Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  “They will be protected, never fear. Do you know why you are here?”

  “Seigneur, I heard an English warship lies close.”

  “Not one. Many! There is a fleet of great ships now at anchor by the Princes Islands, not eight miles from us here. Some with three lines of guns, many with two. And others.”

  It took Renzi’s breath away. This was no stray frigate—with first-rate battleships it was a squadron of a size equipped to engage in a fleet action. What in Hades was a major asset like this, so sorely needed out on the Atlantic blockade, doing here?

  There was no sense in any of it and he tried to blink away his confusion.

  “What do you think they mean by it, Fahn’ton Pasha,” Selim said quietly, “that they so terrify my people by their presence?”

  “I—I cannot think it has any meaning to me, not a military man, sir.” What was Whitehall contemplating—to reduce French influence by a flourish, by force? If so, it was madness!

  “Then I must put my own construction upon it. I believe you English wish me to gaze upon your might that I may stop my ears to the French whispering. That you desire me to follow your path, not theirs. Am I right?”

  “This I cannot possibly answer, sir.”

  “I understand.” He looked away, his expression unreadable.

  After a few moments the sultan said softly, “All Constantinople now believes you to be taken, to have disappeared into the Topkapi Palace, as so many have done, never to be seen again. And they will approve. But I can see how it may be to our mutual advantage.

  “You are safe here. But in return you will give me your counsel, your opinions, which I greatly value.”

  “If you wish it, Sire.”

  “And perhaps there will be time for you to read to me from your poetry, to plumb its depths of meaning for me.”

  Renzi felt a jet of sympathy for the man: with the seething currents of plotting and power struggles all about him, was he groping for something like friendship?

  “It will be my honour.”

  “Do advise me now, my friend. What do the English want? The people are frantic—I must tell them something.”

  Renzi concentrated savagely. The fleet commander would have his orders; any assessment he gave had a chance of frustrating their intent. Yet he had to come up with some sage counsel that would satisfy or he was finished.

  Damn to hell the unknown politicals who had dreamed up whatever hare-brained scheme this was, without either telling him or giving his mission a chance to succeed, as it was certainly beginning to.

  “Sire, the character of an Englishman is one who cherishes fair play above all else. There will be no precipitate falling upon you, no invasion, no firing on your great city, not until a formal note is communicated to you specifying any grievance.”

  Any admiral would be committing professional suicide to open fire without the due formalities recognised by civilised nations.

  “Therefore, Sire, my advice is to wait calmly for the demand and then, knowing what is asked, let enlightened diplomacy relieve the situation. Meanwhile, your people are in no danger and must wait patiently, as we are all obliged to do.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  “Quite certain, sir.”

  “I was not wrong. Your counsel is most wise, Fahn’ton Pasha.”

  He hesitated, then asked, “Therefore it would be prudent of me to have you aware of other advice given, that you might be in a position to comment upon it.”

  Did he mean … ?

  “Shortly I will be in audience with General Sébastiani who will advise me on the situation. I desire you shall hear him.”

  “Sir! How can I—”

  “No one knows your exact whereabouts here. This must remain so. Nevertheless I conceive that there is a way for you to be able to overhear what passes between us. I shall meet him in the Mabeyn, a hall that is the most privileged and secure of my receiving chambers. It is at the edge of my harem, and when one of my wives is consumed with curiosity by a guest she is enabled to satisfy herself by passing up a secret staircase and hearing all that goes on from behind a privy screen. This you shall do.”

  Selim clapped his hands. The tall dark man entered, bowing with hands widespread.

  “This is Mahmut. He is chief of the eunuchs and I trust him more than any, for he is mute. He cannot speak to betray my secrets. He will conduct you by the secret stairway when there is need of you.”

  Renzi could hardly believe his good fortune. To listen in on the machinations of Sébastiani was a priceless boon, and all unknown to the French.

  “It is only fair to tell you, Fahn’ton Pasha, that if you are discovered in this place, by the laws of the sultanate your life is forfeit. Even I will not be able to save you. Shall you proceed?”

  With that opportunity? Of course!

  “For the sake of our friendship, Sire, I will.”

  Mahmut appeared noiselessly and they left the cell. The beautiful arabesque corridor stretched away in the soft illumination of elaborate sconces but just a few paces further on they came to a discreet door, which Mahmut opened.

  By the light of a small taper Renzi could see steps leading down. At the bottom they walked along for a space and, after a sharp turn, climbed up again.

  Ahead was a patterning of light from a fretwork panelling.

  Through its slits and holes Renzi found himself looking into a room that gleamed with the splendour of gold, enamel and intricate ornamenting that had no equal in Paris or London.

  Sprawled in an elaborately carved chair and looking moodily at the scarlet divan under a gold-tasselled canopy, Sébastiani was in full dress uniform and decorations.

  The space held an elusive, eastern fragrance, and Renzi remembered that he was to all intents and purposes in the harem of the sultan.

  He pressed forward in his eagerness to see but Mahmut drew him back with patient gestures, away from the light that might give away his presence.

  In rising excitement he peered at the officer, careful to stay in the darkness. Young, energetic and formidably intelligent, this was the man he must beat.

  He studied him intently. Was he imagining it or was he trying to conceal nervousness—a lack of confidence perhaps?

  If so, there could be only one reason. Nelson’s long shadow was reaching out and touching him—the legend of invincibility at sea that the Royal Navy had won for itself was now a confronting reality. If Selim was swayed by its appearance he could well be handed over, a prisoner of the English, within the day.

  Renzi’s eyes glowed. This was working better than he’d hoped. If only he knew the unknown admiral’s orders … Still, their massive presence might be all that would be required for him to turn the tables on the French.

  There was movement outside and Sébastiani shot to his feet with a broad smile.

  “Why, General, you are already here, I see,” Selim said, accepting Sébastiani’s ostentatious court bow with an airy flourish of his hands.

  “I believed my Turkish seigneur would be appreciative of my military counsel at this grave time.”

  “Very well, General. The English are here for a purpose. What is your advice?”

  “Sire, we know full well why they’re here.”

  “Oh?”

  “It is simple,” he began smoothly. “They are allied to the Russians. Tsar Alexander is ambitious and, as we have so recently seen, expands his empire into Turkish lands, which is scandalous. If you were the King of England would you rather favour this European monarch with friends, or will it be an Oriental sultan with none?”

  “General, it is a mighty fleet, that of the ever-victorious Nelson himself. We cannot possibly prevail over them.”

  “We cannot know this, Sire. My counsel from the heart to you, at this time of the greatest peril, is to delay. Obstruct and procrastinate until the situation is known. Only then can plans and decisions be made. It is the wisest course.”

  “Very well. I thank you for your sagacious wo
rds and bid you goodnight.”

  Renzi was taken back to his cell.

  The Frenchman was good—very good. The advice to delay was what he would have given in the circumstances, and talk of the Russians was a neat ploy even if completely fallacious. The British would never take sides one against the other, not for any noble reason but because the risk of backing the wrong horse was too great when no commitment was being demanded.

  It was disturbing that Selim did not visit afterwards. Not that he had anything to say: only when the true reason for the fleet’s presence was known would it be possible to bring to bear rational deliberation.

  He was awake at break of day. If there was to be a note of demands it would be delivered promptly. He could only wait.

  The morning wore on in hours of tedium.

  The situation was unreadable: with the fleet at anchor only eight miles away, there could be no difficulty in getting a message ashore under flag of truce. What was holding them up?

  In a fever of impatience he waited. Mid-morning a silent Mahmut arrived to take him to the eyrie. Renzi looked on as Sébastiani was brought in.

  “General. We have our demands.”

  “You will delay, Seigneur, of course.”

  “We have done so. Our water guard refused to recognise the boat’s flag of truce. It was put ashore by a trick, however.”

  “May I know its contents, sir?”

  “My dragoman will read it to us both.”

  So that Renzi could know it, too. In his hiding-place he smiled his appreciation.

  A portly man was ushered in. Selim handed him the paper.

  “Ah, from the English Admiral Duckworth to the Reis-ül Kuttab.”

  “Our foreign minister, as you’ll remember, General.”

  “Yes, Sire. And … ?”

  Even in the courtly French the demand was baldly stated and brief.

  The British viewed the growing influence of the French at the Sublime Porte as intolerable to their existing treaty of alliance. It was demanded that the French agitator Sébastiani and his associates be yielded up under pain of further action.

  Sébastiani gave a superior smile, as if throwing off a triviality. Renzi was forced to admire his control and waited with interest for his reaction.

  “I have to confess I’m not certain I’m flattered, Sire.”

  “Why so, General?”

  “This great fleet—to lay hands on my person? I rather think not. It is to a larger purpose—that of removing the only one standing in the way of dismantling your defences against their Russian allies. And I’m determined that you shall not be left at their mercy.”

  “How can you say this, sir?”

  “Sire, when before I said you had no friends, this may be true in the formal sense. Yet even without an alliance, the august Emperor Napoleon wishes me to do all in my power to assist you, and has empowered me to offer the resources of the empire to resist this insult and safeguard your throne. I will do so.”

  “Against the fleet at our gates this very hour?”

  “It can be done.”

  “Forgive me, General, I cannot see how.”

  “Sire, let me bring to your recollection the unbroken string of victories our illustrious emperor has won on the continent of Europe against the most dreadful of foes. The contemptible English successes pale against our laurels. True, they have prevailed in several battles out at sea, but who cares what happens on waters distant from the homeland?”

  “Continue, sir.”

  “They have foolishly sent their precious fleet to do the work of an army. What can it do? Fire cannon at us, make a lot of frightening noise, but then they must sail away. Without they have an army to land to enforce their demands, it is nonsense and I see no transports with them.”

  The dragoman intervened: “I have not yet finished my translation, Great Lord.”

  “What else, then?”

  It was an alternative demand. If reluctant to yield up the person of Sébastiani to his enemy, the entire Ottoman Navy should be neutralised by the simple device of handing it and its stores over to Admiral Duckworth forthwith. Failing that, the consequences would be very grave—the fleet would close with the city, and Constantinople would be bombarded by the great guns of the battleships until it was entirely levelled to the ground.

  “And it concludes by allowing the Sublime Porte half an hour to reply.”

  There was a horrified silence.

  Sébastiani asked abruptly, “When was this written?”

  “At seven this morning.”

  “Ha! At least three hours ago—does this seem the act of one determined on action? He would have moved into position by now, Sire.”

  But Selim had paled and his hands twisted around a tasselled silk belt. “What can we do? This is a calamity for the Ottoman dynasty beyond believing.”

  Sébastiani gave a grim smile, and rapped, “Give me leave to see to our defences, Sire! I will throw a ring of iron about Constantinople that will stand against anything the barbarians can mount against us. All I need is time.”

  “But we have no time. The fleet will come and blow us to ruins!”

  “Better you stand a hero in the ruins than cravenly surrender to the infidel,” Sébastiani spat. “Your enemies would never stand for it.”

  Selim shot a hopeless glance directly at the screen and Renzi instinctively recoiled.

  Then he twitched up his robe, as though a decision had been made. “Delay, you said delay. That is what I shall do.”

  “Bravely said, Sire. Just a little time is all I’ll need.”

  The sultan was still white with shock when he swept into Renzi’s cell.

  “Is this the action of a civilised nation? Tell me, Fahn’ton Pasha—will they do it?”

  So much hung on what he said next.

  Renzi shook his head sorrowfully. “I rather fear Admiral Duckworth will, Sire. He is under orders and dare not disobey his king. Your clear course is to surrender up the Frenchmen and save yourselves and the city from destruction.”

  Would this be his crowning moment? Was his persuasion the equal of Sébastiani?

  “I’ll—I’ll think on it, Fahn’ton Pasha. It is too great a matter to decide at this time.”

  Renzi felt he was teetering on the brink of complete success in his mission—the ejecting of the French and the ruination of Bonaparte’s plans. It was nail-biting but if Duckworth moved quickly and sailed his fleet across in a grand martial display before the famous waterfront of Constantinople the pressure on Selim might do the trick.

  If he moved fast.

  But another message arrived: it threatened instant destruction—but only if no favourable reply was received by sunset.

  Renzi could hardly believe it: Duckworth was throwing away his best chance of bringing everything to a successful conclusion by conceding, for no real reason, a relaxing of terms, and Sébastiani leaped at the opportunity.

  Like a demon, he was everywhere setting about the defences, sending out parties to locate every cannon that existed and wheeling them with donkeys and mules through the streets to line up along the shoreline, his promised ring of iron.

  Selim hesitated: if the English admiral could see through his telescope to what use the Turks were putting their period of grace he might become enraged and carry out his threat. Was it not better to appease the commander of such an overwhelming force?

  Sébastiani was having none of it. With a cunning worthy of his master, he worked on Selim’s fears that a capitulation to demands without a fight implied he was on the side of the infidels, that he was no longer fit to be sultan in the long and illustrious line of the Ottoman dynasty and everyone knew what happened to such creatures.

  Renzi’s advice was the same as before, but this time he also tried to paint Selim going down in history as the sultan who had destroyed Constantinople.

  It hit home. “The cup of unhappiness has never left my lips, my friend. What am I to do? Where is my duty?”

  �
��Your friends are the English, with whom you have an alliance. Not the French, who betrayed you by offering peace but invading Egypt. You owe it to—”

  “Fahn’ton Pasha. I ask you this. If I bow to your English demands, can you save me from the wrath of my shamed people? Where is your promise?”

  There was still a chance. If by some means he could get word to Duckworth, he could demand he open the sealed orders he knew all flagships carried with the authorisation for him to act as he saw fit. He could thus instruct the admiral to make a convincing display and land marines sufficient to reassure Selim to take the final step.

  But hope died quickly. Any attempt to contact the fleet would be proof positive he was a British spy and his end would be unpleasant. Ironically, he had not even set eyes on the armada that was causing such pandemonium.

  “Seigneur, I’m desolated that I can find no further words of comfort in your time of trial. The decision must be yours.”

  Even as he said it, he knew what Selim had decided: quite simply … not to decide.

  At an hour or so before sunset Sébastiani came up with another master-stroke.

  They would send an emissary to the admiral to negotiate. There could be no bombardment while negotiations were under way and he selected his man well. Isaac Bey was a wily and dignified figure from another age, revered for his early adventures in the Balkans and close to the centre of power.

  He left quickly and, as predicted, the day ended without the threatened cataclysm.

  Renzi suffered agonies of frustration. Time was slipping by while Sébastiani was energetically performing miracles, galvanising the soldiery and putting heart into the citizenry with his show of cannon.

  Isaac Bey returned after midnight. He had done what he could and was very tired.

  And the next day the British fleet still lay quietly at anchor.

  It couldn’t last.

  At ten, signal flags broke out at the masthead of the flagship.

  Spyglasses turned on the dread sight revealed on every ship men racing up from below, crew taking position on the foredeck as capstans were manned and gun-ports opened one by one. The fleet was on the move.

  Renzi sighed with relief at the news. Even now it was not too late to bring the overwhelming weight of a battle fleet to bear on the situation.