Wearily he reached for patience, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands … and waiting.
Hours later, too wrought up to take the refreshment Mahmut brought, he tried yet again to put a construction on what was happening.
He vaguely remembered Commodore Duckworth in Menorca, a heavy-faced, ponderous-mannered individual unlikely to be described as imaginative or bold. Yet he had led his ships to a decisive victory at Santo Domingo only the year before.
Couldn’t he see his way forward, for God’s sake?
In the early afternoon, the fleet still poised at anchor, a note was sent. It was from Duckworth, a long, confusing and senseless missive that complained the Turks were taking unfair advantage of the truce period to strengthen their defences and, “if they wished to save their capital from the dreadful calamities that are ready to burst upon it, the thought of which is shocking to our feelings of humanity, you will be sent here very early tomorrow morning with full powers to conclude with me this work of peace …”
Renzi listened to the diatribe in despair, hearing Sébastiani snort with derision at yet another postponing of the day of reckoning.
His counsel was not sought. When Isaac Bey was roused and sent with instructions, he knew nothing of it until afterwards, when he returned.
What he came back with gratified Sébastiani immensely. An acceptance of the previous offer to negotiate, and on the following day.
It was child’s play for the clever Frenchman to turn this into an interminable delay: where would the parley take place, there being no neutral ground? Who was there on both sides to be invested with plenipotentionary powers to conclude a peace? What precautions would be needed to guarantee the safety of both parties?
Renzi lay in his cell, more helpless and frustrated than he’d felt in his life before. He’d racked his brains, trying to conceive of a line of argument, a ruse even, that would repair the damage. But there was not a thing he could think to do.
The morning came and, with it, more hours of insufferable tedium in the little cell.
And then, a little before midday, Selim visited.
He was a different man. Calm, dignified and completely in possession of himself, he thought it only right to tell Renzi that, first, he had been informed the winds had changed and an assault by the British fleet was now foreseeably impossible. Then, in neutral tones, he allowed that at that very moment English captives from the fleet were being paraded through the streets before incarceration.
Renzi’s mind reeled. Did this mean there had been an action and a British ship had hauled down its colours?
In dumb incomprehension, he heard further that Sébastiani had clandestinely landed troops and cannon on the main island overlooking the fleet and now was menacing the ships at their anchorage.
Selim looked at him kindly. “I rather think this unpleasant business will soon be over, Fahn’ton Pasha. We will keep you here, perhaps until the ships are all gone, and then consult the circumstances to see if it be wise to restore you to your residence.”
“I thank you, Sire,” he muttered. “You have been always most amiable towards me and I am truly grateful.”
The sultan’s face softened. Then, hesitantly, he offered his hand. Just in time Renzi caught himself, and touched it to his forehead.
“I would that we could meet in more tranquil times, my friend.”
“There’s much I would know about your great country and its ways, Seigneur. On a different occasion, perhaps.”
Renzi spent a miserable night. The worst of it was that he was in a fog of ignorance. He had been comprehensively outflanked by the brilliant Sébastiani.
But when morning dawned everything changed.
Voices sounded outside and the sultan burst in, his face contorted with anxiety.
“The wind, it has shifted. Fahn’ton Pasha—the fleet of Nelson, it has up its anchor, it sails to here!”
“You are saying the ships are heading for Constantinople?” he said in amazement.
“Yes, yes! What will happen? You must tell me!”
Throwing off the dull tiredness of his night, Renzi flogged his mind.
“Sire, it is very difficult for me to say from my place here. Cannot a way be found that I can see them for myself that I can better advise?”
Selim gave him a hunted look, then shot a volley of instructions at the chief eunuch. “The morning prayers are not yet started. Go with Mahmut. He will take you high into the minaret where you may see them. But—this is a sacrilege. If you are discovered it will be death to you.”
“I go now, Sire.”
The steps up the slender minaret were a giddy torment but eventually he reached the tiny gallery at the top.
His eyes blinked at the strength of the morning sun. He stared out—and saw, in line-of-battle, the sails of Royal Navy battleships stretching away, one after the other into the distance.
In perfect station, there was no mistaking their course. Close to the wind at the northern point of the peninsula, they would then put helm down to fall before the wind, to come triumphantly down with starboard broadsides run out.
It was going to happen: Duckworth had finally lost patience and Constantinople was about to be cannonaded to a ruin.
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.<
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“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 Sébastiani 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.
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