Pasha (29 page)

“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.

Wearily he reached for patience, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands … and waiting.

Hours later, too wrought up to take the refreshment Mahmut brought, he tried yet again to put a construction on what was happening.

He vaguely remembered Commodore Duckworth in Menorca, a heavy-faced, ponderous-mannered individual unlikely to be described as imaginative or bold. Yet he had led his ships to a decisive victory at Santo Domingo only the year before.

Couldn't he see his way forward, for God's sake?

In the early afternoon, the fleet still poised at anchor, a note was sent. It was from Duckworth, a long, confusing and senseless missive that complained the Turks were taking unfair advantage of the truce period to strengthen their defences and, “if they wished to save their capital from the dreadful calamities that are ready to burst upon it, the thought of which is shocking to our feelings of humanity, you will be sent here very early tomorrow morning with full powers to conclude with me this work of peace …”

Renzi listened to the diatribe in despair, hearing Sébastiani snort with derision at yet another postponing of the day of reckoning.

His counsel was not sought. When Isaac Bey was roused and sent with instructions, he knew nothing of it until afterwards, when he returned.

What he came back with gratified Sébastiani immensely. An acceptance of the previous offer to negotiate, and on the following day.

It was child's play for the clever Frenchman to turn this into an interminable delay: where would the parley take place, there being no neutral ground? Who was there on both sides to be invested with plenipotentionary powers to conclude a peace? What precautions
would be needed to guarantee the safety of both parties?

Renzi lay in his cell, more helpless and frustrated than he'd felt in his life before. He'd racked his brains, trying to conceive of a line of argument, a ruse even, that would repair the damage. But there was not a thing he could think to do.

The morning came and, with it, more hours of insufferable tedium in the little cell.

And then, a little before midday, Selim visited.

He was a different man. Calm, dignified and completely in possession of himself, he thought it only right to tell Renzi that, first, he had been informed the winds had changed and an assault by the British fleet was now foreseeably impossible. Then, in neutral tones, he allowed that at that very moment English captives from the fleet were being paraded through the streets before incarceration.

Renzi's mind reeled. Did this mean there had been an action and a British ship had hauled down its colours?

In dumb incomprehension, he heard further that Sébastiani had clandestinely landed troops and cannon on the main island overlooking the fleet and now was menacing the ships at their anchorage.

Selim looked at him kindly. “I rather think this unpleasant business will soon be over, Fahn'ton Pasha. We will keep you here, perhaps until the ships are all gone, and then consult the circumstances to see if it be wise to restore you to your residence.”

“I thank you, Sire,” he muttered. “You have been always most amiable towards me and I am truly grateful.”

The sultan's face softened. Then, hesitantly, he offered his hand. Just in time Renzi caught himself, and touched it to his forehead.

“I would that we could meet in more tranquil times, my friend.”

“There's much I would know about your great country and its ways, Seigneur. On a different occasion, perhaps.”

Renzi spent a miserable night. The worst of it was that he was
in a fog of ignorance. He had been comprehensively outflanked by the brilliant Sébastiani.

But when morning dawned everything changed.

Voices sounded outside and the sultan burst in, his face contorted with anxiety.

“The wind, it has shifted. Fahn'ton Pasha—the fleet of Nelson, it has up its anchor, it sails to here!”

“You are saying the ships are heading for Constantinople?” he said in amazement.

“Yes, yes! What will happen? You must tell me!”

Throwing off the dull tiredness of his night, Renzi flogged his mind.

“Sire, it is very difficult for me to say from my place here. Cannot a way be found that I can see them for myself that I can better advise?”

Selim gave him a hunted look, then shot a volley of instructions at the chief eunuch. “The morning prayers are not yet started. Go with Mahmut. He will take you high into the minaret where you may see them. But—this is a sacrilege. If you are discovered it will be death to you.”

“I go now, Sire.”

The steps up the slender minaret were a giddy torment but eventually he reached the tiny gallery at the top.

His eyes blinked at the strength of the morning sun. He stared out—and saw, in line-of-battle, the sails of Royal Navy battleships stretching away, one after the other into the distance.

In perfect station, there was no mistaking their course. Close to the wind at the northern point of the peninsula, they would then put helm down to fall before the wind, to come triumphantly down with starboard broadsides run out.

It was going to happen: Duckworth had finally lost patience and Constantinople was about to be cannonaded to a ruin.

T
HE
V
OYAGE ACROSS THE
S
EA OF
M
ARMORA
from Gallipoli was uneventful and, as intended, the fleet reached its anchorage as dusk was drawing in.

Kydd stood down
L'Aurore
but lingered on deck, the moment intense with the knowledge that he was part of an expedition that had as its objective the razing to the ground of ancient Byzantium. The Constantinople of the last Roman emperor. The glory of the Turks for a century or more before Shakespeare's time.

The war against Bonaparte was reaching new depths of ruthlessness, and who knew what else he would be called upon to wreak on the civilised world?

If his old friend Renzi could see this warlike array, what would he think? He would, no doubt, hear later of it in England, read of the part his former shipmate had played and shake his head sorrowfully.

The doomed city could not be seen from the deck but was in plain view from the tops. Several men had climbed up to look across the water of the Bosporus to the sight so enchanting in the early evening. In the morning those same domes and minarets would know the anger of their guns.

Depressed, Kydd left the deck for the solitude of his cabin.
Dillon was still working there but gathered his papers and rose respectfully. If this had been Renzi there would most certainly have been a lively discussion in promise.

Impulsively Kydd asked, “Tomorrow we destroy Constantinople. Does it not trouble you, Dillon?”

“We all have our duty, Sir Thomas,” he replied neutrally.

“That's not what I asked.”

“Sir, it's not my place to have views on the operations of this ship, whatever the outcome.”

“Not even when it involves the destruction of a great and noble city?”

“Sir.”

“And if I give you leave to say your mind?”

It was unfair to press the issue but Kydd felt a stubborn need to.