Thank you for your report, Lieutenant,” Kydd said softly. “You have done your duty most nobly, sir.”

Dawn came, and with it, what Kydd had been most dreading. The wind had veered during the night and now was fitfully blowing from the northeast. A broad reach to Constantinople in one board.

It was fair at last for the bombarding of the ancient city.

Like the tragic conclusion of a Greek drama, each of the main players stepped through their parts to the inevitable climax.

A signal mounted in the flagship’s halliards: “Weigh and proceed as previously ordered.” Obediently the warships of the squadron raised anchor and ensigns rose in the ships as they manoeuvred into line-of-battle.

In the delicate early light, the terrifying majesty of the spectacle was made poignant by the knowledge of what was to come. The Ottomans had broken the cease-fire and must now endure the consequences. That morning there would be scenes of destruction that would resound around the world.

L’Aurore took her position to starboard of the line. With the other frigate, her duty was to keep watch to seaward as the battleships did their work. At least Kydd’s ship would have no direct part in the ruin of the city.

The wind strengthened; sails caught and bellied, speeding the ships on to their destiny. Very soon magnificent buildings, olive groves and the splendour of the imperial palace spread out ahead, firming from a blue haze.

Within the hour they would …

Kydd grabbed a glass.

Stretching all along the seafront were moored warships, large and small, a ringing of the peninsula with a continuous line of guns. Kydd steadied his telescope further in-on the cannon manned and waiting, an unbroken chain of artillery that encircled the capital.

A monstrous gathering of strength, an insuperable barrier that even a battle fleet could not batter down.

They were too late.

Duckworth signalled the fleet to reverse its course in succession. It did so, carefully out of range. The shore guns remained silent.

Another signal-“Wear and advance.”

Tacking and veering in front of Constantinople, the admiral flaunted his might at the Turks in the hope of luring them to sea and a confrontation. Again and again, up and down, but the Turks never stirred from their unassailable positions.

It was useless, humiliating, and could have only one ending. Before the close of the day the British fleet had retreated: spread sail and set course southward for the Dardanelles and the wider world.

As they sailed into the darkness there was little cheer in L’Aurore. It was clear to the humblest crew member that the expedition, bigger by far than had taken Cape Town and Buenos Aires, comparable in scale to anything seen in the Mediterranean since Trafalgar, had completely failed.

To Kydd, it now seemed plain that, with their helplessness so vividly demonstrated, French influence could only increase to the point at which Bonaparte might at long last look to bursting out of his European confines.

And there was now no conceivable hope that anything could stop the inevitable slide from influence to power, from there to domination and rule, just as it had in so many countries. Would Bonaparte insist that the next sultan be a brother or cousin, crowned and loyal to France only? He would then have his royal road to India and the world.

It was an utterly depressing thought, made worse by their very helplessness.

That night the gun-room invited him to dinner. He was grateful, for a black mood had clamped in-not only at their dismal failure but at the news that Poulden, Cumby and the midshipmen had not been found in the monastery. He was leaving them behind to their fate in a Turkish prison.

“Cadiz will be a sad let-down after this,” Bowden offered.

“A pox on that,” retorted Curzon. “Any station that offers me a trifle of sport at the Frogs’ expense will do.”

“Afore there’s talk o’ going back,” Redmond, the gunner rumbled, “there’s a little matter should give us pause.”

“What’s that, then?”

“Yez saw how quick-smart your Turk was, gettin’ the defences as they were, in only a few days? Now, if they’s as nimble in the Dardanelles, we’re in for a right mauling as we sails down past them forts.”

“Wasn’t so bad coming up, Thad,” Oakley said. “All a mort pitiful, them Turks as had a try at us.”

“Ah-that’s because they weren’t expectin’. I’ll give youse a guinea to a shilling that they, knowin’ we has to go back the same way, has somethin’ in the way of a farewell salute in mind.”

“How piquant.”

Everyone looked suspiciously at the surgeon Peyton, who rarely spoke at gun-room gatherings.

“What do y’ mean, Doc?”

“Why, can’t you see? The French are the enemies of Turkey and have been since ’ninety-eight when they invaded their territory in Egypt. We’re their allies from the same date. So who’s firing at whom?”

“All a bit murky f’r an old shellback like me,” the boatswain growled. “I’d be beholden to the cap’n to give us a steer.” In the recent past the question would have been directed at Renzi.

“Not so hard to fathom. I’m grieved to say it, but we’re seeing yet another country drop into Napoleon’s bony hands. Unless we can come up with some sort of stratagem, I fear we’re witness to yet one more conquest.”

“Stratagem? You mean land an army or some such, sir?”

“Well, something-anything as sees Johnny Crapaud put to embarrassment, is all I can say.”

“No chance o’ that now, I’m thinking. We’re scuttling off like frightened rabbits, no glory in that a-tall.”

The evening tailed off, none of the usual jollity-well polished yarns, songs, sly digs and honest laughter. How could it be otherwise, with the pitiful burden of pain and suffering in the coach above and every mile they sailed into the night separating them from their chubby-faced midshipmen and honest British tars in some Turkish dungeon?

The next day the fleet was informed it was Duckworth’s decision that, as they had intention of making the straightforward passage of Gallipoli at night, they would anchor at Marmora Island, thirty miles from the northern entrance of the Dardanelles and there they would water.

Kydd had his reservations. Would not this give warning of the British re-passing? Nevertheless a chance to re-stow with fresh water was always welcome.

The anchors went down in the lee of the island, off a tiny fishing village nestling snugly beneath bare mountains. The watering place near the tip of the sharp headland could accommodate only a few boats at a time and several took the opportunity to land in the port to bargain for fish and vegetables.

“Go with ’em, Dillon. You never know what you might hear.”

After the loss of their shipmates on another island they were taking no chances, and the launch with its water leaguers was accompanied by a full section of armed marines.

They arrived back some hours later and Dillon hurried to Kydd. “Sir Thomas, I’ve disturbing news that I’m not sure you’ll want to hear.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

It was an extraordinary tale. An old fisherman, an ethnic Greek, had approached Brice with information to offer. His broken English could not easily be made out and Dillon was brought across. With a mix of makeshift modern Greek, a little English and much signing, the essence was learned.

After the first forcing of the Dardanelles the Turks had been enraged. Knowing they must return the same way, this time there would be a nasty surprise for the insolent British at its narrowest part. Monster guns would be put in place to smash the helpless ships to splinters. The very ones that the great Sultan Mehmet had used many centuries before to batter his way into Constantinople and bring down the Byzantine Empire and the last Roman Caesar.

The old man had seen them pass with his own eyes and had asked the marching gunners about them. He was told they were the biggest guns in the world, firing marble shot of immense size, each weighing as much as four men. No ship could pass them and live.

He had begged the English admiral to think again about going back through.

“I had no reason to disbelieve him, Sir Thomas. He had little to gain by telling us a fabrication.”

There was nothing for it but to go to Duckworth with the information.

“Monster guns? I’d believe eighty-pounders-we saw some great shot thrown at us on our way up, but more than that, I doubt it. I think your man’s been practised upon-how the devil would they load the piece if they can’t lift the ball? And what sort of charge would you need to … No, it’s just not possible.”

“There may be some truth behind it, sir.”

“Dragging out an old museum piece to frighten us? Where would they get the ammunition, hey? No, Kydd. We’ll be having a warm time of it at Pesquies but not like that. I’m surprised at you, upsetting your people with wild rumours from damned foreigners.”

At dusk they weighed for the Dardanelles.

As before, they made the transit of Gallipoli in pitch darkness. This time the night was split apart by gun-flash in a frenzy of violence but they sailed on untouched. In the morning they were well down the passage and nearing the awkward dog-leg about Point Pesquies and Abydos, which had to be navigated in daylight.

At full alert the fleet stole on, gun-ports open, ready for what must come in the narrows. Battleships in line ahead, frigates on either side.

There was an eerie quiet as the head of the line closed with the same point of land where Smith’s division had overwhelmed the Turkish force. The many wrecks were still there and the sour stink of destruction lingered.

The first ships rounded the point-and first one, then another titanic blast of sound erupted, like an earthquake sending shockwaves through the ground and water.

Almost too quick to register, Kydd saw a brief blur that transformed a seaman into a hanging red mist and flung his shipmates into a huddle of bodies. Then, with a violent crash, the ball went on to send the main-mast of Windsor Castle teetering and falling like a great tree in a forest.

Another fearful roar of sound, now accompanied by a tempest of other cannon-fire. It stunned the senses but Kydd reasoned the mammoth guns would not be wasting their gargantuan shot on mere frigates: they would be going after the big three-deckers.

“Shiver the tops’ls,” he bellowed. L’Aurore slowed until she could slip in astern, out of the line of fire. Towering pyramids of smoke ashore drifted over, masking targets for her own gunners, but under the furious storm of shot the only essential was to get off a convincing reply.

The noise was indescribable. Could they survive the holocaust?

He watched helplessly as, ahead of them, Windsor Castle grappled with their damage. She was under topsails but the loss of her biggest mast with its staysails badly unbalanced the ship.

An out-of-control battleship would effectively block the escape of others behind.

Kydd looked in dread past her to Repulse as one of the massive shots struck and sent up a spray of black specks-how much more could they take?

The firing reached a mind-numbing crescendo-but then he saw how they had a chance. The wind was not only fair but now from dead astern, urging them on without the need for Windsor Castle and others to risk sail manoeuvres. And the monster guns might have been giant in calibre but this brought with it a fatal disadvantage-a paralysingly slow rate of fire.

They had only to win through the narrows and they would be in the open sea.

The furious cannonade became ragged and gradually died, the gun-smoke clearing. There had been devastation and casualties but the fleet was still together, every ship under way in a blessed release.

There were a few desultory shots from Cape Janissary and then they were free of the Dardanelles.

Tenedos was the fleet rendezvous. The anchors had barely gone down when a demand was signalled for a damage survey and casualties report. L’Aurore had escaped lightly: a scored yard, rigging parted, two small shot-holes. And one seaman killed with three lying moaning in their hammocks. Clinton was now fully conscious and showed every sign of being on the mend.

It was a different matter for some of the others. The gigantic stone ball strike Kydd had seen had smashed through Repulse’s poop, splintering the deck, carrying away her wheel and nearly severing her mizzen-mast. As it did so, it had killed both quartermasters, five seamen and three marines, and wounded many more in a single blow.

Standard had been cruelly mauled but steady work had seen her taken in hand just as Thunderer and others came under fire from the opposite shore.

Canopus had been pierced through and seen her helm dissolve into splinters; Royal George had suffered shrouds carried away and masts injured. One of the immense marble shot had not gone completely through the massive 100-gun first rate and was lodged below.

The reporting captains went down to inspect the monstrous object-an obscenely huge, pale sphere stuck in the fore-peak timbers. The carpenter was summoned to take a measure of the beast and reported it as more than six feet around; quick calculation revealed it as being near five men in weight. The old fisherman had not exaggerated.

The roll of dead and injured was long, but not as grievous as the searing experience had foreshadowed. At thirty killed and 138 wounded, the fleet had escaped lightly for its temerity in challenging the Ottoman Turks.

Duckworth made it plain he was not about to waste time in recrimination and the captains returned to their ships. After immediate repairs the fleet was to sail in three days, away from the scene of their humiliation.

But just before anchors were weighed, the Russians arrived: six ships-of-the-line and five frigates in immaculate order. Allies of the British and in a stroke doubling their force. This was now a legion capable of a major fleet action and therefore things had changed radically.

While elaborate salutes were exchanged, Kydd looked with interest at the ships. Virtually the same as their own, even down to the Nelson chequer, the only real difference from the outside was the colours: the double-headed black eagle on a yellow banner of the Romanovs.

Their seamanship was capable enough, coming to a moor opposite as if to demonstrate how it was to be done.

It was not long before a ceremonial barge put out from the Russian flagship to make its way to Royal George, the dash of colour in the sternsheets contrasting with the plain grey of the boat’s crew.

The sound of the Russian admiral piped aboard carried clear across the water and Kydd saw him go up the side steps and disappear into the entry-port. What happened in the next hour was going to determine the fate of so many.

Surprisingly quickly, the Russian emerged and his boat returned to his own ship.

This first meeting was probably only preliminary, Kydd reasoned, setting a time for lengthier deliberations on how the allies would co-operate.

Soon after, Kydd was summoned to Royal George.

“That was Admiral Senyavin,” Duckworth grunted dismissively. “Seems to think if we joined forces we’d have a better chance against the Turk. I told him it was nonsense-if the Royal Navy couldn’t achieve anything then adding an odd few Russians won’t change things.”

“So he’s leaving, sir?”

“No, Kydd. We leave, he stays. That is why I sent for you. Don’t forget the Russians are in a state of war with Turkey. He’s under orders from his tsar to attack them and dare not disobey. What I want you to do is just stay here, see what happens. They’ll fail, of course, but we need to know the details. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Sir.”

“No need to get involved, no heroics, just observe is all.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Kydd watched the British fleet sail away, the feeling of unworthy failure lifting with their departure, and he settled to observe the Russians.

It felt odd, L’Aurore anchored within plain sight, watching them at their domestics. An occasional flash on the quarterdeck of their ships showed it was not altogether a one-way thing.

He wondered whether it would be a politeness to call on Admiral Senyavin but decided not. There was every chance they would give up and leave very soon, in which case he would be released.

The following day, however, at eight in the morning the L’Aurores were treated to the sight of bands on each ship coming to life and flags rising in a stream in the rigging. The Russians were dressing ship for some occasion.

A little later a boat put off, heading directly for L’Aurore. In the sternsheets sat a young officer in full ceremonials. The boat came smartly alongside and the officer stiffly boarded, his bearing impeccable. With a bow and a click of the heels, he handed Kydd a sealed letter.

It was formally addressed to the captain of L’Aurore frigate in proper naval terms and in English. The young man waited: an answer was clearly expected.

Kydd opened it. “An invitation to join the admiral and officers of the Tverdyi on the occasion of the anniversary of the accession of Tsar Alexander I of Russia.”

“Well, now, and do you remember the Ivans in the Adriatic before Trafalgar at all?” Curzon rubbed his hands in glee. “I’ve a yen to see ’em again, a pretty notion of entertaining as I remember.”

“Shall I take a notebook, Sir Thomas?” Dillon said lightly. “No knowing what will be said.”

“It will be full-fig uniform and swords, I’d imagine,” Bowden said, buffing his lace absent-mindedly.

“And if y’ requires more stout hands-”

Kendall’s barely disguised plea was cut off. “I shall have need of only the first and second lieutenant and my secretary. Mr Brice to remain in command.”

They were welcomed over the side of the 74 with full ceremony and escorted to the wardroom, where solemn toasts were proclaimed.

When Kydd left to talk with Admiral Senyavin in his great cabin, the wardroom was well advanced in merriment, drunken cheers and off-key bass voices. Curzon had mimed an old navy wardroom turn, and Bowden’s light baritone was delivering “Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill” to a bemused audience of burly sons of the steppes.

Kydd had vivid memories of vodka and had to plead his stomach to avoid the many refills thrust on him. He wanted to remain clear-headed. From what Duckworth had said, Senyavin had some crucial decisions to make and needed information. And what better source than one who had just returned from the field?

The Russians were at war with Turkey, and for the usual reason. The Black Sea had the only ports in Russia that were free of ice year round. A major part of their trade plied from there, grain and timber from the Crimea and the vast interior, imports from the greater world flooding inward. Yet there was a fatal weakness in its situation: access was by only one route-the Dardanelles. Any disagreements with Turkey, and it was instantly closed to Russian ships, an intolerable provocation.

Was Senyavin really thinking of striking at the Ottomans? Now aroused and heavily defended?

“Perhaps a little cognac-it will be easier on the stomach.” Senyavin’s English was good; it was rumoured he had spent some time with the Royal Navy.

“That’s kind in you, Admiral,” Kydd answered politely.

“Please, ‘Dmitry’ while we are alone, sir.” He was a small man but with a controlled intensity and neat manners.

The great cabin was sparse and dark-timbered, small portraits and Russian country scenes the only concession to domesticity. A large, frowning Tsar Alexander dominated one side and the few pieces of furniture were sombre and heavy.

The cognac was excellent and Kydd allowed himself to be seated in a chair by the stern windows.

“You have passed through the Dardanelles under fire, Captain. My congratulations-it is something we’ve never been able to achieve.”

“Thank you, Dmitry. It has to be said, the giant guns at Point Pesquies gave us pause.”

Freedom of the seas was second nature to the Royal Navy; he tried to see things from the Russian’s point of view.

To get here, with the Dardanelles closed to him, Senyavin would have had to sail his squadron the thousands of miles from Kronstadt, in the deep Baltic around Scandinavia, through the Channel, past hostile France and Spain, then the whole length of the Mediterranean. Yet only at the opposite end of this same strait, past Constantinople, there lay the Black Sea Russian fleet at Sebastopol no more than a couple of days’ sail away.

And he was being ordered by his tsar to strike at the Turks and free their stranglehold. Duckworth’s refusal to join with them must have been a bitter blow.

“I’ve heard that you were before Constantinople threatening a bombardment.” The tone was cautious but respectful.

“The winds failed us in the end,” Kydd replied. “Without brisk airs we couldn’t cross the current, and when we did the French had strengthened defences to the point at which we couldn’t contemplate a confrontation.”

Senyavin, even if he didn’t already know it, would hear all this later anyway.

“Ah, the French. Such a great pity we could not have gone forward together to bundle the vermin out of Constantinople.”

“Well, yes.” He was not going to commit himself to commenting on Duckworth’s strategics.

The admiral sighed. “And now I’m being asked to take the war to the Ottomans. If Nelson’s fleet cannot achieve a humbling, what chance is there for me?”

Was he fishing for a suggestion or just making conversation?

“We saw little of the Turk Navy as would cause us to tremble, Dmitry. Why not bring ’em to battle, sweep them from the sea? You’ll then have only the guns to worry about.”

“You saw few because they were arrayed in the north against our Black Sea fleet, holding it powerless. Now it will be a different matter, but still we are outnumbered by an unacceptable margin.”

Kydd sympathised, but what could he do?

“I can give you help with currents, gun emplacements and similar,” he said. “We noted them down, every one.”

Senyavin’s face set. “I’ll be frank. It’s not a risk we can take, that our ships are destroyed in the eyes of the Turks. It would give them hope and excuse for vain display at our expense and my place at Court will be compromised. Yet I must do something.”

But then there was one thing Kydd could suggest. Perhaps the most effective weapon of all against Bonaparte-why wouldn’t it work here too?

“Dmitry. Your ships and trade are choked off, can’t move. We ourselves have long experience of this, and we call it the blockade by which we embarrass the French in their home ports.

“Why don’t you turn it on its head and pay back the Turk in his own coin? Mount a formal blockade of the Dardanelles, seal it off so no Turkish trade can exist?”

“A blockade of our own?” He rubbed his chin. “We’re not familiar with this. Unless it’s effective and complete, it will be seen as an act of the weaker.”

“I will tell you how you can do it, Dmitry. First you need a base, and what better than here at Tenedos? Now, blockade is in several depths and …”

Kydd went on to describe the complex multi-layered organisation that he’d first learned of in Teazer and the Channel fleet, the small ships to intercept, the larger to threaten retaliation for a sally, the constant sea-keeping with victualling support, the vigilance and steadfastness.

Senyavin was a swift learner and saw that, with the Black Sea fleet turned active at the opposite end, the result would be the entire Dardanelles and Bosporus a dead zone for the Turks.

“I’m grateful indeed for your advice, my friend. I rather think I will do it …”