Pasha (26 page)

“And at such tragic cost,” he added, glaring at his junior.

“So we think it in the region of some, two—three hundred perished?” Smith remarked drily.

“By muster, two hundred and fifty-two,” snapped Blackwood, looking haggard and drained. “All good men. Most fought and survived at Trafalgar, poor souls.”

“Then we must think it one of the worst disasters the Navy has suffered in these wars,” Smith came back smoothly.

Kydd felt a rush of anger. Petty bickering to make points when the burial parties had not yet returned from Tenedos.
Ajax
had drifted as planned, taking the ground on the island to detonate in a thunderous cataclysm in the early hours of the morning.

Duckworth shifted uncomfortably. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I won't have any further talk on the loss of
Ajax
before the court of inquiry sits. We are in the presence of the enemy as well you know and have decisions to make.”

“Then you have reconsidered this venture, sir?” Smith asked innocently.

Duckworth fiddled with a pencil. “We must reflect on our position, I believe. That no one in modern times has forced the Dardanelles bears hard on our hopes that we might be an exception. And with the wind still foul …”

“As is a delay enabling the Turk to be forewarned and bring up his navy,” Smith said.

“Admiral Smith! I am annoyed and wearied by your attitude. Your duty as a senior officer is to support His Majesty's arms in any operation ordered by their lordships. You'll be more positive and helpful in your remarks
or, by God, I'll have you relieved of your command, sir!”

Smith gave a half-smile and looked down.

“Now! The ambassador requires we should proceed in this enterprise. We have no option in the matter.” He tugged at his collar irritably.

“Admiral Smith, do you care to outline the military situation that confronts us?”

“Why, that's simple enough,” Smith answered easily, as if nothing had happened. “The forts are paired along the strait, one on the north, European, shore and another on the Asiatic side. The chief ones are at the entrance, then the outer castles at Sedil Bahr, where it narrows to a couple of miles. Some nine miles further on we have the inner castles at Chanak Kaleh, where the entire width of the Dardanelles is less than three-quarters of a mile. More defences under Point Pesquies, but if we get past those we've clear sailing for a space—until the worst is to be met with at Gallipoli.”

“A hard tale,” Boyles of
Windsor Castle
remarked softly. “And after Gallipoli what must we face?”

“Afterwards? Nothing. We enter the Sea of Marmora with naught but the open waters between us and Constantinople.”

“Except the Ottoman Navy,” Duckworth said darkly. “My information is that their order of battle includes ships-of-the-line and frigates by the score.”

“I rather fancy these will be in the north, arrayed against the Russians whom they are not fond of, but I could be wrong,” Smith said languidly.

Duckworth glowered, then gave a thin smile. “You are ready enough with your opinions, sir. Now, tell me, is it in your conceiving that the forces opposing us are too formidable to contemplate an attempt on the Dardanelles?”

Smith paused, and Kydd knew why. He was being asked either to hand Duckworth the excuse he needed to call off the operation, or to hazard his reputation on predicting a successful outcome.

“These forces are daunting indeed, yet I believe it will be the fortunes of war that will as ever determine the issue,” he answered.

“Ah! So you see before us no immediate impediment to the expedition?”

“Beyond those I have mentioned, no.”

“Thank you,” Duckworth said. “And with that assurance from you we shall advance the operation.”

So Smith was to be implicated in the event of a failure. It would not stand up in a court-martial but might perhaps colour the findings.

Duckworth leaned back. “My orders are this. If, and only if, a fair wind is squarely in our favour, we shall proceed. You, Admiral Smith, will form one division in the rear, comprising
Pompée, Thunderer, Standard, L'Aurore
and the two bomb-ketches, while I shall command from
Royal George
in the van with the heavier class of ships. We shall enter in line-of-battle and engage the forts hotly as we pass.”

There was more: detail on signals, towing and other matters, but it added up to just one thing. The British fleet would penetrate into the Dardanelles. They would go in single line ahead and trust to their fire-power to silence the forts on the way.

There was much to think about as Kydd returned to
L'Aurore
. A pall was hanging over the whole operation and it wasn't just from the so-recent distressing scenes of
Ajax
's immolation. A
divided command, not just politically but in personalities—it cast the worst of omens before them.

He was in Smith's squadron. While Duckworth's heavies would stay dutifully together, the restless Smith would take any opportunity for action, however far it strayed from the main mission, if only to prove how active he was compared to his senior.

Why did such a gifted and intelligent man have to be so damned contrary? And was it really so necessary to flatten the ancient city, the beautiful Hagia Sophia and all? It probably wouldn't happen—the odds were very much against them ever getting past all of thirty-eight fortresses with their hundreds of guns.

In a black mood he took to his cabin and sat by the stern windows, automatically leaving “Renzi's seat” vacant. But Renzi was part of the past. He was alone now and had to make the best of it. He'd have the old chair struck down in the hold and be damned to it all.

Tysoe appeared, like magic, with a whisky and water and left quickly. How the devil did the villain know?

He sipped appreciatively and let his thoughts wander. It was now more probable than not that some day he would be an admiral himself. How would he have dealt with a junior like Smith? And such a situation with the civil power telling him what he had to do. Well, he wasn't an admiral yet and therefore didn't have to find an answer. He began to feel better.

Then his eyes strayed to the work he'd taken out ready from his locked escritoire and his sour mood returned. It was his dispatches to Collingwood, following his return from Constantinople, and they were pressing: a cutter would leave shortly with those from all captains, as well as Arbuthnot's, and his weren't ready.

He swore out loud. It wasn't the communication itself that took the time—it was a plain enough tale—but the ciphering afterwards. A tedious but important task that, until now, Renzi had
quietly relieved him of. Some captains told off one of the officers for the duty but he would never do that. First, it involved taking the officer off the watch bill, understandably unpopular with his fellows, but more importantly, he would no longer have the assurance that the captain alone knew the content of the dispatch.

God damn, but he missed Renzi!

He rose reluctantly—then had a thought. He employed a confidential secretary. Why shouldn't he make use of him?

Admiralty regulations gave no hard and fast rules over who should do the ciphering, merely that the captain must be in a position to assure himself of their strict confidentiality. Renzi, previously a naval officer, had had impeccable credentials. Did Dillon?

He quashed the retort that he could never be another Renzi, for no one could. He had to be taken on his own terms or not at all.

The young man was willing enough, but his romantic leanings were out of place in a man-of-war. Apparently he wrote poetry, had declaimed into his first Mediterranean sunset and had grown soulful over the distant sight of Lesbos—much as Renzi had, Kydd was forced to admit.

Then again he'd seen him dress for a gun-room dinner in a blue velvet jacket and artistically
déshabillé
neck-cloth, his hair unclubbed and long. The rig of a trusted and discreet amanuensis?

With his easy manner Dillon had found acceptance there, a character in his own right. That he didn't know his nauticals was no bar to fellowship for he'd made it plain that this was not his calling. At the first-night dinner, when Curzon had cattily put him right over the meaning of “martingale” as applied to a bowsprit, he had innocently asked him to explain the word itself. At Curzon's reluctance, Dillon had lightly mused on its horse-coping usage and then, to the delight of the others, had gone on to trace its probable Middle English origins back to Chaucer and Piers Plowman.

Kydd sighed. If he didn't trust the man he had no right to engage
him as a secretary. He'd served in
L'Aurore
now for some time and never shown himself unfit for the position or slack in stays as regards diligence—and if he couldn't bring the man on he would have to do the work himself indefinitely.

It was being forced on him but there was little choice. He'd do it—perhaps with the proviso that Dillon swore himself to confidentiality.

This last idea pleased him, and it led to another. If he was being entrusted with codes, vital national secrets, then surely he was to be trusted with his personal matters. Kydd was a martyr to paperwork, loathing its passive nature, tedium and need for form and correctness, but had not felt able to turn it over to Dillon because it felt a violation of privacy. His humble origins as a wig-maker and pressed man were now behind him, but if he gave access to his papers, his financial details and so on, Dillon would know everything.

He didn't recall who had said it but the old saw “No man can be a hero to his valet” came to mind.

“Desire Mr Dillon to attend on me,” he ordered at the door, and returned to his chair to consider his decision.

“Sir Thomas?”

As usual he stood loosely, features composed and respectful.

“Ah, Dillon. A word with you,” Kydd harrumphed.

“Sir?”

“I think it time for you to earn your keep. I desire that you assume duties of a more confidential nature.”

“Of course, sir. I'd be delighted.” There was an animation that seemed to show he had been waiting for just this moment—a release from the mundane?

“Then you'll be instructed in ciphering, for you will be transcribing my dispatches from this point forward.”

“I understand, Sir Thomas. About the grave nature of being
privy to such secrets, I mean.”

“Good. I shall, of course, require you swear that you will keep them and so forth. Have you any objection?”

“None, Sir Thomas.”

“Very well. And, further, you are to undertake the care and upkeep of my personal correspondence and papers.”

“I'm honoured by your trust, sir.”

“Yes. Well, that's decided, then. How are you settling in—the gun-room mess, that is?”

“Happily, thank you, Sir Thomas. In large part I'm obliged to Lieutenant Bowden for his amiable manners and patience, which have enabled me to take my place in such august and hearty company.”

It appeared the young man was succeeding well in fitting in and finding fulfilment in their fellowship.

Kydd continued, “I see you are keeping the young gentlemen to their studies. Are they progressing well?”

“Both in their way, sir. But, you see, there is …”

“Yes?”

“My grasp of mathematicals is slender, I do confess, and their navigation studies require that …”

“Well. Perhaps we shall leave that side to the sailing master.” It was oddly gratifying that he'd discovered a weakness in the young man.

“Thank you, Sir Thomas.”

“I should mention that your confidential work will be carried out in this cabin. You may use the escritoire, for which I have the key, and … and should you have need of good daylight, do feel free to use … that chair.” Renzi's accustomed seat.

“Right. Well, we'll begin this afternoon at three bells. Good day to you, Dillon.”

But the next day the winds relented, veering to a playful southerly.
Almost as soon as it was light enough to see,
Royal George
ran up a signal: “Prepare to weigh.”

Kydd felt a lurch of unreality. Against all reason it was going ahead: the British fleet was on its way to force the Dardanelles and level Constantinople to the ground.

F
ROM THE
D
ARDANELLES
SHORE
it was a grim sight: a long line of battleship after battleship, with their rows of guns, frigates, others, all under full sail—and flying from each the feared ensign of Admiral Nelson. Now there could be no longer any doubt of British intentions.

Smith held his squadron at the rear in a tight line; his orders to them were simple—clap eyes on his flag and no other, obey signals on the instant, and be prepared for anything. From the sudden appearance of the Ottoman Navy to the rescue of a stricken firstrate hammered to destruction by the forts, mused Kydd.

Each ship towed its boats astern for if the worst happened—a hopeless tangle of trapped vessels under fire—there would be no time to launch them.

It was eerily quiet as they entered the strait.

The first side to fire would break the treaty between Turkey and Great Britain and be responsible for whatever followed. Yet what they were doing was an act of war in itself, an intolerable provocation in sending a battle fleet against the capital.

The fortifications across the entrance remained silent as the ships passed, their colours flapping lazily in the light breeze.

They must have been seen—were they going to get away with it?

The British fleet were all at quarters, guns loaded, but not run out. The gun-ports remained firmly closed. If the Turks opened fire it would be on warships ostensibly about their peaceful occasions.

The sides of the passage began closing in. Kydd knew that not so far ahead were more fortresses, the “outer castles,” and these were massive—at a particularly constricted point.