“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 sp
linters; 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 Tverdyî 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 f
ailed 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.”
Pasha Page 25