The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8)

by William Dietrich

  “How am I to do that? Redcoats are as obstinate as mules.”

  “Point out what they already know. The Russians are going to be beaten by Napoleon this spring. Turkish defenses are strengthening. Constantinople is a strategic sideshow. To attack would be pointless and risky.”

  “The English aren’t easily cowed. Once the British navy gets its anchor up and sails billowing, it’s the devil’s job to stop them.”

  “Agreed. They’re the bullies of the sea; even your United States knows this. So if you can’t persuade, delay until the wind blows foul. Delay until they need resupply. Delay, delay, delay, because every day gives us a chance to mount more cannon and gets Napoleon nearer to final victory. Keep the English off balance, Ethan, so I can keep your family safe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If Selim is defeated in a naval attack, the credibility of military reform collapses. And should he lose his credibility, the sultan could lose his throne.”

  “The unrest has gotten that bad?”

  “The Janissaries hate him and are waiting for an excuse. His closest confidant is our French harem ally, Aimée, and if Selim goes she may as well. And any of their friends—including Astiza—may find themselves on the wrong side of history and in a Topkapi dungeon or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “You saw the pedestals for heads by the Executioner’s Fountain. The Turks also have a habit of sewing miscreant women into sacks and dropping them live into the depths of the Bosporus.”

  “Sewn into sacks?”

  He nodded. “It would be most unfortunate if that happened to your family or mine.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Keep the English at bay for as long as you can. Because the war, and our wives, may depend on it.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Astiza has convinced me that destiny is dogged by a past that foreshadows our future. It was with an odd sense of having already lived the moment that I was ferried under flag of truce to HMS Canopus off Tenedos Island, several miles southwest of the mouth of the Dardanelles. Canopus was the flagship of a fleet that included eight ships-of-the-line, two frigates, and two bomb vessels.

  The English flagship had a curious history linked to my own. This 84-gun vessel had actually been built by the French in 1798 and named for my late mentor, Benjamin Franklin, who had been ambassador to France during the American Revolution. The Franklin was one of the newest and proudest ships of the French navy when Horatio Nelson captured it at the Battle of the Nile, just six months after its launch.

  Given that the English still regarded Franklin as a traitor, the battleship was renamed Canopus, after a Greek navigator in the Trojan War. I’d barely escaped that same Nile battle by fleeing the burning French flagship L’Orient, and afterward I met Nelson for the first time by clambering up the hull of his flagship, beginning a relationship that gave no end of trouble. So it was with mixed emotion that I climbed the tumblehome of this renamed vessel and, upon reaching the deck, encountered yet another figure from my past.

  “Good God, it is Gage. The man is persistent as a bloody mole.”

  “Hello, Sir Sidney. Flattered that you remember.”

  Yes, it was dashing Sir Sidney Smith, the British sailor, soldier, and spymaster who’d periodically employed me in my peripatetic career. We’d been comrades in arms at the defense of Acre against Napoleon back in 1799, and I’d been his agent since. Now circumstance had once more put me on the French side, which is always challenging to explain. My goal was to persuade Smith not to get his head blown off by forcing his way up the Dardanelles, but he rarely took advice. “And now you’re working for Boney and the bloody Turk, Ethan? Never let honor get in the way of expediency, do you?”

  “Just trying to save lives, admiral. Congratulations on your flag rank, by the way.” Flattery, optimism, and persistence are the tools of the diplomat.

  “Won not just against the enemy, but against the usual envy, backbiting, and procrastination of the Admiralty. But yes, thank you.”

  I received the typical piping and saluting accorded to diplomatic personnel, as well as the habitual scowls of distrust I always seem to elicit. Then the two of us were escorted to the cabin of the fleet commander, Sir John Duckworth. The date, February 9, 1807, happened to be that admiral’s fifty-ninth birthday. I’d timed my arrival in hopes he’d be in a good mood.

  It was not to be. Duckworth was a beefy officer with double chin, fleshy lips, and a curving Roman nose that gave him the massive features that fit senior command. The admiral was also gloomy. He’d been in the Royal Navy for nearly a half-century, fighting in every conflict since the French and Indian War, and time had given him a combination of sober realism and habitual skepticism I’d have to overcome.

  Smith, meanwhile, was vulpine and animated, a restless officer with more ideas than were good for him. And now a rear admiral! Once again an old comrade had risen in rank while I seemed mired in permanent peril—but then he’d done a better job than me of staying on the same side. To answer the pair’s dubious appraisal of my shifting alliances, I thought I’d try the, ‘one thing led to another’ excuse.

  English ambassador Charles Arbuthnot was also present. He eyed me like the devil’s disciple, no doubt because Sebastiani had completely outflanked him in Constantinople, thanks to Aimée and Astiza’s help.

  “It’s so good to speak English!” I tried.

  They scowled. “Damnation, Gage,” Smith replied, “it’s bad enough to find you back in the clutches of the frogs, who more than once threatened to shoot you. Now you’ve allied with the heathen Musselman, too?”

  “Merely to seek reconciliation in my role as neutral American, diplomat, negotiator, and go-between.” I nodded as if they agreed. “Common sense seems to have disappeared from our violent world, gentlemen, but we in this cabin can restore it, given reason and good judgment. England, France, Prussia, and Russia have dragged the Ottomans into their global quarrel. Sultan Selim seeks peace by asking an end to your blockade.”

  “That’s nonsense, not sense,” said Arbuthnot. “The sultan pivots like a weathervane and went to Sebastiani’s side as soon as word arrived of Bonaparte’s victories. Now he’s closed the straits to us. The Grand Turk is a schemer, just like his new French master.”

  “Perhaps such a cynical attitude explains why your diplomatic mission so abjectly failed.” I couldn’t resist the jab. “Selim is a reformer who is trying to remain neutral. Russia has invaded him; he hasn’t invaded Russia. He’s closed the Bosporus to all foreign navies, not just England’s. It is Britain that decided to ally with Selim’s archenemy Russia, which has schemed to seize Constantinople for a hundred years. And Ambassador Sebastiani has simply offered aid and advice when two powerful fleets, yours and that of Admiral Senyavin of Russia, threaten the Dardanelles. I’m here to urge you to serve your own national interest by withdrawing.”

  No need to mention Napoleon’s scheme to employ Ottoman and Persian armies to outflank Russia from the south. Truth works best when edited.

  “But the Turks have declared war against Russia, and Russia is our most important ally against Napoleon,” Admiral Duckworth pointed out.

  “And the Ottomans have blocked one of the world’s great strategic waterways,” said Smith. “The British navy can no more tolerate this than a manor lord can allow robbers to close his lane to Saturday market.”

  “Peace is the way to open that lane,” I insisted. “Sir Sidney, you and I have a long history and while one thing has led to another, my heart has always appreciated our shared British heritage. This is not England’s fight.”

  “Come now, Gage, I know you too well. All you ever wanted was ancient treasure, wanton women, and dupes for your clever card games.”

  It was an apt summary, but I pretended to be offended. “I will remind you that I am happily married and much reformed.”

  “And where is your w
ife, Gage?” asked Arbuthnot.

  “In Constantinople, with my child.”

  “With the enemy. Whereas my wife is a refugee from that city because of the calumny of the Great Turk.”

  “Gentlemen.” I gave a theatric sigh. “Insults and grievances are not going to open the Dardanelles or change political reality. Let me make my case without resentment or emotion.”

  “Very well, sir,” said Duckworth. “Do so.”

  There was a European map unrolled on his cabin table, so I pointed to Poland, where Napoleon was presumably either bedding Marie Walewska or outflanking the Russians. “First, St. Petersburg is losing in the most important theater,” I said. “The Prussians are smashed, Berlin occupied, Warsaw liberated, and the Russian commander is a frail sixty-eight-year-old who was recently beaten at Czarnomo, Pultusk, and Golymin.” I’d memorized these names from the latest dispatches. “It’s only a matter of time before Russia is forced from the war.” This would prove true, although it would take longer than I expected. “Second, I see no Russian ships here to support England. Admiral Senyavin must be holding his fleet back in the Adriatic.”

  “To harass the French there,” Smith said.

  “While allowing us to challenge the Turk alone,” Duckworth allowed. “My birthday present.”

  “Third,” I said, “the Dardanelles and Bosporus are plagued by swift currents and ill winds, especially in winter when weather comes from the north. Even if you sail past the Turkish forts at the Hellespont, the Sea of Marmara is a sack to seal you in. Why risk a dozen ships for no real strategic advantage?”

  I saw from their glances that this same argument had occurred to them. This was not an attack they relished.

  “And fourth, Sultan Selim is within his rights. These straits are as important to Constantinople as the English Channel is to London, and by keeping them free of foreign fleets he’s doing no more than your own country does at home. Let me make a simple proposal. The sultan is always open to reasonable overtures. Don’t sail on Constantinople just yet. Exchange notes of grievances and wait for word from the Poland campaign. Should Russia be knocked out of the war, I predict Selim’s fear of England will evaporate and free passage will be restored.”

  “Can you guarantee that?” asked Arbuthnot.

  “No, but I can guarantee the Sublime Porte will consider carefully any peaceful exit from this impasse. Remember that not long ago, England was Selim’s friend.”

  Everything I’d argued was true. I could see them weighing my arguments and, more importantly, weighing how persuasive they’d be to the British Admiralty when they had to explain why they’d not attacked as ordered. The English were wavering, ready to buy the nag I was selling. Time to close the deal. “And fifth,” I went on, trying to think of another argument, “England’s real interests lie—”

  “’Lie’ is certainly the appropriate term,” a new voice interrupted from a dark corner, speaking heavily accented English. “Because lying is what Ethan Gage does so well.” I turned in disbelief. Lurking in the admiral’s cabin, a thousand miles from where we’d last fought, was none other than that Prussian plague named Lothar Von Bonin, still creeping about like the spider he was. What monstrous coincidence was this? It was as bizarre as my rendezvous with my brother. Von Bonin seemed none the worse for wear for being crushed by a cabinet, and in fact looked annoyingly dapper and self-satisfied. By the Column of Constantine, where had the villain come from?

  “And fifth, my esteemed allies,” the Prussian went on, “the Turks are feverishly improving their defenses at every moment we waste listening to the American’s nonsense. Cannon are being mounted. Walls are being strengthened. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gage himself is giving them military advice, even as he preaches peace. Surely we know that Sebastiani is helping the heathens. This so-called envoy, admirals, is a thief who broke into the Russian treasury, and a murderer who has left a trail of blood across Eastern Europe. So fifth, my good friends, his mission here is to delay, obfuscate, and demoralize. To listen to him is to miss our opportunity to force the Ottomans to terms and win eternal glory.”

  “What is this German lunatic doing here?” I demanded. “This is an ambush, not a negotiation.” I glanced at his prosthetic arm. There was a new appendage on his stump to replace the one I’d broken. Instead of blade slot and muzzle hole, a bright silver tube protruded. What now?

  He followed my eye. “Yes, American, I’ve had some improvements made.” Then he addressed the others. “This scoundrel took it upon himself to attack a one-armed man and break a bone in my amputated limb. The pain, I can assure you, was excruciating. I passed out.”

  “Good God, Gage, attacking a cripple?” Smith frowned. “That’s low even for you.”

  “He was thrusting his arm—”

  “Gage pinned me beneath an armoire.”

  Admiral Duckworth looked at me with distaste. “I was unaware our Prussian ally had encountered you. For God’s sake, man, fight fair.”

  “He’s the liar,” I protested. “He attacked me, my wife, and child while we were hiding.”

  “Hiding in a cabinet? Are you a coward, too?”

  “No! Von Bonin had poisoned the mind of the king-in-exile, Louis, and when we escaped from a prison cell the Prussian hunted us like a wolf.”

  “You can see how his mind is consumed by fantasy,” Lothar said, “including fantastical predictions of French victory and empty promises of Turkish reason. Ambassador, you know how the Ottomans have humiliated you and your family. This conference is more of the same. Sebastiani schemes, Gage misleads, and England suffers. Strike now!”

  “A few days,” I urged. “Offer a compromise, give the Imperial divan time to debate and consider it, and avoid risking your ships.”

  “Our wind is fair today,” insisted Von Bonin. “We should never have hesitated while waiting for this scoundrel to board.”

  “What are you even doing here, Prussian plotter? Why aren’t you in Berlin?”

  “I’m trying to liberate my country by helping our ally Britain.”

  “How? Napoleon has smashed Prussia’s armies and occupied your capital.” I turned to the others. “He’s the coward, running from his own country. He’s powerless. He has nothing to offer you.”

  Instead of being persuaded, they seemed embarrassed by my protest. Von Bonin looked at me sadly, as if all his predictions about my sorry character had been confirmed. “Ask Admiral Smith, who knows Gage as well as anyone,” the Prussian suggested. “Is he to be trusted?”

  “Ethan’s only loyalty is to himself,” Sir Sidney said. “He’s a force to be harnessed if interests align, and to be feared if they don’t.”

  “This same fair wind will blow a messenger to Constantinople,” I urged. “Send me to carry your terms and demands. Don’t start a war prematurely, Admiral Duckworth. The Dardanelles will be a death trap!”

  Their commander’s unhappiness with his choices was plain. Birthday indeed! He didn’t appear to like any alternative, or appreciate Von Bonin much more than me. He looked from me to the Prussian and back again like guests overstaying their welcome. “How appropriate that you two rascals know each other. From St. Petersburg?”

  “An earlier diplomatic mission sabotaged by Ethan Gage,” Von Bonin said. “He stole relics solemnly promised by the Russian Court to Berlin and carried his contraband to the Poles. Prussia’s interests will be England’s interests when we step ashore in Constantinople to dictate peace, admiral. Let’s do so under the persuasion of your guns.”

  “You’ll only push the Turks closer into Napoleon’s embrace,” I warned.

  The admiral stewed. No seaman likes venturing into narrow and hostile waters. “Let me ponder this. We don’t have enough marines to seize the land forts, and I’m frustrated that Senyavin is hanging back, expecting England to do Russia’s fighting. But this American sounds like a complete knave as well.
Hiding in a cabinet from a one-armed man! Pathetic.” He addressed his colleagues. “I’ll announce my decision tomorrow.”

  Smith and Arbuthnot bowed.

  “May I await your decision and carry word back?” I asked.

  “Wait, yes,” Smith said. “Carry, no. Admiral, this man has worked as both my spy and Napoleon’s. His release will eliminate any chance of surprising the Turkish forts.”

  “May I respectfully suggest that Gage be confined?” Von Bonin said. “At least until you arrive at Constantinople, Admiral Duckworth.”

  “That violates all the rules of diplomacy,” I protested. Not to mention keeping me on board while we ran past the very bombards I’d just help mount and load. By all Creation, instead of stopping a war I’d be putting myself into the receiving end of it.

  “Ethan isn’t a real diplomat,” countered Smith, “and has an extraordinary history of mischief. He thinks for himself too much.”

  “Aye, let’s not tip our hand,” said Arbuthnot. “I agree with Von Bonin. Maybe a midshipman’s cabin for him until we decide a course of action. We can deliver our own messages to the Turk.”

  “I’d suggest a place where he cannot see,” Von Bonin said. “Leg irons in the orlop might be safest.”

  “Near our other passenger?” Smith asked.

  Von Bonin shrugged.

  “What other passenger?” I asked.

  The Englishmen looked at each other uneasily.

  “Another treasure hunter,” the Prussian said smoothly.

  “I came under flag of truce,” I complained. “You can’t lock me in the hold. For pity’s sake, my wife and child are expecting my return. Selim will regard my imprisonment as an act of war.”