Pasha

CHAPTER 13

GUN-SMOKE DRIFTED ACROSS KYDD’S VIEW in the light winds but it didn’t hide the immense triangular red pennant atop the Turkish flagship, marking the centre of their fleet stretching away northwards.

Unlike British practice, they were engaging in “long bowls,” occasionally yawing to bring guns to bear on their pursuers, firing at extreme range, then resuming their flight.

What were they about, sailing ever deeper into the Aegean and away from the Dardanelles when they could either have retreated inside or turned and brought about a deciding battle? Were the Russians being led on, and if so, into what?

A few days earlier Kydd had taken up an offer from Senyavin to join a short cruise with the Russian Navy-his price, the spinning of yarns of Trafalgar and Nelson at wardroom dinners. It was all going very agreeably until a frigate had sighted the Turks and they’d immediately set off in pursuit with no time to send Kydd back to his ship.

Kydd had squared his conscience about being away from L’Aurore as she was safely anchored at Tenedos and, after all, it was his duty to make measure of the naval capabilities of a foreign power.

He’d taken the trouble to get around Tverdyi, a 74-gun ship-of-the-line that was as technically competent as a British ship-perhaps over-gunned and with her cramped hold-space not as capable of long sea voyaging but every bit as powerful.

His escort and interpreter was the amiable and intelligent Lieutenant Aleksey Ochakov, whose English had been won from a two-year voyage in a Baltic trader.

They had toured all parts of the ship, Kydd alert for differences, inadequacies, strengths.

In the matter of the Russian crew, he was left with an impression of courage but of the passive kind-endurance, able to take the worst without complaint. They were stolid, blankly obedient, never lively or spirited. In their off-watch hours they would pass their time at cards, in prayer, asleep on the hard deck-or picking fleas.

Ochakov had explained that the Baltic fleet in winter was iced in and the ship cocooned. The men dispersed ashore, becoming in effect soldiers.

They would seldom return to the same ship in spring and their few months of sea-time gave no chance to build up the bond between sailor and ship that was so much in Jack Tar’s blood.

There was also a greater distance between the quarterdeck and the foc’s’le than in the Royal Navy. No Russian officer would ever think to visit the men’s mess-deck to inspect their living conditions. Ochakov had reluctantly agreed when Kydd had asked to see the sailors at their evening meal. Their entrance to the ill-lit gun-deck brought an instant hush to the low rumble of voices as every man looked up in astonishment at the two officers.

Most were dressed in little more than grey homespun, with long lank hair and deep-set eyes. They were eating mutton-bone gruel with their fingers from tin dishes. One by one they got to their feet, unsure and resentful.

Kydd had left quickly. Those men would fight to the finish but they lacked the initiative that came from individualism and confidence in their officers, the mark of a British seaman.

Talk over dinner with the Russian officers had revealed more divergence. There was no purser: the captain ran slops clothing and victuals and made good money out of it, appointing one of the officers to relieve him of the details. The master was a lower species, not having the respect or the qualifications of those in Royal Navy service and in effect left the captain to his own decisions. The doctor was nothing better than a barber-surgeon. Neither had a place in the wardroom.

But there was polished professional talk: that the Baltic fleet was top dog and the Black Sea fleet a poor relation, locked up, as it were, for long periods of history by the Ottomans. Poor morale, the naval dockyard at Sebastopol a disgrace, the ships in a deplorable state and-

Senyavin had subtly pointed out that such topics could not possibly interest their guest and the conversation had turned to St Petersburg and its attractions for a returned mariner.

As a ship in King George’s service was said to resemble an English village afloat, with the captain as squire, traditions and customs transplanted to sea, Kydd had mused, so the Tsar’s navy reflected the Russian countryside of serfdom and servility.

Now, standing a little back from the group on the quarterdeck, he took in more of the scene. This was their battle and he had no role, but nothing would have kept him below decks.

Senyavin was clearly frustrated by the light winds and pounded his fist into his palm. The other officers stood respectfully by, the seamen at the guns calm and patient.

The Turks were slowly pulling away. The Russians, far from their home dockyards and with foul bottoms, were unable to close to engage.

The guns fell silent as the range grew longer and the smoke cleared to allow Kydd a fine sight of the Ottoman formation.

The fleets were evenly matched, ten ships-of-the-line on either side. Time was not on the Turkish side. They needed to break the blockade-why did they not bring about a deciding battle?

Then it became clear to Kydd what the canny Turkish admiral must be scheming.

On the far horizon a faint line of grey was lifting above the blue haze. It was a long island and the Ottoman fleet was heading for its eastern tip.

Once out of sight they could position themselves in a number of ways. If Senyavin chose to follow them, they could sail around faster and fall on his rear. If he decided on the other end, the Turks could disappear southwards to the Dardanelles and safety while Senyavin was still north of the island.

And finally, if he made the logical decision to split his forces and send half to either end to make sure, the Ottoman admiral could pounce on either outnumbered half and cripple it first before attending to the other.

It was a gamble for the Turks but in the light winds a bigger one for Senyavin.

But by this the Ottomans could achieve their deciding clash and break the stranglehold.

As Kydd watched, the sails of the Turkish fleet disappeared around the point.

Then a memory came from years ago: of a big French privateer chasing his little ship, then concealing itself in a similar manner behind an island. The Ile de Batz, off Roscoff. And he had outwitted it by landing in a boat and going to the crest of the hill to spy out the hidden privateer, then sailing off in the opposite direction.

In a different way it would work here.

“Sir, a word?”

Senyavin understood instantly. Signal was made to shorten sail and slow. At his request, Kydd quickly found himself with Ochakov and two signalmen in a boat, together with an escort of half a dozen musket-wielding Russians.

It was a simple enough task. Go to the top of the island, sight the Turks and signal back with one of two flags, red or blue depending at which end the enemy were lying. Tverdyi in turn would have a white flag hoisted at the fore, which would instantly be lowered on satisfactorily sighting their signal.

The boat hissed into sand at the base of a small cliff. The escort tumbled out and looked cautiously about even though the island was said to be uninhabited.

The signalmen carried a long pole between them and together the party hurried up the cliff path.

At the top a gentle scrubby slope led to the bare summit with an escarpment further to the right. The island was clear of any signs of humans. Only scraggy bushes covered the rust-coloured soil and they reached their objective in minutes.

And there the Turks were! They had settled on the far end. Blue flag!

The signalmen bent it on and one went to the highest point and heaved the pole up. The flag streamed out satisfyingly.

But within moments a bullet slapped through it. Shocked, the man dropped the pole and everyone fell prone.

Kydd saw a wisp of smoke arising from a bush further down the rise but their unknown assailant would have quickly moved. How many others did the dark scrub conceal?

Ochakov snarled a command and the men with muskets spread out protectively.

“Alexsey, if we don’t-” Kydd began.

“I know.” He rapped an order.

One of the signalmen heaved the pole up again and held it against the wind, the whites of his eyes showing, his head turning in fear.

A bullet took splinters out of the pole but he gripped it doggedly. Another went past low, its whuup clearly audible.

The soldiers fired at the origin of the shot but another took the signalman in the thigh. He staggered and clamped his eyes shut in pain but obstinately clutched the pole upright.

Kydd looked back to the flagship: her white flag was still at the fore.

He then saw that a fluke of topography had directed the wind so the flag was fluttering end on directly towards Tverdyi and hadn’t been seen.

His eyes darted about and he spotted the thin line used to secure the landed gear. It would be enough. He slithered towards it, his back crawling as he imagined a sniper taking aim.

A ball took the signalman full in his body and he fell with a choking gasp, the flag tumbling down with him. The man writhed and groaned, then was still.

Ochakov growled a single word.

The second signalman went stolidly to take up the pole but Kydd motioned for him to get down while he secured the line to the fly of the flag.

“Now!” he told him, gesturing vigorously upwards.

The man stood and heaved the pole vertically. A bullet flew past him, then another hit the pole with a shocking judder, but Kydd was already yanking on the line and the flag was pulled sideways, bellying full like a sail.

In seconds the white flag jerked down. It was done.

Now to get away. The boat lay off, the crew alarmed but unable to do anything. And between them and it, there was a quarter-mile of treacherous scrub.

“Over there.” Kydd pointed towards the escarpment. “There’s sure to be caves.”

After a painful scramble they were behind boulders and impregnable against anything but a full-scale assault.

The firing stopped.

Hidden in the lee of the island, Senyavin’s squadron raced to intercept the Turks-their gamble was called.

In their place of refuge Kydd had time to think. It made no sense to garrison an uninhabited island on the odd chance that an enemy would land. Who were their attackers?

He smiled ruefully. The Turkish admiral was smarter than he’d given him credit for. These were no more than his men doing the same as themselves-signalling the movements of Senyavin’s fleet from a lookout. And when they had seen the flag atop the hill they must have realised what was going on and moved to stop it.

If that was right, then …

Sure enough, the Ottoman fleet was already warned and had hauled in to resume their run north. No doubt their shore party had re-embarked, but it was a different matter for themselves. They could get to their boat now but Senyavin was well past in close pursuit of the fleeing Turks.

There was nothing for it but to wait for rescue.

Kydd stepped aboard L’Aurore with satisfaction and relief. In the time she had lain idly at anchor, her first lieutenant had not wasted days and the ship was spotless, not a rope out of place, the decks gleaming white. He murmured in appreciation.

“An enjoyable cruise with the Ivans, sir?” Curzon asked, with ill-disguised curiosity.

“Yes, indeed. And some tolerable entertainment provided for us by the Turk.”

He sketched out what had happened. “Admiral Senyavin was mortified that on account of light winds the Turks hauled away, but I’ve no doubt there’ll be a reckoning before long.”

“As will release us to quit this place.”

“Just so.”

“Oh, one thing. The Russian guard ship at the entrance to the strait was approached by a disreputable Moor and thought it right to pass it on to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you believe it? The fellow climbed aboard and demanded they accept a letter addressed to the nearest English man-o’-war. Had a covering note to the effect that in return for handing it over he was to receive the sum of twenty kurus in gold. The captain is anxious that he be reimbursed before we sail, he said.”

“Very well. We’ll take a look at this expensive piece of mail after I’m fettled.”

With remarkable speed Tysoe produced a piping hot hip-bath and a clean rig.

Refreshed, Kydd took the little packet, salt-stained and grubby, to the stern windows and sat in his favourite chair.

Was this another plea to be taken back to England at His Majesty’s expense? The address, barely legible, was in impeccably correct form.

Inside, the folded paper was of very poor quality and ink had stained through it to the other side. A traveller fallen on hard times?

In a wash of disbelief Kydd could only stop and stare.

It was signed “The Right Honourable the Lord Farndon”-and how could he ever forget the elegant, sweeping hand that he had last seen on ship’s papers in this very cabin?

Renzi!

Kydd feverishly re-read the words. A prisoner of the Turks in Constantinople, Renzi calmly requested that authorities be alerted with a view to negotiations for his release.

Thoughts stampeded through Kydd’s mind.

What in the name of God was Renzi doing in Constantinople? He quickly put that aside as unanswerable.

There was a more pressing question, namely, which authorities could be reached quickly?

Admiral Duckworth was somewhere near Alexandria, engaged in an opposed landing and not to be distracted. Rear Admiral Louis was at large in the Adriatic and said to be now mortally ill.

That left the civil authorities. Malta was the closest, weeks’ sailing away, but it was a small station, no relations with or interest in Turkey or the Dardanelles.

In effect, there was no English representation of standing and influence in the entire Mediterranean now.

There was only Collingwood, out in the Atlantic off Cadiz, who had any kind of power, and by the time he was reached and came to a decision, Renzi might have been …

Kydd shot to his feet and paced about the cabin.

Collingwood would probably see the fate of a single British subject caught up in the recent humiliation and retreat as regrettable but no reason to mount another attempt on the Sublime Porte.

Kydd’s orders were to remain in the area to report on Russian operations, not leave station to go off looking for help.

It had to be faced. Renzi would probably rot in an Oriental gaol for ever …

But could he return to England and tell Cecilia that he had done nothing to save her husband?

Were there any possibilities, however improbable?

A return through the Dardanelles and a daring rescue? Not after the mauling they had taken escaping-and, besides, with the Russians abroad, the forts would be reinforced, well manned and alert.

Some kind of furtive undercover expedition? But without the language, the local knowledge-even finding where Renzi was held in chains-made it impossible. And then to hack his way into some fortress prison against the hordes of …

This was wild thinking. What was needed now was guile, not hot-blooded recklessness.

What if he … ?

Yes! Crazy, lunatic, even, but this would give him a chance, however slight.

He would sail to Constantinople and demand that if they didn’t hand over Renzi he would call on all of Nelson’s fleet, which was not far behind, to finish the job.

Something like that, anyway.

Constantinople was only a day or two away, less for a taut sailer like L’Aurore.

Supposing, with the experience he now had of the Dardanelles and Kendall’s meticulous notes, he made passage-at night?

Timing-a fair wind, moonlight. It could be done.

He went on deck to sniff the wind and collect his thoughts, then called the master down.

“Mr Kendall, we have a duty to the hydrographer of the Navy to report on areas of possible future operations. I’d like your thoughts on how a British man-o’-war might fare, should she look to passing Point Pesquies at night under full sail.”

He stared at Kydd as though he were mad. “At night, sir? I’d be obliged to call that an act o’ desperation. Full sail-if she were t’ touch bottom at speed it could send her sticks down, an’ if the wind turned foul, there’d be-”

“Think again, Mr Kendall. Enough moonlight we can see, the gunners ashore not so much. Wind fair and brisk from the east-sou’east …”

Rubbing his chin, the seasoned old mariner replied slowly, “Well, I suppose it could be done. If they has m’ notes, there’s mention of a useful current around the point hard against the Europe shore and I’ve note of all seamarks as can be seen. An’ if it’s to be an east-sou’easterly like now, why, that’s fair for ’em all the way-and back, if’n it holds.”

Kydd held down a rush of hope. “That seems reasonable enough, Mr Kendall. Thank you.”

This night there was a quarter-moon as well-it was as if the gods were encouraging them on.

After the master had left he eagerly went back to the charts. From Cape Janissary at the entrance to the outer castles was ten miles. To the monster guns at Point Pesquies-the inner castles-another four or five. If L’Aurore gave of her best they could do it.

Then objections rushed in.

He was leaving station, the gravest of crimes. He would argue that one when it came-he would be gone only a day or so, if he got through. If not, it didn’t matter anyway.

Placing his command in mortal hazard? This was always a judgement of the captain’s, and could not be questioned.

But there was one final hurdle: the moral dimension.

Had he the right to thrust L’Aurore’s company into mortal danger, just for the sake of a friend?

Given the range of what could go wrong, there was a good chance that the whole enterprise might come to a sorry end.

He strode to the door. “The officer-of-the-watch to see me. Now!”

Bowden entered, mystified.

“Clear lower deck. I’m to address the ship’s company in ten minutes. That’s the lot-watch-on-deck, idlers, everybody.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was a rare occasion that brought the entire crew of the frigate on deck at the same time. Divisions, church, dress ship-but none had the power that “clear lower deck” had. This was the order that brought every single soul up without exception: watch-keepers, cooks, men off-watch sleeping, marine sentries, the carpenter.

Word came that they were assembled. As soon as he emerged on deck the excited murmuring died, making superfluous Oakley’s furious pipe of “still.”

Curzon touched his hat. “Ship’s company mustered as ordered, Sir Thomas.”

“Very good,” Kydd replied, and stepped up to the little deck space left to him, by the wheel.

“L’Aurores,” he began impressively, but at the last moment hesitated at the enormity of what he was asking of them. And what could he do if they held back?

“Ahem. I’ll have you know I had a letter a little while ago. It was from an Englishman in a desperate plight in chains in some fortress in Constantinople.

“It pleads with the nearest British man-o’-war to find an authority to negotiate for his release. I have to tell you that at this stage in our political fortunes there is none.”

He let it sink in.

“This means that if we sail away, his last hope will be extinguished and he must lie there, abandoned by all.”

He raised his voice aggressively. “I can’t let that happen! While I have my honour, and an English heart that beats, I will not cease from an attempt at his liberty!”

There was a roar of tigerish approval so he went on, “I have a plan. It will not be easy, in fact it’ll be damned dangerous, but I know you’ll want to be with me.”

The noise fell away-it was replaced by a muttering.

“A racing passage through the Dardanelles-at night, and under full sail. Something you’ll tell your grandchildren, the day when L’Aurore caught the Turk on the hop and rescued a countryman, like heroes.”

There was now an unmistakable hush, then low murmuring. They were not fools and could work out the fearful dangers lying in wait.

“It’s only a day’s run, if our stout frigate cracks on sail, and I’ve got the timings as will allow us to do it before they wake up. What say you, L’Aurores? Are you with me?”

All the officers stared at him as if he was mad.

“For the sake of our people-boat’s crew and the midshipmen, they’ll be with him, no doubt on it.” He couldn’t know, of course, whether they would be there.

This brought an agitated growling but no full-throated clamour.

He was losing them.

It was time to play his last and only card.

“What if I told you the name of this captive, this victim of Turkish treachery? It’s one you know-for he’s been your shipmate since L’Aurore was first commissioned.”

There was an astonished silence at this.

“I’ll tell you who. It’s Nicholas Renzi as was. Who’s seen us through more than one adventure, put his life at stake for his ship, always played us true. Now, will we sail away without we even try?”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“What about them monster guns? We ain’t got a chance agin ’em all firing at one target.”

“I’m surprised at you, Mason, a fine gunner like you. I ask you, how do we fight a night action? Always yardarm to yardarm, that way we can’t miss, for at night sighting is useless. So even if they’re ready for us-which they won’t be-they’ll not get off a shot worth the aiming.

“Martin?” Another gunner.

“Cracking on wi’ a full spread o’ canvas-what if we touch? It’ll be all over main quickly, I’m thinking.”

“Good question. Here’s the answer: we’ve been up and down that damned ditch enough times we’re not going to be surprised by it. Most important, we’ve got some copper-bottomed pilot notes, thanks to Mr Kendall, which we’re going to use to set up a right good steer for ourselves. We go into this with the best navigation there is.”

A hum of interest started and he caught the word “Renzi” more than once.

Curzon came up beside him. “Sir, you’re saying that it’s Lord Farndon in a Turkish clink? How can this be? We left him in England. Are you sure this is not an imposter?”

“It’s him, sure enough. I’d recognise his hand anywhere-but the devil alone knows what he’s doing in all this.”

“What’ll ye do, sir, once we gets to Constantinople, like?” came a question from the tattooed hulk of Oakley, the boatswain.

“Ah, yes. That’s when we spin our yarn as says we’re scouts for the biggest fleet Nelson ever had, and if they’re not relieved of our men, our admiral will be tempted to come up the same way as we did before and finish the job.”

It brought hesitant laughs, for wasn’t Kydd joking? He must really have a secret plan as he always had before.

Now was probably the best time to try for the decider.

“So, maybe we’ll have a crack at it. I’m not going to call for a show of hands-I’m your captain, after all-but here’s my word on it: if any man feels he doesn’t want to be a part of it, he’s free to go ashore and wait it out with the Russians, no questions asked. And if-”

“Cap’n Kydd!” came Toby Stirk’s bull roar. “I were wi’ Renzi back in the old Royal Billy and, be buggered to it, I’m not leavin’ a messmate to die in some Turk chokey! I say what’re we waitin’ about for? Let’s get the bastard and our boat’s crew out an’ worry about it later!”

The answering cheer said it all: they were going to Constantinople or hell, like true British tars, for a shipmate. The adventure was on.

The master took his time studying the chart before he gravely pronounced, “This’n is the hardest beat to wind’d of any run I’ve heard … ’Cepting Cap’n Cook’s night sail up the St Lawrence as fooled the Frenchies, o’ course,” he added.

“What I advises is a passage plan as takes advantage of the shore seamarks, there bein’ no buoyage in the Dardanelles. We’re lucky the Turk has plenty o’ them mosques-they’re always white an’ will show in the moonlight. So we has our waypoints depending on these.”

It was a sound plan: he’d noted quite a number of mosques and had taken their bearings at points along their course. What they had to do now was to come up with a best track; then at the waypoints where a change of course was necessary, transfer to the original plotted course new bearings. This would fix the point at which the helm should go over.

It was professional work in which Kendall could be expected to excel, and Kydd turned his mind to the practicalities.

The passage through would be all in one board, on the starboard tack, so sail-handling would not be a problem.The only need to touch gear was in the dog-leg between the inner castles when they would have to brace around to conform to their heading.

Firing back was out of the question-gun-flash would blind the helm and those taking sights. They would have to make the entire distance without defending themselves.

The slightest error in the bearings would be disastrous. It was crucial to be sure of the course changes, and Kydd took pains to make it so.

The passage plan waypoints were in the form of specified bearings. That was, if the seamark bore on its line of bearing at the same time as an opposite one lined up with its own, then the waypoint had been reached and the wheel would be put over.

He would have all the officers at the same task: separately equipped with boat compasses, they would each be tracking progress on their side of the ship and call a warning when coming up to a line of bearing. At the same time the master’s mates would be ahead of them, searching out and identifying the next seamark.

It was as much as they could do to prepare-but would it be enough?

Kydd was uncomfortably aware of the two things he could not control and which might in a trice render them a helpless wreck: the moon and the wind.

The quarter-moon was favourable: enough to make out their marks ashore but not so bright as to allow the fort gunners to aim accurately. But if the worst happened-clouds coming up to veil the face of the moon-then they would no longer make out their seamarks, and under full sail a quick end was inevitable.

For the moment the wind was fair: east-southeasterly. But Kydd knew now that the usual pattern in this part of the world was for the reigning winds tending to be either northeasterly or southwesterly. The master’s log, taking wind direction every watch, showed their present good fortune to be only a stage in a slow but persistent backing as it shifted from south to north.

They had a bracket of time that was unknown-if it came round too swiftly they would be headed, unable in the narrow confines to make way against it, and must anchor or return. If it happened while passing through the danger zone, disaster would be complete.

They had just two hours before they must set sail.

The boatswain, accompanied by his mate, roamed the ship like a bear, becketing up loose gear and laying along stopper tackles ready to clap on to any severed line.

Dillon set about his duty: the vital task of assembling all confidential papers, codes, lists, anything of value to the enemy. He placed these in a canvas sack weighted with grape shot and securely padlocked. If the worst happened he would throw this out of the stern window to sink out of reach.

Kydd, however, had leisure to worry and endlessly go over the plan.

But two things were on their side.

Surprise! A mighty fleet might try but a lone frigate? At speed under cover of night-it would be the last thing expected.

And the Ottoman Navy. It was all somewhere in the Aegean trying for conclusions with the Russians. He therefore need not fear meeting any on the way or when they reached Constantinople.

With the sun a glowing orb behind them, L’Aurore weighed and proceeded.

She began under easy sail, as if on blockade searching here and there for prey. The forts at the entrance didn’t bother with a shot as the last of the daylight dwindled and they took up on a slant inward.

It was time to make their move.

“Lay out ’n’ loose!”

Topmen leaped into action and sail fell from the yards. Courses on fore and main, the biggest and most powerful driving sails, caught the wind with a bang and a flap before being sheeted in, the driver on the mizzen brought in and hauled in hard.

L’Aurore felt their impetus and the trot turned to a gallop.

“A whisker off twelve!” The cry from the log showed them now creaming through the water at a full four times the speed of soldiers quick-marching. Nothing could touch the flying L’Aurore on a bowline.

Kydd looked up anxiously. There was cloud but it was scattered in low layers and for now the moon poured its chill splendour freely upon the scene. The coastline could be made out distinctly, darker shadowing against the moonpath.

“Mark t’ larboard!” sang out Saxton. His outflung arm towards the European shore had Bowden and Curzon up and sighting while on the other side Brice and Kydd waited impatiently for their call.

“Mark to starboard!” Kydd put his compass to work with its dimmed lamp and steady lubber’s line, the card swimming lazily. Kendall was right: the mosque’s white dome was an indisputable mark for them.

Usually all but deserted in the night watches, the deck was full of men, the tension keeping conversation short as they concentrated.

As they neared the bearings, warnings rapped out and the sailing master bent to the binnacle with its main ship’s compass and waited for the right moment. “Helm up, steer nor’east b’ north.”

Their course was now shaping more northward and the two sides of the Dardanelles began closing in on them-they would meet ahead at the outer castles and then they would know their fate.

Completely silent to any watcher, the frigate raced on, a halfacre of sail aloft, prettily illuminated by the calm moonlight. But so far there was no interest showing from the shore.

They were nearly up with the forts that Kydd remembered so well when the first alarm was given. A signal cannon from the solid mass of the fortress to starboard-and another, but no firing on them.

He smiled thinly: it would be a scene of consternation ashore, where a sleepy duty officer was being asked to decide urgently if they should open fire on what could well be one of their own fleeing from a pursuer. The hapless man could have seen no colours aloft, for L’Aurore was flying none, but evidently he’d thought the chances of an English ship sailing at full tilt up the narrows in the dead of night was too bizarre to contemplate and they passed through without a shot being fired.

Reaching their next waypoint precisely mid-stream, the helm was put up another point and their track was now dead north-with Point Pesquies just two miles ahead.

Their wake seethed and bubbled in a straight line astern, white and glistening in the night, like an accusing finger towards them as the dark thrust of the headland loomed.

This was the most treacherous place of all-the narrows, where the decision had to be made to stay by the north bank, away from the guns but with the greatest current set against them, or the south bank, with clearer water but closer to the guns. And at the same time there was the complication of the risky sharp turn to starboard through nearly a right angle.

Lights twinkled ashore; people there had no idea that an English ship was-

But suddenly-a monstrous gun-flash and deep concussion. Soon gunfire was general, livid flashes and thunderous booming echoing about the still night.

The flash and smoke were making it impossible to spot the passive white of the mosques.

“I’ve lost the mark!” Saxton burst out.

Kendall’s pale face turned to Kydd. “If I doesn’t have the bearings …”

The custom of the sea demanded it was up to the captain to make the fateful decision.

“Lay the foreland two cables to starboard,” Kydd ordered. It was a known position and took them closer to the guns but faster around the point.

The firing was intense-but they were gloriously untouched. Closer still: distant figures of the gunners could be seen frozen in the gun-flash as they frenziedly plied their cannon, but the shots were going wild, giant splashes rearing up in the darkness, smaller skittering across the moonpath.

The point neared-a dull twanging aloft was a backstay shot through and unstranding. A thud and tremor followed: L’Aurore had suffered at least one ball strike to the hull.

She began the turn; they could take up their marks again once they were around and-

In an instant Kydd’s world was transformed into a chaos of pain and disorientation. He found himself sprawled on deck, hearing from an infinite distance Curzon shouting orders and seeing the quartermaster looking down anxiously.

He levered himself up and noticed a still shape next to him. Kendall.

Shaking his head to clear it, he staggered to his feet.

“Sir-wind o’ ball!” Bowden said anxiously.

It took long seconds to register that the path of a cannon ball that had blasted between them had knocked Kendall unconscious and thrown him down with concussion.

The sailing master-of all of them to be taken out of the fight …

Through the pain of a blinding headache Kydd forced himself to focus.

Point Pesquies was coming up fast and the guns were blasting out in a frenzy-but he could see that, blinded by the constant flashes, they were firing more or less at random and probably would not even know when L’Aurore had passed by.

When they lay over at last for the haul to the northeast, they left behind thundering guns in manic play on an empty sea.

They were through!

Kydd’s body throbbed with pain and he squeezed away tears as he flogged his mind to concentration.

It was not over yet.

There was a stretch of twenty or more miles and then it was the Gallipoli forts. It was now well on into the early hours and sunrise could not be far off. If they didn’t get past while it was still dark the gunners would have them over open sights in full daylight.

“Crack on, Mr Curzon,” he croaked. “Every stitch o’ canvas counts.”

He clutched on to one thing: L’Aurore was now sailing at her best. She was travelling at speeds impossible on land: no word of warning could possibly be passed-no running messenger, not even a horse at full gallop, could sustain the pace.

And Kendall’s painstaking work was paying off.

Quickly picking up the seamarks again, they made good speed but there was a perceptible change now. To starboard the sky was definitely lightening.

It was a race to the finish.

When it came it was almost an anticlimax.

The craggy cliffs loomed to larboard and there was no alarm. Even as the grey chill break-of-day spread there was still no sudden activity on the land.

The sight of an anonymous frigate scudding by in the innocent dawn had taken them completely by surprise. When well past, forlorn shots rang out but it was too late. Now they were free: ahead was open sea-and Constantinople!

Kydd leaned on his elbow in his cot while the surgeon pressed on him an evil-tasting concoction, apparently a sovereign remedy for headache. After a few hours’ sleep he was on the mend although his head still pounded-but he had to face that the critical time lay ahead.

They had achieved a miracle by surprise and daring but it would be all for nothing if he failed at his main task: to force the Turks to deliver up his friend.

In the rush of technical and professional preparation for the passage, he had not had time to give it much thought but now he must.

He groaned and pushed aside Tysoe’s well-meant gruel.

Even supposing he could brazenly arrive under flag of truce and demand to speak with their sultan or whomever, what argument could he bring to bear?

A wave of nausea threatened to undo Peyton’s good work.

“Leave me,” he gasped, but it was too late.

The surgeon wordlessly cleaned it up and left, prescribing more rest.

Kydd lay back in despair.

By the afternoon he could sit up without queasiness but his headache still thumped pitilessly.

They were hours away only …

Incredibly, quite soon, it came to him what he would say.

It would be: the Turks, quite unwittingly, had made a serious blunder.

It had been brought to the ear of the puissant and dread King of England that his cousin the sultan was shamefully detaining the person of the noble and worthy Lord Farndon, closely related to the royal family.

Certainly an oversight-nevertheless, if the wholly innocent aristocrat was not delivered up safely to the captain of the frigate detailed to bring him home, the King would feel it upon his honour to strip the rest of the world of his very own Royal Navy and send it-all 467 battleships-to Constantinople to effect his release.

No doubt the sultan would be pleased to comply once the mistake was known and that would be an end of the matter.

Yes!

“Mr Dillon, the carpenter and the gunner to attend on me,” he ordered firmly.

Shortly, there took place an extraordinary meeting.

The result was perfect: two boards, covered with red baize and bound like a book. On the outside of the “cover” was fastened a gun tompion from the saluting cannon, in the form of a King George crown, suitably gilded, licked with scarlet and green and satisfyingly heavy.

On the inside was a vellum, executed in meticulous script by Dillon and detailing the King’s solemn concerns. It was liberally adorned with seals and ciphers, each of which had a tail of gold lace or tassel sacrificed from Kydd’s own dress uniform.

Curzon arrived and announced, “The coast o’ Turkey, nor’-west eight miles.”

It was a question, of course.

“Stand off and on until after dark, if you please. We want to arrive before dawn.”

There was little danger of being sighted. The blockade was biting and there was no point in anything being at sea when they had nowhere to go, and with their navy otherwise engaged …

After midnight they approached the peninsula. It slumbered in darkness but at its end city lights pointed the way.

Ghosting along under staysails and jib, the frigate would be near invisible from the shore; the moon hung low in the east. It didn’t take long to reach the tip-Seraglio Point. It was a great relief to see the anchorage deserted for it confirmed that all Turkish ships were away and they could flaunt their impudence without interference.

Instead of anchoring in the long outer stretch of water they came to at the series of buoys reserved for the Ottoman Navy and picked up moorings on the first. The inboard part of the mooring cable was not belayed, but seized together with light line. If there was the slightest trouble, the boatswain at the ready could, in a slice of his knife, set them free.

At first light there was the astonishing sight for the beleaguered city of a Royal Navy frigate calmly at a buoy, the largest ensign of the King’s Navy at her mizzen and a white flag firmly at the fore-masthead.

Kydd smiled grimly at the thought of what must be happening ashore.

They should be opening fire with everything they had-but it would pass belief that this bold frigate, appearing from nowhere to take up rest, was challenging their defences. Why was it here? It must have a purpose, and better for all if they find out before anything happened that they might regret later.

Sure enough, the galley of Kaptan Pasha left for L’Aurore without delay.

As soon as he had clambered aboard, Kydd detected the man’s consternation.

The dragoman bowed hastily. “Kaptan, he want to know, why you here?”

It seemed there were to be no subtle preliminaries so without a word Kydd pressed on with the main act.

He clapped his hands imperiously. From the main-hatch a pair of seamen bore a sea-chest draped with a Union flag. Everyone on deck snapped to attention.

They brought it forward and placed it by the main-mast.

Curzon stepped up, ceremoniously opened it, drew out the contents and held them aloft for all to see.

Kydd roared a command and at once everyone bowed deeply to it.

“Kaptan Pasha. This is from the King of England himself and it is to be placed in the hands of the sultan instantly.”

“My master, he say, what it contain?”

Kydd stared at him in apparent disbelief.

“This is a communication from one great sovereign to another and he asks what it says? I’m shocked that such a high official of the Sublime Porte is so ignorant of the ways of the immortals. Do convey it to the sultan without delay, at peril of his displeasure.”

CHAPTER 14

“AND … THERE! In check, mon ami. Another three moves, I think?”

His opponent played to his image, Lord Farndon was bored with it all-with himself, the four blank and noisome walls of his cell and Sebastiani, who was taking their chess game far too seriously.

They had squares of paper with inked pictures of the pieces on them and a scrawled board on the filthy little table. Sebastiani seemed to take a ferocious pleasure in marshalling his forces in detail to crowd in on Renzi before bringing about an elaborate and inevitable defeat.

And when it became too dim to see, there was nothing for it but to lie back on the rank-smelling beds and exchange life experiences.

At least it was entertainment of a sort: Renzi took satisfaction in conjuring up a pampered world of society balls, tricky situations at Court, errant footmen and charming foolishness for Sebastiani, who, to his surprise, was always naively agog for more.

In return, the French general brought out wearisome campaign anecdotes, interspersed with hesitations as he reviewed what he was going to say, that it did not offer intelligence of use to an Englishman.

Nevertheless Renzi was keenly interested, for Sebastiani’s service included Egypt where he himself had been on the opposing and winning side. His cellmate had been at the Court of the Holy Roman Empire in its last days, being wounded and promoted at the battle of Austerlitz.

Then it was the unutterable tedium of the night, broken only in the morning by the clanking arrival of the guard, when another day would begin.

This day they had set up their “board” early for the general seemed to have a fierce need to break his record of six straight victories.

Another three moves? The noble lord could see it, but who cared?

“Merde!” Sebastiani swore, for the sound of the guard approaching and opening the door was always followed by a gusting of the paper pieces everywhere, game over.

The door rattled, but instead of the amiable old guard there was Grand Vizier Kose Musa and a phalanx of officials-and, incredibly, Zorlu, whose blank expression was an immediate warning.

Was this to be an entreaty for the noble captive to recant before trial and execution? What else could have brought the highest servant of the sultan here? Or could it be …

Renzi bowed politely in the English manner and was rewarded with an Oriental bow from Musa. Sebastiani was completely ignored.

A lordly statement was made; Zorlu politely relayed the platitudes.

Then came the real reason for the visit.

“We are here witness to the carrying out of the sentence handed down by Sultan Mustafa IV on the Englishman known as Fahn’ton Pasha.”

A chill of fear flooded Renzi.

Was this to be hauled out into the dingy quadrangle, there to be decapitated? His plan had failed and-

“His Greatness decrees that the said Fahn’ton Pasha be banished from his realm for ever.”

Zorlu’s control was nearly perfect but Renzi saw through it.

“Wherein an English ship has been summoned to carry out the sentence forthwith.”

“The Lord Farndon accepts his fate with sorrow, but will comply.”

There was visible relief.

“Providing his household and all his servants accompany him into exile.”

“Of course.”

He turned to Sebastiani to explain his departure, but the general, staring at him with wild eyes, blurted, “Take me with you-it was our bargain!”

So the villain had perfect English to overhear everything that had been said.

“I do remember,” Renzi replied. “As I do our agreement that the succoured should assume the status of internee to the other. Very well. Do you wish to be gone from this place?”

“I do,” the Frenchman said, with a fierce sincerity.

“Then consider yourself a guest of the British Crown, sir.”

To Zorlu, he said, “Tell the vizier I shall ask General Sebastiani to leave with me.”

This caused confusion and dismay.

“That is not possible. The general has yet to answer before a state trial why, when given all trust and resources, he failed to defend Constantinople against the Russians.”

For all the vainglory and boasting of the French, they had yet again been brought to their knees by the sea, the element Bonaparte would never understand.

“I’m sorry, General, so truly sorry,” Renzi said, shaking his head in compassion.

“You must help me! Please-help me, m’ lord,” he whispered hoarsely.

Renzi hesitated. He owed the man nothing, but the vision of his fine mind brought to a squalid conclusion under a Turkish scimitar troubled him-and, besides, was not his mission to achieve the ejecting of the French from the Porte? Then he would ensure that very article.

“Tell the vizier I’m desolated to hear that my wishes in the matter are ignored. Do not the Turks wish all infidels gone from their door? I desire the same thing, surely.”

“This cannot be done. The general must stand trial.”

“Then, unhappily, it seems I must decline to leave.” He went over to his bed and elaborately lay down.

Zorlu gave him a worried glance but Renzi knew he was reading the situation for what it was, that whatever pressure was being applied it was overwhelming and irresistible.

Musa flashed him a murderous look, then quickly collected himself. “Then it is granted on the understanding that, in addition, all the foreign unbelievers of the general’s household are taken off our hands.”

Renzi acknowledged this with a gracious bow and got to his feet. “Shall we go, mon general?”

The carriage stopped at the waterfront and Renzi was handed down by an imperturbable Jago. He raised his eyes and there before him was a vision beautiful beyond compare and which took away his breath in a shuddering realisation of who his saviour was.

HMS L’Aurore: trim, warlike and every bit as lovely as he remembered.

Come to take him home.

Her captain’s barge had put off and there, in the sternsheets, was a figure. One he would always count as his closest friend.

The boat glided in, her crew slapping the loom of their oars to bring them smartly vertical.

With tears pricking, Renzi watched Kydd step ashore and advance towards him, that same masculine stride, those direct brown eyes now so creased with pleasure.

“Why, Nicholas, m’ friend. Am I seeing you well?”

He stretched out his hand-but Renzi felt a tide of overwhelming feeling take him and he fell on Kydd’s neck, hugging him. The two clung to each other for a long moment, then drew away, embarrassed.

“We have to sail while the wind’s fair, Nicholas,” Kydd managed.

“Of course. Might I present General Horace Sebastiani de la Porta? He’s to take passage with us.”

The Frenchman’s eyes glittered and he bowed stiffly.

“Your household is not here to include with us, General?”

“They fled early,” Sebastiani bit off.

“Then it is only our own that comes. Mr Jago, are all present and correct?”

“They’re all here, m’ lord.”

Kydd intervened: “Have you seen two midshipmen and a boat’s crew b’ chance?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve heard some English were taken but I’ve not seen any sign of them.”

“That’s a great pity but we must be away before things turn bad.”

The launch and cutter arrived ready to take Renzi’s retinue.

“Mr Zorlu? You will come with us, of course.”

“Fahn’ton Pasha, I fancy there will be need for a British embassy before very long. I have therefore a duty to remain, my lord.”

“Then do so, and please believe that your services will be recognised in due course by the Crown, sir.”

Zorlu bowed wordlessly.

The two friends sat side by side in the sternsheets of the barge.

“Give way, you lubbers!” Kydd ordered happily.

L’Aurore hove to off Cape Janissary at the seaward entrance to the Dardanelles after an uneventful passage, secured for them by the large pennant they were instructed by Kaptan Pasha to fly prominently from the fore-masthead. This had now to be surrendered to the fort commander.

Kydd paced his quarterdeck slowly in satisfaction, relishing their achievement and his doughty crew, who had made it possible.

Renzi came on deck slowly, blinking in the sunshine.

“Nicholas!” he said, with pleasure. “You’re awake! You’ve slept more than a day, do you know that?”

“I needed it, brother. Where are we?”

“You’ll see the wide Mediterranean ahead, and those two points the entry to the Dardanelles.”

“So …”

“Yes, m’ friend, we’re free at last. I’m to make my number with Admiral Senyavin at Tenedos now, and when I get back we must see about what to do with you.”

“Please, dear fellow, don’t feel that-”

“Nonsense. We have to think about getting you back by some means. I’m detained here, so heartily regret I cannot take you.”

Curzon came up. “Boat ready, Sir Thomas.” It was amazing how formal L’Aurore had become simply by being the temporary bearer of a peer of the realm.

“We’ll talk when I get back, Nicholas.”

As Kydd left, Renzi drew a deep, shuddering sigh. The sights, sounds and comfortable smells of the frigate he had spent so much of his life in were working their balm on his soul.

Life had been so simple then, bounded by straightforward rules of conduct, of direct pleasures and the ever-changing purity of a seascape. Compared to the moral complexities and crushing responsibilities of his new calling, it had been such a very different existence. And here he was, if only for a short time, back in that world.

He strolled forward, past the main-mast and along the gangway over the guns to the foredeck. Grinning seamen touched their forelocks in exaggerated respect, and well-known faces stammered awkward words to their old shipmate as he passed them by.

Dillon came to offer congratulations on his escape and a marked curiosity about how he had come to be in Constantinople. He answered with the Gordion mission, which seemed to satisfy.

The young man had changed: no longer the pale-faced, studious youth he had last seen on the estate, he was now tanned, fit, and passed down the deck like a seasoned mariner.

Even as he asked, he knew the answer to his question: was Dillon desirous of returning to Eskdale Hall with him?

His charmingly evasive reply was to the effect that perhaps he would persevere for a little longer-if Captain Kydd was agreeable.

The sails slapped fretfully aback as they continued their heaving to and the bell was given two double-strikes. As if in a dream he swung up to the fore-shrouds and climbed up into the fore-top where he sat, as he had so often in the past, with his back to the mast, and closed his eyes in contentment.

All was well with the world.

A sudden raising of voices, then astonished cheering roused him and he looked over the edge of the fighting top-Kydd was returning in the boat.

Puzzled, he descended to the deck. He was just in time to see him coming over the side and a small crowd gathering.

“A glorious day!” Kydd grinned. “But first see who we’ve here!”

A gaunt Poulden shepherded two wide-eyed young midshipmen over the side, the rest of L’Aurore’s missing boat’s crew following. They arrived on deck to slaps on the back, shouts of joy and a rising babble of incredulous talk.

“They were found in irons in the Turk flagship. This was after a famous battle when Senyavin caught up and did for ’em in splendid fashion.”

Almost stumbling in a dream-walk, the lads were led below by kindly sailors.

Kydd chuckled. “They’ll not know it now, but in years to come, wardrooms around the fleet will be hearing of the time they were held captive by Turkish fiends.”

“You said a famous battle?”

“As would stand with any since Trafalgar, I’m persuaded. But don’t you see, Nicholas? It’s done, over. The Turks will now be seeking peace and I’ve no more reason to stay here in this benighted land.

“We sail for Cadiz this hour. And tonight we’ll dine together-for the first time since, let me see … a very long time.”

That evening, as L’Aurore put out over the Mediterranean into a setting sun that blazed with a splendour that touched the heart, the two friends supped together.

“I haven’t seen M’sieur Sebastiani,” Renzi said, reaching for yet more gilt-head bream.

“Ah. The devil was too quick for us. Just as we were passing the Gallipoli forts, rejoicing in our flag of protection, he leaped over the side and stroked out like a good ’un for the shore. Knew, o’ course, he was safe-that we couldn’t turn in the narrows or sail back against the blow.”

He held his Moschofilero up to the light. “Splendid drop this, don’t you think?”

There was a pause of some significance. Then Kydd put down his wine. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you’re in these waters, Nicholas?”

“Perhaps at another time.”

Kydd sighed, his face thoughtful. “I’m sanguine Collingwood will look kindly on your suffering. He’s a considerate sort of chap and I’ll wager he’ll ask me to be so good as to convey such a noble martyr back to England.”

“That will be a particular pleasure, dear friend. And I’m sure I could prevail upon Cecilia to allow me to entertain you for a space at Eskdale Hall.”

Kydd grinned. “In course there’ll be such a public fuss for L’Aurore, she having snatched a belted earl from the clutches of a sultan of the Turks and-”

“It mustn’t happen!” Renzi snapped. “I don’t want it known, under any circumstances.”

“Well, well. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you a wanton noble out on a tour sporting with the native ladies.”

“No, believe me, it’s much more important than that.”

Kydd smiled wickedly. “Then I think you’d better confess to me before Cecilia gets to hear of it.”

“She already has,” Renzi whispered, his eyes filling.

Touched, Kydd said softly, “Then what’s to do, that my friend’s in such a moil?”

“Do forgive me, old chap. It’s been somewhat of an ordeal.”

“I’ll try to understand, dear fellow, but if you don’t tell me-”

“Perhaps I will. There’s none in this world that I’d trust beyond your good self, Thomas. That I swear to you.”

“Thank you, Nicholas-I suspect you’re now to tell me something singular.”

“I am. The year ’ninety-four. We were in Seaflower cutter in the Caribbean and had on board the Lord Stanhope. Then the hurricane and our open-boat voyage. Do you remember?”

“I do. A near-run thing.”

“Do you know why Lord Stanhope insisted on departing in the boat? Instead of remaining safely on the island?”

“Don’t I remember you two being particularly hugger-mugger together?”

“Quite so. He told me all.

“He had intelligence of a Spanish plot and had to reach England before war was declared-”

“Ah! Now I understand. It always puzzled me why, when he didn’t need to, he took his life in his hands in our little boat.”

“It’s because this was what he did.”

“You’re not being clear, old trout.”

“Lord Stanhope was in fact a species of servant to the Crown who had no office but a calling, one of such gravity and importance that he had the respect and gratitude of the highest in the land. And for this he required the most complete discretion, the exercise of the strictest confidence, for, you see, he deployed his aristocratic lineage as a cloak to conduct activities that diplomats, soldiers and others could not.”

“Nicholas, why are you telling me this? If ever it’s known …”

“Because Lord Stanhope-or should I say the Marquess of Bloomsbury?-has lately laid down his burden. My dear fellow, I am anointed his successor.”

“Good God!”

He hesitated, then asked, “You said Cecilia … ?”

“Yes. She knows all. As did Lady Stanhope.”

“You didn’t-”

“I forbade her to come on this mission, if that is your meaning.”

“I’m damned glad to hear it. But it has to be said that things didn’t turn out well for you this first time.”

“On the contrary. The French are ejected from the Sublime Porte. That is all that counts.”

“You’re not telling me everything, m’ friend.”

“And neither should I. There was nothing you could have done, nothing I could have asked and nothing that wasn’t achieved by other means than the broadside of a saucy frigate.”

“Damn it all! There’s something-”

“When we’re old greybeards together, perhaps we’ll sit by a winter fire and tell our stories. Then you’ll know. Until then it’s imperative I assume the foolishness of rank. Now you can see why my daring exit-which I’ve yet to express my sensibility of-should not be widely known.”

“It shall be done, old friend. The L’Aurores will stay mum if I tell ’em.”

“And it goes without saying, our conversation tonight is in the highest confidence.”

“Understood, Nicholas. Will you tell Cecilia of your adventures here?”

“There can be no secrets between us,” Renzi said softly. He stopped. “Ah, that is to say …”

“You said no secrets from Cecilia.”

“Well, there is actually … Can I rely on your understanding, brother? It’s rather embarrassing …”

“Possibly.”

“It’s about-”

“What are you asking me to conceal from my sister?”

“Portrait of an Adventurer, Il Giramondo.”

“Ah, your novel. It was published, then.”

“She must never know! I …” He tailed off miserably.

Kydd roared with laughter. “So I’ve something over you, m’ lord. Ha!”

He recovered and managed, “Pay no mind, Nicholas, I’ll keep it quiet.”

“Thank you.”

“In the meantime …”

“Yes?”

“If there’s trouble and pestilence somewhere in this world, do I take it that not far away a certain peer of the realm might be found?”

Renzi gave a half-smile and refilled their glasses.

“My dear fellow, I couldn’t possibly comment.”