Renzi was taken to a rough, unsprung carriage, which ground off, out of the courtyard, through the Imperial Gate and into the city. At that hour the streets were deserted and the noise of their passing echoed sharply off the buildings.
He had no idea what was going on and, without Zorlu, could not find out. He tried to remain calm.
After an interminable journey along grey-glistening sea-walls they took a sharp turn inland.
Through the side window Renzi caught a glimpse of a fortress with many towers, which for some reason meant something to him. Then he had it: in his childhood he’d been taken by an illustrated account of old Constantinople. This was the famed Golden Gate, the entry point to the fabled city of the Byzantine emperors, its massive gates then gilded, with four bronze elephants at guard.
Now dour and oppressive, it loomed over him as the gates swung open and they continued on to the shadowed interior.
He was handed over without ceremony and hustled up stone steps to a guarded cell in one of the ancient towers. He was pushed in, the door crashing to behind.
Human stench wafted over him. There was a low bed on either side of the gloomy room, rushes on the floor, a single high, barred window.
A voice behind startled him. He swung around. It was Sébastiani, his arms folded and a cynical smile playing.
“Well, well. Our English lord. How the mighty have fallen.”
Renzi was instantly on guard. So the French were taken too.
How much did Sébastiani know? If his character as an amiable noble fool was penetrated, his worth to Congalton in the future—should ever he get out of here—would be little or nothing.
“These Ottoman dolts, they have no conception how to treat their guests,” Renzi said peevishly. “And what all this means is beyond me. Obviously there’s been some mistake.”
“Oh? If you’re Selim’s friend, it explains everything, don’t you think?”
“We got along together well, I admit. A talented writer, composer—he and I rather enjoyed our few visits.”
“He did speak well of you, I remember. But do tell, when your fleet came you disappeared from mortal ken. We assumed you had been an unfortunate victim of the understandable loathing of the English at the time. Where did you go?”
“Ha!” Renzi spat. “Those accursed Janissaries. They locked me up in some prison, said it was Selim’s orders and that it was for my own protection. I was outraged! I, a noble lord, sitting for days in a cell, like a common felon.”
“It must have been a harrowing experience for you, milord,” Sébastiani soothed, but with a mischievous smile.
“Just so. I had no idea what was going on, no one to talk to and—”
“I do understand. So that is why you took against His Sacred Majesty and warmed to the idea of a revolt.”
Renzi froze. “Why do you say that, General?”
“Why? I do have it as a fact that it was you hid the Prince Mustafa, a necessary pre-condition for any rising.”
“Well, I …”
“A cynic might go on to observe that, for the sacred goal of frustrating us in our legitimate relations with the Sublime Porte, a devious plot might well have been conceived by a high-placed Englishman to overthrow the friends of the French. Yes?”
Renzi allowed a look of astonishment to be quickly replaced by one of gratification. “You really think I could do something like that, General? That’s very kind in you to say. However, I’m embarrassed to admit the concealing was from quite another motive.
“You’ve no idea how expensive travel is in Oriental lands. Simple daily comforts come at extraordinary prices and, to be truthful about it, the delay while you warriors sorted things out between you has been ruinous to my purse. So, when an offer was made by the rebels to … Well, it was difficult to refuse gold in hand, and with Selim having treated me like that …”
“Quite so. And for your efforts you are now rewarded with this.”
“It’s disgraceful! I can only think there’s been some confusion and that when the new sultan discovers what has happened to a noble of England he’ll be sorely angry.”
Sébastiani grunted dismissively and began pacing while Renzi smothered a sigh of relief. It appeared his secret was safe.
“So you really don’t know where you are?”
“No, I do not.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you. You’re in the Yedikule, Fortress of the Seven Towers, the worst hell-hole in Constantinople and reserved for foreign enemies of the state. There has been no mistake—the new order has decided. Above everything, it’s declared we’re both equally infidels and threatening to the old ways. Therefore our prospects are dim.”
Despite himself, Renzi felt a surge of sympathy for the man. Gifted and ruthless, he was a fine servant of his master Bonaparte and, but for Renzi’s coup, would have succeeded in his glorious destiny.
Sébastiani went on moodily, “Either they don’t know what to do with us or they’re taking precautionary hostages. In the first, we’ll probably be an embarrassment and will be eliminated. In the second we could still be here in ten years’ time.”
“We have to get out.”
“There’s no chance of leaving here by our own efforts,” mused Sébastiani. “Any release has to come from outside—influence, bribery, threat. Do you not agree?”
“Oh, well, yes, I imagine you’re right.”
“Now, how are we going to do that?”
“Perhaps by a letter of sorts. To someone we know will help?”
“Very good, milord,” Sébastiani said sarcastically. “And how—”
“Every man has his price,” Renzi said, as casually as he could. “When our gaoler finishes work today he seeks out my steward, for he has my note of hand. It instructs the fellow to hand over a certain sum—”
“Of your thirty pieces of silver!”
“—in return for my letter. This is then sent on urgently by my man. Then the world will know of my unjust sufferings in a Turkish prison.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Sébastiani. “You have it, I’m persuaded. Were it not for one small detail.”
“Oh dear.”
“That he carries not one but two letters. One from me. No offence intended, milord, but I’ve a fancy I have more friends in this part of the world than your good self.”
“Really? The başkani of Gordion, a formidable scholar, is hardly to be scouted as a friend.” His real letter, of course, would not be heading there.
“A good man, but I was thinking of Marshal Marmont in Dalmatia at the head of forty thousand poilu.”
“I see. Well, shall we agree that the first to arrive with succour will take the other?”
“Only if the other accedes to the status of internee, as it were?”
“Agreed.”
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 Tverdyî, a 74-g
un 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 Île 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. Tverdyî 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 Tverdyî 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.
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