Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  “Wake Mr Arbuthnot,” Kydd said, when he was told. “There’s something afoot.”

  They reached the deck together. “One to come aboard, Mr Curzon.”

  A bent figure painfully made his way up the side.

  “Why, it’s Mr Dunn,” Arbuthnot said, in astonishment. “This is very irregular! What brings you here?”

  “Oh, Your Excellency, sir, dire news.”

  “Go on.”

  “My man—whom I trust with my life—comes to me with dreadful tidings.” The merchant’s hands writhed together as he tried to find the words.

  “He knows of a dreadful plot, Excellency, one that chills my blood, so it does!”

  “Please be more specific if you will, Mr Dunn.”

  “Sultan Selim plans to take all Englishmen hostage at once against what he’s been told by the Frenchmen is a return of Nelson’s fleet to take revenge upon their dishonouring.”

  “What are you talking about, ‘dishonouring?’”

  The whites of the man’s eyes stood out in the half-light.

  “I beg your excellency’s pardon, but your retiring to this ship was cried up by the French as fear and—and faintness, this being what they say, not me.”

  “And?”

  “They say your big ship ran away from just a few Turkish ruffians and—”

  “Enough! This is insupportable. That craven Sébastiani and his devilish plots touch on my honour. I will not allow that by any wight.”

  Dunn continued, “Excellency, my people are fearful of their fate. If the sultan seizes them they may well suffer the same as the Wallachian hospodar. Hostage, and put to torture to bring a quick yielding by others.”

  Arbuthnot snorted with contempt and shot an angry glance at Kydd. “You see, Captain? If you’d shown more backbone when …” He stopped, breathing hard. “I’m feeling ill. I’m going to my cabin.”

  Kydd was left standing with an astonished Dunn.

  “What shall we do?” he stammered. “Your common Turk is not nice in his manners when roused.”

  “Sir, to be truthful I cannot think what to advise.”

  The boat disappeared into the night, leaving Kydd to try to make sense of what was happening.

  One thing was certain: it were better that L’Aurore prepared herself for any eventuality.

  She went to single anchor, and sail was held to a spun-yarn for a rapid move to sea. Guns were awkwardly loaded inboard out of sight but not run out—every second one with canister. Lieutenant Clinton posted his marines in two watches the length of the vessel, and arms chests were brought up for use in repelling boarders.

  Apart from this, there was little else he could do, given that the dangers they faced were all but unknown.

  The first of the terrified refugees began arriving within an hour or two of Dunn’s departure. They babbled of wild rumours, troops marching in the streets, looting of warehouses and desperate panic as fear spread.

  Before daybreak it had turned to a flood—merchants, clerks, families, hapless servants, all turning to the only safety they could see: L’Aurore.

  It was hopeless. The gun-deck was crowded with sobbing, desperate humanity; there could be no working the guns, no defences. More climbed up until every clear space was crammed with people—there had to be an end to it.

  As dawn turned to morning the tide of incomers had ebbed but Kydd was left with few options.

  “Wake the ambassador and tell him we’ve a decision to make.”

  The midshipman quickly returned with a message that Arbuthnot was too ill to consider discussions. He refused the offer of a naval surgeon to attend on him.

  Kydd knew very well what that meant, but it was a release: he could make the decisions alone.

  If even half of what was being rumoured was true they were in mortal danger. He had no right to risk his ship and all aboard simply to maintain the fiction of a British deterrent. If it meant that watchers ashore would take it as a fleeing, so be it.

  “Hands to unmoor ship! Get us under way, Mr Kendall.”

  Bowden pointed at the moored ships-of-the-line. “Sir …”

  There were crew running down the decks and disappearing below and other activity at the capstans. Manning the guns and warping around? It could be quite innocent—or the first step in a coup.

  L’Aurore’s anchor cable was coming in slowly, impeded by the crowded decks. “Mr Curzon, get those lubbers flatting in at the jib. I mean to cut the cable and cast to starboard.”

  It was the last degradation but L’Aurore had to make the open sea before the cataclysm closed in. The carpenter took his broad-axe forward and, with several blows, parted the anchor cable, which plashed with a finality into the Bosporus.

  “Let loose!”

  With a fair wind L’Aurore stood away for the Dardanelles and freedom.

  CHAPTER 6

  “YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, M’ LORD.”

  Jago stood warily before the Earl of Farndon in the library, his expression blank.

  “I did. We’re due to have a little talk together, I believe …”

  “If’n it pleases you, m’ lord.”

  In the past Renzi had been deeply involved with the Duc d’Auvergne and his secret network of spies, and himself had gone out on clandestine exploits; he’d immediately recognised in Jago a touch of the night.

  “… about your future here with me.”

  There was no response, the dark eyes watchful.

  “I know that my father was not as … how shall I put it? Not altogether open in his affairs. In fact there would be many who would say there were secrets he would rather he kept to himself, confidences that, if revealed, would prove … embarrassing.”

  He played with his pen, letting the words hang.

  “It is without doubt that he would need a well-trusted … assistant in this, one who would be certain to be discreet, effective and reliable. Mr Jago, I believe you must have served him satisfactorily to have stayed in your post for so long, don’t you feel?”

  “M’ lord.” He was going to give nothing away.

  “And I like that. You’ve been loyal and discreet—I’ve heard sordid tales of servants blackmailing their masters in a like position.”

  There was no change in the man’s features, so Renzi went on, “I think we understand each other, Jago. Should your loyalty continue with me, then I see your future will be bright at Eskdale Hall.”

  “Thank you, m’ lord.”

  There was a slight flicker of expression but otherwise no display of emotion. It showed control and Renzi knew he had not misjudged the man.

  “Now, I would have you know that I’m not always to reside at Eskdale. There will be times I desire to go abroad. Are you of a mind to accompany me? There is no requirement on you, but if you should go, it will be in the capacity of chargé d’affaires, as it were, to take control of my entourage and answerable only to me. Naturally your recompense will be proportionate. How do you say?”

  “I’ll go, if your lordship needs me. I’ve accompanied the last earl on more’n a few of his own trips.”

  “Splendid! Well, as it happens, I’ve a journey to the Levant in mind for very soon. As head of staff, you will have your ideas on who should be with us. Would you give it some thought and let me know?”

  The tea things were spread in a pleasing display of delicate porcelain in the orangery, Cecilia pouring daintily for Renzi and the dowager.

  “Nicholas, your wife tells me you are to desert her for foreign parts. Can this be true?”

  “Mama, it distresses me to say so but it seems I have little alternative.”

  “Oh. I’m interested in what it is that takes a man from a loving wife so soon after their wedding.”

  “It will be only for a short while. I’ve just received urgent word that a tumulus reputed to be that of King Midas himself has been found in Gordion, which is in Asia Minor. A princely find for scholarship but all for nothing if we cannot establish an interest before the French.”r />
  “And it has to be you, Nicholas?” she said sorrowfully, laying her hand on his.

  “That I am familiar with the region and am no stranger to travel is known at the Royal Society, who have pressed me most ardently.”

  “Well, you will be careful, won’t you, dear? You have responsibilities now, remember.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Cecilia leaned across and kissed him lightly. “You will take care, darling—for us both?”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE LARGE, SQUARE, UNSPRUNG COACH lurched and rattled as it approached the Ottoman capital. It was a hired carriage of the best that could be mustered for an English lord but was sadly lacking the refinements to be expected at Eskdale and smelt dank, of old leather and ancient grime.

  Behind, a covered wagon followed with the impedimenta of the expedition, then the bulk of the entourage clutching the side of a large cart of exotic appearance, and a few on horseback. In front trotted their hired escort, a troop of Turkish cavalry. It had been pressed on them by the Pasha of Murath, horrified that an English noble crossing his territory was in danger of being robbed with consequences to himself if the Porte got to hear of it.

  Renzi rode in stately isolation but for Ackworth, his secretary. He had chosen the man himself: a petty, shrewish and self-important individual, he would be oblivious to the implications of what was going on around him and have no curiosity about it either. Ideal for what he was about to do.

  Jago had understood what was wanted in the other staff. It was the minimum required: the quiet Golding was his valet, assisted by Miller, a strong young man acting as general servant and footman; his cook was Henri, a second-generation Lincolnshire man with absurd claims to French ancestry.

  As was the custom, local hirelings were taken on for domestics; Lord Farndon, of course, was not to be troubled in this matter. Jago, with his talent for communication and the smoothing of cultural difficulties, ably took charge.

  It had worked well and a camaraderie of Englishmen together in foreign parts had grown.

  Renzi had his support retinue. The rest was up to him.

  At Bayrampaşa, the city walls came into view. The fabulous and mythical Constantinople lay ahead. They stopped at a last han, a roadside hostelry.

  It was time to set the mission in motion. To achieve a foothold in the city, Renzi knew he had to make a presence in the shortest possible time. A galloper from the Turkish troop was sent bearing a courteous note to inform Arbuthnot, the ambassador, that Constantinople was about to host an English earl.

  Renzi settled down to await events, changing from his plain but serviceable travelling clothes to the rich coat and breeches expected of a noble visitor.

  When the messenger returned he was accompanied by a dignified Turk, with a lined face and neatly trimmed black beard. His jewelled turban proclaimed him someone of consequence.

  Miller held his horse while he dismounted. After a low bow in the European fashion, the man stood before Renzi.

  “My name is Doruk Zorlu, lord,” he said, in good English. “And I am first secretary to his excellency.”

  “Lord Farndon of Eskdale Hall. I’m here to—”

  “Fahn’ton Pasha. I have to tell you that his excellency cannot entertain you. He is … is no longer in Constantinople.”

  “Rest assured, I am in no hurry, Mr Zorlu.”

  The man took a step closer and said, in a troubled voice, “Pasha, it is not safe for you here. I must ask you to go back. There is feeling against the English, a rising up of the people against them.”

  “I will take that risk. Thank you for telling me.”

  “No! You must not stay!”

  Renzi felt a prick of unease. “Pray why not?”

  “Pasha, the ambassador and all the English have this day left Constantinople in a ship. They fear that they’ll be taken hostage by the sultan for security against an attack by the British.”

  “What? This is madness! We are allies, friends of the sultan.”

  “It is a rumour only, but the people are listening to anything. You must go.”

  Renzi froze. This meant that in the war of influence the French had all but succeeded. With a clear field and the sultan’s ear it would be only a matter of time and they would complete Bonaparte’s plan.

  Was there anything he could do to stop it happening? Was it too late?

  His duty, however, was plain. In view of the colossal stakes, his safety was of secondary importance; he had to make the attempt.

  “Oh dear. This is dreadful news,” he said sorrowfully. “Dreadful. And I was so looking forward to my travels in Asia Minor. There is a service I’d greatly appreciate, Mr Zorlu. I’m so very fatigued after my journey and must rest. Have you knowledge of an inn of repute where I might stay in safety?”

  Zorlu looked at him steadily. “You plan to remain in Constantinople then, Fahn’ton Pasha.”

  “For a short while. Until this little unpleasantness is over.”

  “Very well. Then there is a suggestion I have that I’m sure would be what the ambassador would wish. Pasha, there is a guest suite within the embassy in Pera. You and your retinue shall be accommodated there.”

  “That is most kind in you, Mr Zorlu. I accept with thanks.”

  Renzi eased down in the vast marble bath with weariness. A hesitant Golding waited with towels but the burly attendants, stripped to the waist, were having none of it. He was helped to a nearby slab and the pair set about pummelling and slapping until his aches had dissolved in a flood of pleasure.

  It took an effort of will to resist the temptation to let anxieties and concerns recede and resign himself to rest, but he couldn’t. Not with matters reaching a climax as they were.

  He dressed and asked Zorlu to join him in the guest-suite reception room.

  Pleasantries were exchanged, then Zorlu asked, “Pasha, your unworthy servant begs forgiveness for his impertinence in asking your reasons for visiting us.”

  He lowered his head politely and Renzi could see no hint of the import of his question in his eyes. But he had made up his mind to trust no one.

  “I flatter myself that I am a scholar of some merit and, having heard of the discoveries at Gordion, I have a desire to see them at the first hand.”

  “I understand, lord. If there is any office I may provide it would be my honour to serve you.”

  Was that an edge of deeper understanding, an intimation of complicity?

  Renzi was not sure but his mission was not to be risked in a misplaced trust. Yet the man was still loyal to his English employers, evidenced by his remaining in post where many would have fled. His account of the situation might well be worth hearing.

  Renzi motioned him to a chair.

  The French, it seemed, had for many years desired influence at the court of the Ottoman sultan, Selim III, and to this end had lavished gifts and attention on him. It had all counted for nothing: in 1798 Bonaparte had invaded Ottoman Egypt, bent on conquest and empire, destroying years of intrigue. Offended, the Sublime Porte had appealed to the British and the result had been a treaty of friendship and alliance that still existed—just.

  At the peace of Amiens in 1802 Bonaparte had industriously set about restoring relations. This time it was not merely presents but military advisers, training battalions, even cannon. The sultan had formed a new branch of his army, trained in the latest methods by the French, and was looking to build on it a new and reformed military. He therefore had every interest in cultivating a close relationship and was known to admire Napoleon the Conqueror.

  The most formidable of these was the energetic and capable French ambassador. A serving general and favourite of Bonaparte, Horace Sébastiani was young, intelligent, wily and ruthless in his furthering of French influence. He had captured the attention of Selim and was feared and admired by those in his court. His thrust and resolution in acting for what he desired made him a deadly opponent.

  Renzi nodded. This was valuable to know, even if it showed j
ust what titanic obstacles he himself faced. However there must be an entry point into the situation—the French were not yet in control.

  The central figure in the whole drama had to be Selim III himself.

  From their conquest of the old Byzantine Empire in 1453 onwards, the Ottoman sultans had reigned supreme and unchallenged. And with absolute power, in a manner that had not changed in centuries.

  The sultan ruled from his palace through the Divan, a parliament of advisers, headed by the grand vizier. His religious advisers were the Ulema, a body of scholars; the military were dominated by the Janissaries, an elite corps of household troops and bodyguards whose origins were lost in time but whose power and jealously guarded privileges had steadily increased.

  The outside world barely touched the existence of the sultan for he remained securely within the magnificence of the great Topkapi Palace where all the instruments of rule were concentrated, with the imperial domestics—from vast kitchens to the mysteries of the seraglio.

  And within the grand edifice seethed plots and counter-plots, treachery and guile beyond anything seen in Europe since medieval times. Yet if Renzi was going to counter the French success he had to penetrate to the very heart of it all.

  “Mr Zorlu.”

  “Zorlu Bey,” the man said, with a short bow.

  “Zorlu Bey. This has been a most gratifying discussion. Your powers of summary do you credit and—”

  They were interrupted by a footman, who whispered briefly to Zorlu. There was a tone of unease in his voice as he told Renzi, “A gentleman of the palace, Mustafa Tayyar Efendi, has arrived and craves audience with you. Will you see him?”

  “What do you counsel?”

  “I know him well. The man is of the Reis-ül Kuttab, which you will know as the foreign ministry under the grand vizier. Undoubtedly he comes to see with his own eyes an Englishman who dares to remain in Constantinople at this time. I cannot advise other than not to say anything you do not want to be made instantly known throughout the palace.”