Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  Smith subsided, his fists bunched.

  “I’m further instructed to take advice from the ambassador on this matter. His assessments regarding this grave confrontation are trusted by Whitehall and are, no doubt, the reason why we’re here. Where is the fellow, by the way?”

  “He lies indisposed in my ship, Sir John,” Kydd answered quickly.

  “Well, see he gets the best treatments. He’s much to be consulted.”

  “There seems to be a conundrum at large,” Louis came in.

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Are not the Turks our allies? A penetration of the Dardanelles by force must be in breach of our treaty of friendship of 1798, surely.”

  “We come in peace,” there was a muffled guffaw from Smith, “so if they open fire, it is the Turk who is in default. Never underestimate the wily Oriental, sir! They know full well what they’re about and it’s up to us to bring them to their senses. That is why we’ve been dispatched on this mission.”

  Duckworth sniffed disdainfully, then said, “And, for your information, the Russian Navy in Corfu, under their Admiral Senyavin, has offered to send us ships-of-the-line in the common cause. Naturally I shall not avail myself of this, considering our present armament sufficient against the Navy of the Ottomans.”

  There was quiet for a space as the import of what had been said sank in. Then Smith said coldly, “Sir, I have met Sultan Selim, my brother having been the previous ambassador. He’s no fool but has problems with his own people and takes to dithering between two courses of action when pressured. He’s close to the French now but can be swayed back just as easily. In all charity, can we not move forward by diplomacy instead of bludgeoning our way—”

  “Your objections are noted, sir. My orders are explicit. I can see no reason to delay. We sail against Constantinople.”

  “Very good, sir,” Smith said icily. “That leaves only the question of what to say when we fail.”

  “Your attitude borders on the mutinous, sir. Explain yourself!”

  “Certainly. I know these waters well—are you aware there are thirty-eight forts and batteries on the shores of the Dardanelles before ever the Sea of Marmora is reached? In a passage a mile or so wide this is hard enough to bear, I would have thought. A single ship is no threat and may pass unmolested, but a fleet such as ours will be an intolerable provocation.”

  Duckworth looked as though he was going to say something but stayed quiet.

  “Then there are the elements. The strait is long and narrow and there are currents and winds that can set the fairest vessel at a stand—I give you what the Turk calls the meltemi, a remorseless nor’easterly that can blow for days and, of course, is dead foul for passage through.”

  There were nods about the table. A ponderous line-of-battle ship could sail no closer than six points off the wind’s eye and it didn’t take a lot of imagination to picture a scene of back-winded ships milling helplessly before the guns of a Turkish fortress.

  “And did I say currents? There are some swifter than a man may run, many that will stem a ship motionless in a tops’l breeze. Sir, you may be confident of our first armed incursion into the strait since the Crusaders, but I am not.”

  Duckworth glowered. “Why wasn’t I told of this in more detail? Don’t we have pilots as will preserve us through the hazards?”

  “You’ll trust a Turk to conn us safely through to fall upon his countrymen?”

  “Humph. A good point, o’ course. Thirty-eight fortifications, you say. This will not be easy—to reduce them one by one will take time.”

  “And given the narrow width of the channel we cannot concentrate our fire-power at once,” Louis added. “It requires we brave the enemy’s shot ship by ship instead.”

  “Quite,” Duckworth said, the frown now permanent. “In view of what I’ve heard on fortresses, winds, restricted waters and currents, I’m minded to delay the expedition until we have a clearer plan in hand. It seems obvious to me now that their lordships were never in possession of all the facts when they drew up their orders.”

  “Sir,” Kydd intervened, “as I’m new returned from Constantinople, I’ve seen how fast things are happening there. If we’re indeed to make an impression on the Porte then we should move now, before the French can establish themselves further.”

  “Port? What does he mean?”

  “The Sublime Porte,” Smith said sharply. “The government of Turkey, named for the gateway where they meet the infidel. And he’s right. If we go through with this madness, better we do it before they get word and set up a resistance.”

  “I will be the judge of when we sail. And I say we wait until we can look further into the obstacles that face us. That is my decision.”

  An uncomfortable silence was broken by some kind of disturbance outside the cabin. The door opened and the flag-lieutenant poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the ambassador, Mr Arbuthnot, is here and demands entry to any discussion concerning Constantinople.”

  “Very well. Send him in.”

  Arbuthnot showed no sign of any ailment. He bustled in, eyes a-gleam, seized a chair and sat close to Duckworth.

  “I’ve just heard of your arrival, Admiral. How splendid!” he spluttered. “Excellent! London has been listening to what I’ve been saying these last months. A show of force! Nelson’s fleet!”

  “I’m happy to see you’ve made a full recovery from your indisposition, sir.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m quite ready to play my part, Admiral. Now, how then are we to proceed on our great expedition?”

  “My orders are to lie off Constantinople and demand the persons of the French delegation. Failing that, to demand the handing over of the entire Ottoman fleet and stores to prevent their falling into French hands.”

  “And if they won’t comply?”

  “We are to bombard the city until it lies in ruins.”

  “Splendid! Our standing among the Turks—who invariably connect power with prestige—will never be higher.”

  “Or any other acts as you shall from time to time recommend,” Duckworth said heavily. “And are within my power to undertake.”

  “It may not come to that, Admiral. So when might we start our chastising?”

  “Sir, I’m not altogether of the opinion that you have a proper regard for the difficulties we are facing.”

  “Difficulties?” Arbuthnot said, with surprise. “With a grand fleet such as this? They’ll run like rats at the first sight of it.”

  “No, sir. I’m more referring to our forcing of a passage through the Dardanelles. Have you ever given thought to the fact that no hostile armada has ever gone through unopposed since before Drake’s time? There is a reason for that. Fortresses, currents—I won’t weary you with details, sir. Suffice it to say that it is my inviolable decision to delay any sailing until we have thoroughly considered the elements.”

  “Delay? I thought I was talking to the fearless hero of San Domingo, sir.”

  Duckworth smouldered. “It is not your career that is in jeopardy, Mr Arbuthnot, it is mine. To lose a fleet to the Turk would damn me for ever.”

  “You are forgetting something, Admiral.”

  “What is that, sir?” Duckworth said stiffly.

  “Your orders, sir,” Arbuthnot replied silkily. “Which place my wishes to the fore. And these are that we waste no time in responding to our shameful ejection by the Ottomans by appearing before Constantinople at once. At once, sir!”

  “I must first await the arrival of reinforcements from the Russian Navy under Admiral Senyavin before ever I can proceed, sir.”

  “Admiral. I write my dispatches at the outset of this expedition tonight. Should you wish me to include the fact that we are lying idle at anchor indefinitely here while our high admiral waits for things to turn more in his favour?”

  “I take note of your opinion, Mr Ambassador. Know that I also shall be writing dispatches—to lay before my commander-in-chief the grave professional
difficulties we are under.”

  “Do so, Admiral. As long as we’re on our way. The triumph will be yours too, never fear.”

  “Very well. We get under way tomorrow.”

  Smith, who had been listening to the exchange with a lazy smile and with his hands folded behind his head, declared confidently, “I rather think not.”

  “What the devil do you mean, sir?”

  “Has no one noticed? The wind’s in the north and veering. We’ll be headed by a dead foul wind in the morning—we’re going nowhere.”

  As the captains waited for their boats on the spacious quarterdeck of the battleship, Blackwood came up to Kydd. “A pleasure to see you again, old fellow—oh, I do beg your pardon, Sir Thomas.”

  “The pleasure is mine also, sir.”

  “A trying time, this afternoon. Would you wish to take dinner with me tonight, at all? I’ve some capital lamb cutlets just come aboard that I’d like your opinion of—and perhaps we’ll remember the more uplifting times we’ve had together.”

  It was just what he needed to raise his spirits.

  Ajax was an old friend. He had seen her first in Alexandria, setting ashore Abercromby’s army that had finished the French in Egypt while he had been a junior commander in Teazer. And then it was Trafalgar—from the deck of his frigate he had seen her take on the bigger French flagship Bucentaure and then the even bigger Santissima Trinidad in an epic fight, nearly invisible in the boiling gun-smoke of the cannonading going on all around her.

  Now for the first time he trod her decks—and as a guest.

  “Welcome to my ship, Sir Thomas.” Blackwood greeted him warmly, shaking his hand in pleasure. “Shall we go below?”

  The evening was settling in, the last dog-watchmen on deck, lanthorns being rigged.

  Blackwood’s cabin was as austere as the man: a single polished table set squarely in the middle of the deck, a lamp on gimbals at either side and a candelabrum at the geometric centre. There were few domestic touches, a chaste, almost puritanical feel about it reflecting the personality of the man Kydd remembered.

  “I so deplore it when our leaders fall out,” Blackwood murmured, over sherry. “I remember not so long ago the elevated spirit in every heart when Lord Nelson was still with us, every captain burning to do his utmost for the man and his country.”

  “When orders were hardly necessary, each knowing his duty and the greater plan,” agreed Kydd.

  Blackwood nodded sadly. “Just between you and me, Kydd, I have the gravest reservations about this mission. It’s one as is ill conceived by an interfering Admiralty acting under political pressure and not knowing the facts of the matter.”

  These were near treasonable sentiments and Kydd knew that only the worst fears would have driven the loyal Blackwood to utter them.

  “Here we have Admiral Duckworth arriving afire for action, and in a day backing and filling with caution when he should be boldly standing on. You know what this implies?”

  “That Duckworth is not confiding in his subordinates—he’s had weeks to consult Sir Sidney Smith, who knows these waters and could have warned him of conditions?”

  “Just so. I rather think we have an ambitious man overreaching himself, who now sees that, far from a glorious opportunity for fame and distinction, this is threatening to descend into failure and ignominy. Hardly a leader to inspire.”

  “And his orders are to defer to the ambassador in both strategy and tactics—a divided command, I believe.”

  “Yes, indeed. I’m particularly exercised in how he’ll rein in Sir Sidney. Our Swedish knight is not known for either his tact or strict obedience to orders.”

  “His courage is undoubted.”

  “As will be tested when we attempt the Dardanelles, of course, but this is not the prime requisite in our case. We shall see.”

  More sherry was poured. “You’ve done well, indeed, Sir Thomas,” Blackwood said respectfully. “Since first shipping your swab, Trafalgar within a few months in a new frigate command and then … what was it next? The Cape?”

  The dinner passed agreeably, the lamb cutlets superbly cooked and accompanied by a very passable claret.

  “Do you miss Euryalus?” Kydd asked.

  Blackwood’s frigate had played a central role in Trafalgar even after the battle, acting as flagship for Collingwood, towing the Royal Sovereign to safety in the great storm that followed, and under a flag of truce going into Cádiz to parley for prisoners.

  “To be frank, I do. She was only a year or two old and I had her set to rights just as I wanted her. But a frigate … Well, they’re a young man’s command and a ship-of-the-line is a next step to one’s flag, so as of last year, here I have Ajax.”

  “A fine command, even so,” Kydd said, with sincere admiration. “I saw her in action at Trafalgar.”

  “Of course you did. And did you know it was Lieutenant Pinfold, her first lieutenant, who commanded? Lechmere was called away to a court-martial and the young fellow found himself pitched in without warning.”

  “And served nobly, as what I witnessed.”

  “I heard he was made post directly and given a frigate command.”

  The two men sat back reflectively. It was not so long ago but already it seemed another age, a time for heroes, fighting for survival against fearful odds and the end always in doubt. Now it was the slow but sure acquisition of empire and—

  There was a muffled crash that seemed to come from under their feet, perhaps in the wardroom or midshipman’s berth.

  Blackwood frowned.

  Another. Then the thump of running feet.

  Blackwood jumped up, lunging to open the door. He was met by the heart-stopping sight of billowing dark smoke and the stink of burning.

  A tearing cry of “Fire!” was taken up, urgently spreading forward and an unseen stampede began.

  “If I can do anything …”

  But Blackwood was off into the roiling murk, fighting to reach his quarterdeck.

  Kydd had a primitive fear of fire and his heart pounded as he thrust after him. In seconds he was staggering in the choking darkness, nearly knocked off his feet by running figures. Bellowed orders and cries of panic rang out.

  How had the ’tween decks filled with smoke so fast?

  Kydd dimly saw it was puffing up the main-hatch out into the gun-deck—which suggested it had taken hold below first.

  It was near impossible to see to manoeuvre a fire-engine in the darkness or even get some idea of where the core of the blaze was. And to get water down to the bowels of the vessel in quantity meant a long and near useless bucket chain, or opening the bilge cocks and risking the ship sinking with no guarantee that the water flooding in could be diverted for fire-fighting.

  He hesitated—his every fibre screamed at him to get out of the claustrophobia to the open air; this was not his ship, or the men his to command, and he had no reason to get in the way of those who were trying to stem the rampaging advance of the fire. He heard a lieutenant’s hoarse urging—and stumbled guiltily, eyes streaming, to the ladder and the blessedly clear night air.

  The smoke was soon thick and billowing on deck as well, streaming up through the gratings of the main-hatch, a choking hindrance to those trying to rig fire appliances. As yet there were no open flames.

  Kydd went to the knot of men he could just see on the quarterdeck. Blackwood was in the centre with a lace kerchief over his mouth and nose, the only officer—the others, no doubt, were below rallying the men. Those about him were the master and boatswain; the carpenter was away knocking down bulkheads to get at the fire.

  “If there’s any—”

  But Blackwood just looked through him at the extremity of distraction.

  “I sent my first luff below to discover the fire but he’s not returned,” he said eventually. “I’ve no idea what’s to do down there.”

  In a surge of sympathy Kydd’s hand went out, but it fell away in hopelessness at trying to convey his feelings.

&nbs
p; It was one thing to have command and responsibility, quite another to have no knowledge at all on which to base decisions and orders.

  An inhuman shriek came clear above the pandemonium and then another—things of horror were happening and they could do nothing.

  “All boats in the water,” Blackwood ordered, in not much more than a croak.

  The boatswain left, bellowing for hands to muster at the boat skids forward. These would have to be hoisted out by block and tackle at the yardarm, a task normally needing hundreds of men and there was not that number on deck. The smoke was getting worse, now with an acrid edge that made it a choking, suffocating trial. An increasingly impenetrable murkiness hid everything: what it must be like between decks for the heroes at the bucket chains and pumps could not be imagined.

  A sudden bright orange light flickered through at the main-hatch. The blaze was now flaring up from the bowels of the ship, hopelessly afire below.

  Blackwood hesitated for only a moment. “Abandon ship!” he said, breaking off in a paroxysm of coughing. “Get the men out, every one—abandon ship!”

  As if to add point to the inevitability the flames shot up in a sudden blaze amid a hellish chorus of shrieks. The end was not far off—but how could word be spread below? Those it reached might make the safety of the upper deck but many, fighting for the life of their ship, would never hear it.

  The smoke was near invisible in the dark so it came as a shock to the other ships at anchor to see flames stabbing up. A gun banged out into the night from forward, Ajax’s anguished cry for help. More cracked out, vivid flashes just piercing the sullen smoke clouds rolling about the deck.

  It would take time for boats from the ships to be launched and reach them.

  Men stumbled up from below, retching and pitiable. Some took a few breaths and fought their way back down to pass the word and help up shipmates blinded by smoke. Kydd’s heart went out to them.

  The main-hatch was turning into an inferno, the sails on the lower yards smouldering and taking fire. Such was its ferocity, Kydd realised, with sick dismay, that in a very short time the after end of the ship would be a death-trap.