Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  In an anteroom the envoys met together. Exotically dressed notables from the inner Balkans mingled with those in Arabic headdress and central Asian gold-threaded tunics. It was Renzi, dressed as a European in silk stockings and breeches, who was the stranger in this part of the world.

  He looked about for Sébastiani and the French but did not see them and conversed happily in broken Greek with a genial Turk from the Morea. Zorlu brought up an Egyptian Copt with a pressing desire to meet an Englishman, and Renzi smiled pleasantly in incomprehension at an earnest little man in a colourful waistcoat and swirling trousers.

  But just what approach should he take with Selim? Through Zorlu, anything would be measured facts, opinions, not charged with mind-changing revelation of feelings or the subtlety of give and take.

  Out of sight trumpets brayed insolently. There was a sudden hush: movement could be heard in the inner room, then several Janissaries in tall white hats appeared at the door and snapped orders.

  Renzi went in with the others, and saw Sébastiani—close to Selim.

  It was a disaster. He had been humiliated by the French, forced to answer the sultan’s potent questions with weak generalisations. It was unlikely he would be asked again—or even meet him on another occasion. In the game of manoeuvre and guile with which he had been entrusted by his country, he had failed dismally.

  At any point, and without warning, it could all end with the French finally wooing the sultan into their camp and bringing Bonaparte’s plans to success.

  Arriving back at his quarters in the darkest of moods, Renzi was quite taken aback by Jago’s polite announcement that the sultan’s gifts were ready for inspection.

  They were princely. A kaftan, with richly embroidered patterning in yellow and red, threaded with gold. A stylish white turban, with delicate feathers spraying out from a single emerald. And a pair of spangled red velvet slippers with upturned tips.

  A note was attached: Zorlu translated the elegant Persian flourishes as an invitation to spare himself the discomfort of European attire for the more sensible dress of the Turk.

  Included, too, was a series of embossed volumes on the history of the Osmanli, the Ottoman house, by an Italian monk. As well, a learned treatise by a Turk on the felicities of Islam translated into unreadable hieratic Greek, and a slim volume, densely ornamented, that had Zorlu draw in his breath sharply.

  “This is teşbib, lord,” he said reverently, stroking the little book. “It is Divan poetry, the highest and most ancient form in the land. Even the Seljuk Turks revered its beauty.”

  Renzi scanned it quickly. It meant nothing, the Persian script lovingly scribed in flowing swirls and finials, yet it was certainly a thing of exquisite execution.

  “What is it about?”

  “Fahn’ton Pasha, it tells of the transcendent allure of nature as an expression of the ethereal.

  “I will read you some.”

  He did, and the sophisticated and ingenious conceits in the flowering of culture moved Renzi.

  “Pray tell me, what do these gifts mean?”

  “By this we can say that you are placed in a position of respect. A kaftan is usually awarded to viziers and courtiers deemed worthy of reward, but the books—I have not heard of foreigners being so favoured. It can only be he believes that, as a scholar, you will appreciate them.”

  “Ah. Is it expected that I will return the princely favour with a gift of my own?”

  “That is generally the case, lord.”

  A diplomatic envoy would have taken precautions to bring suitable presents—he had nothing.

  “If I have no gifts, would it be taken amiss?”

  “Formally speaking, it would be seen as disdain, an affront, a rejection of friendliness, but as you are not an envoy, perhaps …”

  Renzi racked his brain feverishly. But all he had was paltry indeed after this.

  Something …

  A little later he handed Zorlu a small packet, tied with a single ribbon. “See that this goes to the sultan with my sincere respects and so forth.”

  It had been a sacrifice, but too much was at stake to consider personal feelings and it might even produce a result.

  In the early-morning light Renzi struggled to wakefulness.

  “M’ lord, do pardon the liberty.”

  “Yes, Jago?”

  “A summons, m’ lord. From the sultan himself—now.”

  A peremptory demand for his presence at this hour? It could mean anything.

  “No, not that, Golding. The Turkish costume, I think.”

  It felt outlandish and theatrical when he drew it on but it was undeniably comfortable and easy on the body. Even the turban was little hindrance. Passing his totally blank-faced staff, he strode confidently outside, with an approving Zorlu, to the waiting Janissary guards.

  But there seemed to be some difficulty. He waited patiently for Zorlu to deal with it.

  “Lord, they have orders for your own self, no others. They will not let me go with you.”

  There was no arguing with the captain of the guard and, not a little apprehensive, Renzi allowed himself to be escorted away.

  They passed through the Gate of Salutation into the second courtyard, deserted so early in the morning, and continued towards the hallowed third courtyard and the sultan’s private spaces. Then through the Gate of Felicity with the Grand Throne Room ahead, specifically placed to hide all sight of what lay within.

  Renzi was led along a marble walkway to an impressively colonnaded building, fronted by a grassy expanse with a fountain.

  And there, waiting for him, was Sultan Selim. And he was quite alone.

  The Janissaries retired.

  Hesitantly, Renzi bowed politely in the Turkish way, hand on heart with an inclination of the head, and, at a loss at how he should continue, bade him good morning in English.

  “Allah has presented us with a new day,” Selim said, in mellifluous French. “Is it not beautiful?”

  In his hands he held the gift, Renzi’s own precious little book, its leather binding so frayed and dark.

  “I confess to being consumed with curiosity at your favour, Fahn’ton Pasha. I’m accustomed to rich endowments, jewels, silks, marvels—but you have given me just this. I’m therefore persuaded it has a value far above its appearance and I beg you will tell me more of it.”

  “Seigneur, this is my most beloved possession. It is the work of the English poet Wordsworth, and each night I seek solace in its beauty before I sleep. Sir, I could not think of anything more valuable to give in return to the one who presented me with the teşbib, which I will treasure for all my days.”

  “You know what it contains?”

  “Sire, from Zorlu Bey I have heard its first words in adoration of nature—and was so taken with its delicacy and charm that I was immediately put in mind of my Wordsworth.”

  “Really? Then I desire you should read a piece to me.”

  Renzi took the book and opened it as they started walking together.

  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

  Bring sad thoughts to the mind

  To her fair works did Nature link

  The human soul that through me ran;

  And much it grieved my heart to think

  What man has made of man.

  Selim remained silent as he reflected on the words, then turned to face Renzi.

  “You are a deeper soul than your manners suggest, Fahn’ton Pasha. You are a thinking man, which is rare in a world of doers, and I warm to you.”

  “I’m touched, Seigneur.”

  They passed the fountain, its tumbling water just beginning to glitter in the strengthening sun.

  “You conceive that I, the sultan, am the possessor of all things, am omnipotent in my domains. Do you not?” he asked, with the ghost of a smile on his sensitive features.

  “It is hard to think otherwise, sir—except that not all things in this world are for a mortal’s commanding.”

  “Indeed
. It is a paradox I have long contemplated—that I do indeed have all power concentrated in my hands. At a word I may have a man’s head struck from his shoulders and none may question why. Yet by that very act I unleash forces in a way perfectly unforeseeable before the event.

  “When I must act on a larger stage, where the world is convulsed in tides of conflict and greed, exactly the same paradox applies.”

  Renzi remained silent.

  “Take my country. My rule is absolute: it cannot be put aside. Yet a wrong word from me can cast it into a tumult of rivalry and strife. For instance, it is apparent to me and, no doubt, to yourself, Fahn’ton Pasha, that unless my people modernise, advance in science and industry, we shall be left to moulder on the dung-heap of history.

  “I have tried to introduce reforms. The Grand Mufti Haji Samatar approves without reservation. Mehmed Ataullah Efendi, leader of the Islamic Ulema, is strongly against. Each has his followers so if I support one it will be at the cost of the other’s enmity. Yet this is not the question—that must be not what satisfies them but what is the right and proper course for Ottoman Turkey. My heart says I must press for reform, but should it be at the cost of—of disorder in the realm?”

  The unspoken conclusion could only be that indecision, doing nothing, was the same as denying reform. It was an impossible quandary and he felt for the man.

  “Seigneur, why do you tell me this?” he said carefully.

  “Why? You cannot guess? Let us then move to the largest stage of all—a world that is locked in war while Turkey sleeps, dreaming of the centuries. This war is like no other for it is one of world empires pitted one against another, and every part of the civilised globe is drawn into their struggle whether they wish it or no. The same dilemma arises: when nations demand it, which is the right side to take for my country?”

  Renzi fought down excitement. It was everything he could have prayed for: the ear of the sultan alone and the very subject raised that he wanted. But he clamped an icy control on himself: any rash or unguarded comment could destroy his position.

  “There are no English left in Constantinople,” Selim continued quietly. “All I have are the French, who tell me what they will. What of the other side?”

  “Sir, I am but a subject of the Crown of England, not a diplomat, still less an accredited envoy. This is beyond my powers to tell.”

  “That is well said, but you have confessed to the heart of the matter—you are English and may be relied on to offer to me an English view of how any matter might be perceived by your countrymen. And at your eminence I dare to say by your king and fellow nobles.”

  “If I can be of service in this way to you, Seigneur, it would be my honour to provide it. Is there any question at hand that presses?”

  “Since you ask it, Fahn’ton Pasha, my people are at this time in fear and trembling that the English are offended and that the great fleet of Nelson Bey will be sent against us to destroy Constantinople. Is it in your conceiving that the affront is of such a gravity that this will happen?”

  Renzi inwardly exulted. It was almost too easy—but he steadied himself, slowing in his walk as if giving it grave thought.

  It was ludicrous, of course, to think that the Admiralty would lift the blockade of Cádiz simply to send the warships to Constantinople to teach it a lesson for some trivial slight. But an Oriental people would not see things in the same way, their conception of honour and insult being at quite another remove.

  How to put this across without offending Selim?

  “Seigneur, while I am not privy to the affairs of state at a high level, as you’ll understand, it would seem to me that in Parliament it would be thought that the present troubles with France would make it inadvisable to send the fleet away. It is probable that they would frown on any slight but would let it pass and be forgotten in the press of concerns nearer home.”

  “You would advise then, that this will not happen.”

  “Sir, tell your people to sleep easier in their beds. Nelson’s fleet will not trouble them.”

  CHAPTER 8

  HMS L’AURORE LAY AT ANCHOR in the fleet rendezvous at Tenedos. The burden of fleeing people had made working the ship through the narrows of the Dardanelles the stuff of nightmares but eventually they had all been safely landed ashore. Except the English ambassador, who still lay ailing in Kydd’s cabin.

  On arrival Kydd had been quick to advise Admiral Louis of events. He had orders for the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean in general, but no instructions touching on the situation they found themselves in—that the British had been summarily excluded from Constantinople and its strategic vicinity.

  “I’ll send dispatches, of course, but all we can do is resume our cruise north,” Louis decided. “You’ve two days to get your vessel in shape before we sail.”

  But then the situation changed completely.

  Coming into view around the headland a crowd of sail quickly resolved into a full-scale battle fleet led by a massive three-decker flying the pennant of a senior admiral. As it came to for mooring, sharp eyes noted that the flagship was Royal George, a 100-gun first rate in the same class as Victory. She was followed in line by another three-decker and a host of other battleships.

  At the sound of the gun salutes, men tumbled up from below and stared at the apparition. Their lordships at the Admiralty did not send massive assets such as these on jaunts—it must be to some purpose. Officers and men speculated: an invasion of Naples to forestall a French move against Sicily was the favourite, followed by the dark suspicion that the Tsar of Russia had turned again and was now allied with Bonaparte, who had offered Malta to seal the compact.

  Rear Admiral Louis was on his way to the great flagship without delay, and while everyone waited for what would come of the visit, there were even wilder conjectures: the Toulon blockade had been broken and a frantic search for the French fleet was under way, or conceivably the Greeks had risen in rebellion and this fleet was sent in support or to suppress it.

  When the signal was hung out on Royal George—“All captains”—Kydd wasted no time in making his way there.

  He was met at the entry-port and taken down to the great cabin where, along with the other captains, he was introduced to the fleet commander, Vice Admiral of the White Sir John Duckworth, victor of San Domingo and second in command under Collingwood of the Mediterranean fleet. With him was Rear Admiral Sir Sidney Smith.

  Kydd knew both men: Duckworth had been a commodore in the taking of Menorca when he had been a junior lieutenant on a signalling mission ashore and he knew him to be bluff, ambitious but cautious. He had missed Trafalgar but gone on to personal glory in the fleet action at San Domingo against the French that had led to their withdrawal from the Caribbean, and was known now to covet Collingwood’s own command.

  The other could not have been more different. Kydd had first met Smith in the dramatic defence of Acre, when he had been with a motley band of British seamen and Arab irregulars under Smith’s command that had stood against a siege by Napoleon Bonaparte face to face, to send him back to France in complete defeat, even to the extent of abandoning his army.

  Smith was clever, ingenious and restless, but had a knack for irritating his superiors. Yet his courage was undoubted—the Swedish king had knighted him for his role in a titanic battle against the Russians that had cost them sixty-four ships and many thousands of lives. Once he had even been captured as a spy and taken to a Paris fortress but had then escaped in dramatic circumstances.

  Kydd had been in his first command, the brig-sloop Teazer, when he had last seen Smith in Alexandria and where he had experienced his jealousy and glory-seeking at first-hand. He wondered what the man was doing in Duckworth’s command, then recalled the rumour that he had been the lover of Princess Caroline of Brunswick, the consort of the Prince of Wales; there had been talk of a child. It was more than likely he had been packed off out of the country.

  He knew one other of the dozen commanders seated around the
vast polished table—the captain of Ajax, a legendary 74-gun ship-of-the-line. This was Nelson’s Blackwood, the dour frigate captain whom Kydd had served under at Trafalgar and who had first brought the news of the French at Cádiz to Merton. He ventured a smile across the cabin and was rewarded with a slight easing of a frown—but that was Blackwood’s way, and Kydd determined to make a visit when he could, to talk over times still fresh for them both.

  “Shall we come to order, gentlemen?” Duckworth’s booming voice cut across the conversations. “There’s much to do, and time presses.”

  He was more portly than Kydd remembered, a heavy face and a ready scowl. He wore his full-dress admiral’s uniform, a mass of gold lace, stars and ribbons.

  “As of this date, the detached squadron of Rear Admiral Louis is dissolved, its ships to come under my direct command. This is for a particular service for which I have my orders.”

  He had their full attention and looked around the table.

  “Gentlemen, we are to force the Dardanelles and lie before Constantinople.”

  There were gasps of incredulity but Duckworth ignored them. “The government has had word of French intrigue and treachery in the court of the Sultan of Turkey that threatens to gain for Bonaparte what he lost at the Nile and this cannot be tolerated. My task is to reverse that state of affairs in our favour, by force, if necessary.”

  “Sir, when you say force, do you mean—”

  “My orders are clear. We lie off the city with guns run out. Our demands are simple: the Turk is to eject the chief French troublemaker, one M’sieur Sébastiani, and his crew to us or alternatively yield up their entire navy, ships and stores to prevent their falling into the hands of the French. Failing that, we bombard the city of Constantinople and lay it in ruins.”

  “Good God! This is madness!” Smith stuttered, his face reddening. “The work of a lunatic! We can’t just—”

  “Admiral Smith!” rapped Duckworth, “Kindly keep yourself under control. These orders are not mine—they’re not even those of the commander-in-chief. They originate in London at the highest—I say, the highest—level. Do you understand what I’m saying?”