Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  As they neared the bearings, warnings rapped out and the sailing master bent to the binnacle with its main ship’s compass and waited for the right moment. “Helm up, steer nor’east b’ north.”

  Their course was now shaping more northward and the two sides of the Dardanelles began closing in on them—they would meet ahead at the outer castles and then they would know their fate.

  Completely silent to any watcher, the frigate raced on, a halfacre of sail aloft, prettily illuminated by the calm moonlight. But so far there was no interest showing from the shore.

  They were nearly up with the forts that Kydd remembered so well when the first alarm was given. A signal cannon from the solid mass of the fortress to starboard—and another, but no firing on them.

  He smiled thinly: it would be a scene of consternation ashore, where a sleepy duty officer was being asked to decide urgently if they should open fire on what could well be one of their own fleeing from a pursuer. The hapless man could have seen no colours aloft, for L’Aurore was flying none, but evidently he’d thought the chances of an English ship sailing at full tilt up the narrows in the dead of night was too bizarre to contemplate and they passed through without a shot being fired.

  Reaching their next waypoint precisely mid-stream, the helm was put up another point and their track was now dead north—with Point Pesquies just two miles ahead.

  Their wake seethed and bubbled in a straight line astern, white and glistening in the night, like an accusing finger towards them as the dark thrust of the headland loomed.

  This was the most treacherous place of all—the narrows, where the decision had to be made to stay by the north bank, away from the guns but with the greatest current set against them, or the south bank, with clearer water but closer to the guns. And at the same time there was the complication of the risky sharp turn to starboard through nearly a right angle.

  Lights twinkled ashore; people there had no idea that an English ship was—

  But suddenly—a monstrous gun-flash and deep concussion. Soon gunfire was general, livid flashes and thunderous booming echoing about the still night.

  The flash and smoke were making it impossible to spot the passive white of the mosques.

  “I’ve lost the mark!” Saxton burst out.

  Kendall’s pale face turned to Kydd. “If I doesn’t have the bearings …”

  The custom of the sea demanded it was up to the captain to make the fateful decision.

  “Lay the foreland two cables to starboard,” Kydd ordered. It was a known position and took them closer to the guns but faster around the point.

  The firing was intense—but they were gloriously untouched. Closer still: distant figures of the gunners could be seen frozen in the gun-flash as they frenziedly plied their cannon, but the shots were going wild, giant splashes rearing up in the darkness, smaller skittering across the moonpath.

  The point neared—a dull twanging aloft was a backstay shot through and unstranding. A thud and tremor followed: L’Aurore had suffered at least one ball strike to the hull.

  She began the turn; they could take up their marks again once they were around and—

  In an instant Kydd’s world was transformed into a chaos of pain and disorientation. He found himself sprawled on deck, hearing from an infinite distance Curzon shouting orders and seeing the quartermaster looking down anxiously.

  He levered himself up and noticed a still shape next to him. Kendall.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he staggered to his feet.

  “Sir—wind o’ ball!” Bowden said anxiously.

  It took long seconds to register that the path of a cannon ball that had blasted between them had knocked Kendall unconscious and thrown him down with concussion.

  The sailing master—of all of them to be taken out of the fight …

  Through the pain of a blinding headache Kydd forced himself to focus.

  Point Pesquies was coming up fast and the guns were blasting out in a frenzy—but he could see that, blinded by the constant flashes, they were firing more or less at random and probably would not even know when L’Aurore had passed by.

  When they lay over at last for the haul to the northeast, they left behind thundering guns in manic play on an empty sea.

  They were through!

  Kydd’s body throbbed with pain and he squeezed away tears as he flogged his mind to concentration.

  It was not over yet.

  There was a stretch of twenty or more miles and then it was the Gallipoli forts. It was now well on into the early hours and sunrise could not be far off. If they didn’t get past while it was still dark the gunners would have them over open sights in full daylight.

  “Crack on, Mr Curzon,” he croaked. “Every stitch o’ canvas counts.”

  He clutched on to one thing: L’Aurore was now sailing at her best. She was travelling at speeds impossible on land: no word of warning could possibly be passed—no running messenger, not even a horse at full gallop, could sustain the pace.

  And Kendall’s painstaking work was paying off.

  Quickly picking up the seamarks again, they made good speed but there was a perceptible change now. To starboard the sky was definitely lightening.

  It was a race to the finish.

  When it came it was almost an anticlimax.

  The craggy cliffs loomed to larboard and there was no alarm. Even as the grey chill break-of-day spread there was still no sudden activity on the land.

  The sight of an anonymous frigate scudding by in the innocent dawn had taken them completely by surprise. When well past, forlorn shots rang out but it was too late. Now they were free: ahead was open sea—and Constantinople!

  Kydd leaned on his elbow in his cot while the surgeon pressed on him an evil-tasting concoction, apparently a sovereign remedy for headache. After a few hours’ sleep he was on the mend although his head still pounded—but he had to face that the critical time lay ahead.

  They had achieved a miracle by surprise and daring but it would be all for nothing if he failed at his main task: to force the Turks to deliver up his friend.

  In the rush of technical and professional preparation for the passage, he had not had time to give it much thought but now he must.

  He groaned and pushed aside Tysoe’s well-meant gruel.

  Even supposing he could brazenly arrive under flag of truce and demand to speak with their sultan or whomever, what argument could he bring to bear?

  A wave of nausea threatened to undo Peyton’s good work.

  “Leave me,” he gasped, but it was too late.

  The surgeon wordlessly cleaned it up and left, prescribing more rest.

  Kydd lay back in despair.

  By the afternoon he could sit up without queasiness but his headache still thumped pitilessly.

  They were hours away only …

  Incredibly, quite soon, it came to him what he would say.

  It would be: the Turks, quite unwittingly, had made a serious blunder.

  It had been brought to the ear of the puissant and dread King of England that his cousin the sultan was shamefully detaining the person of the noble and worthy Lord Farndon, closely related to the royal family.

  Certainly an oversight—nevertheless, if the wholly innocent aristocrat was not delivered up safely to the captain of the frigate detailed to bring him home, the King would feel it upon his honour to strip the rest of the world of his very own Royal Navy and send it—all 467 battleships—to Constantinople to effect his release.

  No doubt the sultan would be pleased to comply once the mistake was known and that would be an end of the matter.

  Yes!

  “Mr Dillon, the carpenter and the gunner to attend on me,” he ordered firmly.

  Shortly, there took place an extraordinary meeting.

  The result was perfect: two boards, covered with red baize and bound like a book. On the outside of the “cover” was fastened a gun tompion from the saluting cannon, in the form of a King George crown
, suitably gilded, licked with scarlet and green and satisfyingly heavy.

  On the inside was a vellum, executed in meticulous script by Dillon and detailing the King’s solemn concerns. It was liberally adorned with seals and ciphers, each of which had a tail of gold lace or tassel sacrificed from Kydd’s own dress uniform.

  Curzon arrived and announced, “The coast o’ Turkey, nor’-west eight miles.”

  It was a question, of course.

  “Stand off and on until after dark, if you please. We want to arrive before dawn.”

  There was little danger of being sighted. The blockade was biting and there was no point in anything being at sea when they had nowhere to go, and with their navy otherwise engaged …

  After midnight they approached the peninsula. It slumbered in darkness but at its end city lights pointed the way.

  Ghosting along under staysails and jib, the frigate would be near invisible from the shore; the moon hung low in the east. It didn’t take long to reach the tip—Seraglio Point. It was a great relief to see the anchorage deserted for it confirmed that all Turkish ships were away and they could flaunt their impudence without interference.

  Instead of anchoring in the long outer stretch of water they came to at the series of buoys reserved for the Ottoman Navy and picked up moorings on the first. The inboard part of the mooring cable was not belayed, but seized together with light line. If there was the slightest trouble, the boatswain at the ready could, in a slice of his knife, set them free.

  At first light there was the astonishing sight for the beleaguered city of a Royal Navy frigate calmly at a buoy, the largest ensign of the King’s Navy at her mizzen and a white flag firmly at the fore-masthead.

  Kydd smiled grimly at the thought of what must be happening ashore.

  They should be opening fire with everything they had—but it would pass belief that this bold frigate, appearing from nowhere to take up rest, was challenging their defences. Why was it here? It must have a purpose, and better for all if they find out before anything happened that they might regret later.

  Sure enough, the galley of Kaptan Pasha left for L’Aurore without delay.

  As soon as he had clambered aboard, Kydd detected the man’s consternation.

  The dragoman bowed hastily. “Kaptan, he want to know, why you here?”

  It seemed there were to be no subtle preliminaries so without a word Kydd pressed on with the main act.

  He clapped his hands imperiously. From the main-hatch a pair of seamen bore a sea-chest draped with a Union flag. Everyone on deck snapped to attention.

  They brought it forward and placed it by the main-mast.

  Curzon stepped up, ceremoniously opened it, drew out the contents and held them aloft for all to see.

  Kydd roared a command and at once everyone bowed deeply to it.

  “Kaptan Pasha. This is from the King of England himself and it is to be placed in the hands of the sultan instantly.”

  “My master, he say, what it contain?”

  Kydd stared at him in apparent disbelief.

  “This is a communication from one great sovereign to another and he asks what it says? I’m shocked that such a high official of the Sublime Porte is so ignorant of the ways of the immortals. Do convey it to the sultan without delay, at peril of his displeasure.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “AND … THERE! In check, mon ami. Another three moves, I think?”

  His opponent played to his image, Lord Farndon was bored with it all—with himself, the four blank and noisome walls of his cell and Sébastiani, who was taking their chess game far too seriously.

  They had squares of paper with inked pictures of the pieces on them and a scrawled board on the filthy little table. Sébastiani seemed to take a ferocious pleasure in marshalling his forces in detail to crowd in on Renzi before bringing about an elaborate and inevitable defeat.

  And when it became too dim to see, there was nothing for it but to lie back on the rank-smelling beds and exchange life experiences.

  At least it was entertainment of a sort: Renzi took satisfaction in conjuring up a pampered world of society balls, tricky situations at Court, errant footmen and charming foolishness for Sébastiani, who, to his surprise, was always naïvely agog for more.

  In return, the French general brought out wearisome campaign anecdotes, interspersed with hesitations as he reviewed what he was going to say, that it did not offer intelligence of use to an Englishman.

  Nevertheless Renzi was keenly interested, for Sébastiani’s service included Egypt where he himself had been on the opposing and winning side. His cellmate had been at the Court of the Holy Roman Empire in its last days, being wounded and promoted at the battle of Austerlitz.

  Then it was the unutterable tedium of the night, broken only in the morning by the clanking arrival of the guard, when another day would begin.

  This day they had set up their “board” early for the general seemed to have a fierce need to break his record of six straight victories.

  Another three moves? The noble lord could see it, but who cared?

  “Merde!” Sébastiani swore, for the sound of the guard approaching and opening the door was always followed by a gusting of the paper pieces everywhere, game over.

  The door rattled, but instead of the amiable old guard there was Grand Vizier Köse Musa and a phalanx of officials—and, incredibly, Zorlu, whose blank expression was an immediate warning.

  Was this to be an entreaty for the noble captive to recant before trial and execution? What else could have brought the highest servant of the sultan here? Or could it be …

  Renzi bowed politely in the English manner and was rewarded with an Oriental bow from Musa. Sébastiani was completely ignored.

  A lordly statement was made; Zorlu politely relayed the platitudes.

  Then came the real reason for the visit.

  “We are here witness to the carrying out of the sentence handed down by Sultan Mustafa IV on the Englishman known as Fahn’ton Pasha.”

  A chill of fear flooded Renzi.

  Was this to be hauled out into the dingy quadrangle, there to be decapitated? His plan had failed and—

  “His Greatness decrees that the said Fahn’ton Pasha be banished from his realm for ever.”

  Zorlu’s control was nearly perfect but Renzi saw through it.

  “Wherein an English ship has been summoned to carry out the sentence forthwith.”

  “The Lord Farndon accepts his fate with sorrow, but will comply.”

  There was visible relief.

  “Providing his household and all his servants accompany him into exile.”

  “Of course.”

  He turned to Sébastiani to explain his departure, but the general, staring at him with wild eyes, blurted, “Take me with you—it was our bargain!”

  So the villain had perfect English to overhear everything that had been said.

  “I do remember,” Renzi replied. “As I do our agreement that the succoured should assume the status of internee to the other. Very well. Do you wish to be gone from this place?”

  “I do,” the Frenchman said, with a fierce sincerity.

  “Then consider yourself a guest of the British Crown, sir.”

  To Zorlu, he said, “Tell the vizier I shall ask General Sébastiani to leave with me.”

  This caused confusion and dismay.

  “That is not possible. The general has yet to answer before a state trial why, when given all trust and resources, he failed to defend Constantinople against the Russians.”

  For all the vainglory and boasting of the French, they had yet again been brought to their knees by the sea, the element Bonaparte would never understand.

  “I’m sorry, General, so truly sorry,” Renzi said, shaking his head in compassion.

  “You must help me! Please—help me, m’ lord,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Renzi hesitated. He owed the man nothing, but the vision of his fine mind brought to a squalid conclusi
on under a Turkish scimitar troubled him—and, besides, was not his mission to achieve the ejecting of the French from the Porte? Then he would ensure that very article.

  “Tell the vizier I’m desolated to hear that my wishes in the matter are ignored. Do not the Turks wish all infidels gone from their door? I desire the same thing, surely.”

  “This cannot be done. The general must stand trial.”

  “Then, unhappily, it seems I must decline to leave.” He went over to his bed and elaborately lay down.

  Zorlu gave him a worried glance but Renzi knew he was reading the situation for what it was, that whatever pressure was being applied it was overwhelming and irresistible.

  Musa flashed him a murderous look, then quickly collected himself. “Then it is granted on the understanding that, in addition, all the foreign unbelievers of the general’s household are taken off our hands.”

  Renzi acknowledged this with a gracious bow and got to his feet. “Shall we go, mon général?”

  The carriage stopped at the waterfront and Renzi was handed down by an imperturbable Jago. He raised his eyes and there before him was a vision beautiful beyond compare and which took away his breath in a shuddering realisation of who his saviour was.

  HMS L’Aurore: trim, warlike and every bit as lovely as he remembered.

  Come to take him home.

  Her captain’s barge had put off and there, in the sternsheets, was a figure. One he would always count as his closest friend.

  The boat glided in, her crew slapping the loom of their oars to bring them smartly vertical.

  With tears pricking, Renzi watched Kydd step ashore and advance towards him, that same masculine stride, those direct brown eyes now so creased with pleasure.

  “Why, Nicholas, m’ friend. Am I seeing you well?”

  He stretched out his hand—but Renzi felt a tide of overwhelming feeling take him and he fell on Kydd’s neck, hugging him. The two clung to each other for a long moment, then drew away, embarrassed.

  “We have to sail while the wind’s fair, Nicholas,” Kydd managed.

  “Of course. Might I present General Horace Sébastiani de la Porta? He’s to take passage with us.”