Pasha (32 page)

“Sir?” A grave-looking Bowden popped his head around the door. “I rather think you're needed on deck.”

Kydd gathered up his papers, passed them to Dillon, then followed him up.

A pale-faced Calloway was standing with Brice.

“Trouble, sir,” the third lieutenant said, seeing Kydd.

“Yes?”

“Calloway has returned from his provisions run.”

“And?”

“He reports four men missing.”

Calloway faced Kydd nervously. “It's like this, sir. Poulden, Cumby and the two reefers went off to the market—”

“What were you doing?”

“Ah, stayed with the boat-keeper, sir. No taste for gallivanting, like.”

No doubt they had shared a flask of something congenial while the others were away.

“Carry on.”

“When they didn't come back, as I told 'em, I got worried, went off to see what they was up to. The market was not a good place t' be, they all hard-faced an' all. No sign of our people so I went back to the boat, and that's when we saw 'em.”

“Who, damn it?”

“Up on the sides o' the hill. In uniform, coming down, and I swear they has muskets!”

“And?”

“Well, we didn't like the look of 'em, too many for us, so I lies off in the boat, hoping Poulden would come, but he doesn't. Then someone takes a pop at us like—the ball nearly takes Jevons, sir.”

“You were under fire?”

“Well, a few times. It weren't like regular soldiers.”

“And you saw uniforms.”

“My oath on it, sir.”

There had been a precautionary sweep of the islands when the fleet had come to anchor. Where had these come from?

“You were right to come back, Mr Calloway.”

It was not like an old hand such as Poulden to stray; the midshipmen were, in the Navy way, nominally in charge but would recognise the coxswain's moral authority and the steadying influence of the older boatswain's mate, Cumby.

“Mr Brice, away the cutter, Mr Saxton in charge,” he threw at the officer-of-the-watch.

“We're going back, Mr Calloway. Get hold of Stirk, ask him for four men, arm them and meet me in ten minutes.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Kydd went down to his cabin to find his secretary.

“We're missing four men ashore, Dillon. I've no right to ask it, but it would be obliging of you to come with us when we look for them, to ask the villagers questions.”

“Sir Thomas, of course I'd be glad to—but the Turkish lingo is like no other. It originates in the great steppe lands and—”

“I'm sure you'll do your best. Now, I can't be certain we won't face a mort of pother. Are you up for it at all?”

“Certainly, sir.” The young man's eyes shone at the talk of danger.

A grim-faced Stirk and the men were waiting, fingering cutlasses and with a brace of pistols each in their belts. “Shaky dos, sir, L'Aurores gone straggling in among all them Turks.”

Dillon saw the weapons and his eyes widened. “Sir Thomas, you can't expect me to go on the land unarmed. May I?” He pointed to the lethal grey steel of a cutlass.

“Find Mr Dillon a slasher, if you please.”

The young man was delighted, and even more so when he was
also handed a baldric and scabbard to fit over his plain black secretarial clothes.

“Mr Curzon, the ship's yours. If I'm not back in an hour or two send word to Admiral Duckworth. And no rescue parties—clear?”

“Sir.”

The boat put off and scudded in to the little jetty.

They looked around watchfully, ready for any hostile move.

There was nothing—but Kydd could feel tension in the air. One or two villagers stopped to stare, their features defensive, while others walked hurriedly away.

“Where's the market?”

“Up the street t' the left, sir,” Calloway said uneasily.

They strode up the steep incline in a tight group, under orders not to draw weapons unless threatened.

The houses on either side were of nameless antiquity, poor with peeling shutters. The market was on level ground, still in full swing, noisy and crowded, but when the party came into view the babble fell away.

Kydd went to the nearest merchant, an onion-seller in a grubby turban with a seamed face. “Dillon, ask him if he's seen anything of our friends.”

The man's beady eyes never left Kydd's as he listened. Then he spread his hands and shrugged.

Dillon took out a notebook and wrote some words in Greek. The man glanced at them, then drew back and spat on the ground. A murmuring began in the crowd gathering behind him.

Kydd gave a wry smile. “We'll get nothing out of them. Can't spy any uniforms here—Calloway, where did you see them?”

He pointed up the steep street where the houses ended and the road continued up the hill.

Kydd knew it unlikely in the extreme that Poulden would lead the lads into temptation in some tavern or worse—had they gone
into hiding at the sight of the uniforms?

“Stirk—give 'em a pipe.”

The gunner's mate pulled out his boatswain's call. The harsh shrieking of “hands to muster” echoed from building to building across the other side, stopping conversations in the square.

“Again.”

The expressions on the crowd went from astonishment to curiosity, then to suspicion. But no shame-faced L'Aurores emerged.

Kydd faced a dilemma. It could never be justified later that he, a distinguished and valuable post-captain, had gone ashore to rescue stragglers, even with the excuse that on the strength of a vague report of uniforms on the island he had gone to take a look.

But if he gave up on them now and sailed away, the Navy would then consider the men deserters. An accusing “R,” for “run,” would appear next to their name on the ship's books and on recapture they would face a court-martial and the lash.

And if they were somewhere else? How far should he search in an increasingly hostile island? “Calloway, when you spotted your uniforms, what direction were they going?” he snapped urgently.

“Like I said, sir. From over that hill and down this side, and—”

“I see. Back to the boat then,” Kydd ordered crisply.

They stood out to sea, ostensibly returning to
L'Aurore,
but then altered as if to report to the flagship and carried on to mingle with the usual ship-to-ship boat traffic.

“We're not looking any more, Sir Thomas?” Dillon asked.

“We're not returning on board, are we?” Kydd said, with an arch expression, and nodded to Stirk. He thrust down the tiller, put the cutter about and they stretched out through the passage between Prota and the next island, but as they passed close to the southern end Kydd growled orders that saw them heading for a tiny sandy cove.

They scrambled ashore, leaving the bows on a kedge out to
seaward. The boat's crew, under Saxton, the senior master's mate, readied the gear for hoisting in preparation for a rapid departure, if need be.

Where the diminutive beach ended to the right, a point of land jutted out. A tumble of brown rocks and scrub hid what was beyond.

Stirk was sent ahead, slipping and sliding up to the ragged crest of the point. He inched his head up—then ducked and beckoned furiously, a finger to his lips.

There were no paths and the pebble shale was loose and dusty, Kydd scurried as fast as he could to Stirk's side. He raised his head cautiously.

Anchored offshore was an inoffensive merchantman, brig-rigged, the usual maid-of-all-work around the Mediterranean, but it was off-loading field guns on to rafts for the short trip inshore. The Turks were using the delay to secretly land weapons to mount on the summit of the island to menace the British fleet.

Every instinct urged Kydd to get back to his frigate and fall on them but there were larger considerations. If troops and guns were already ashore, destroying the supply ship would do little to lessen the threat to the fleet.

He scanned the side of the hill above and spotted a monastery of the sort so common in these parts, but there was something odd about it: the windows were narrow and vertical. Loopholes! As he gazed at it he saw a line of men coming up from the landing cove, too far away to make out in detail but certainly on their way to it, and they all wore red and grey uniforms.

His duty was to alert Duckworth that his fleet was now under grave threat.

He turned to go—but there was a faint tap of a musket. He looked back: high on the hillside the tell-tale white puff lazily drifted away. Some hawk-eyed individual with a view over the point had seen them.

Kydd snapped, “Back to the boat!” but even as he said it, he saw a craft under sail put about and head their way. It was full of uniformed men and would get to their cutter before they could.

Heart thudding, he looked about desperately. “Follow me!”

He scrambled up the slope, around the side of the hill. After a few minutes they were above the boat and he signalled frantically to them. Saxton caught on and had the cutter under way as the other came around the point.

The officer in command chose to chase the boat instead of landing his soldiers to go after those ashore. They had a chance.

It was brutal going, struggling along the stony hillside, ankles twisting, legs burning with effort.

Then they crashed through thorny scrub, cutlasses swinging, down into a gully, heaving and gasping.

They found themselves on the bare slopes above the little village. It was what Kydd had been hoping to see: beyond the huts, the fleet was anchored majestically in line across his vision.

“We're safe!” he gasped.

No Turk in his right mind with a boat full of soldiers would come into view of the fleet.

Breathless and hot, they ran on to the jetty and, with perfect timing, Saxton brought the cutter curving in.

“The damned rascals!” roared Duckworth. “They've broken the terms of the cease-fire!”

He paced the cabin and stopped. “They can't be allowed to get away with it. Flags—orders. To
Canopus:
‘Land strong reconnaissance party of marines and report.'”

To Kydd, he said gruffly, “Thank you for bringing this villainy to notice, sir. Leave this to me and get back to your ship. There'll be hot work to do before long, I believe.”

“Sir?”

“This is the last straw. I'm going against Constantinople as soon as there's a wind fair for that blasted place.”

“Will Mr Arbuthnot agree, do you think?”

“Ha! Mr Ambassador has just taken ill again and begs to be excused any further involvement. We're on our own at last, Kydd.”

As soon as he was decently able, Kydd returned to the sanity of
L'Aurore.
He had done what he could for his missing men. A strong body of marines was going to land on Prota; hopefully, they would sort it out.

Now, however, the last check on Duckworth was gone. What lunatic scheme would he dream up to salvage his reputation?

Shortly after midday signs of battle could be seen arising beyond the hill-crest on Prota.

Kydd guessed they were coming up to the monastery on the other side. It raged on—they must be in a stiff fight. A little later one of the landing boats left the jetty and made for the flagship under a press of sail.

“‘Ships to send reinforcements,'” a signal midshipman reported. “Pennants include ours, sir.”

L'Aurore's
contribution mustered in the waist. Twenty Royal Marines with accoutrements in impeccable order. Kydd went down to inspect them, taking a quivering salute from Lieutenant Clinton. He passed down the two ranks slowly, and at the end turned to him and said loudly, “Take care of these men while you're on shore, Lieutenant. They're the finest we have.”

He watched as they landed and formed up on the jetty, heading off smartly in a spirited display of scarlet and white. But it failed to lift his heart. Were they marching to disaster, trusting in their superiors to make winning plans and decisions? In his bones he knew they would fail—and good men would pay with their lives.

From Whitehall's interference to Duckworth's irresolution in the face of the ambassador's conflicting advice, he had seen the
all-too-human side of high command.

He chased Dillon out of his cabin and took up his favoured chair by the stern windows.

In the past Renzi had sat in his place on the other side with a quizzical smile as Kydd shared his doubts and hopes.

But now came the dawning realisation that he no longer had need of advice, comforting reassurance, the logical perspective. If he felt the necessity for any of them, he would find it within himself. As was right and proper for a leader of men.

The afternoon wore on with no news, but as the shadows lengthened the boats began returning. One of them
L'Aurore
's.

In it, a bandaged figure lay full length. Kydd didn't need to be told. It was Clinton.

He was hoisted aboard, those near hearing him moan softly at the pain as he was taken below to the surgeon. There were other wounded—and Kydd counted only seventeen in the party.

Later he had the lieutenant brought to the coach and placed in an officer's cot.

Kydd sat with him but it was well after dark before he came back to consciousness and some time before he could recognise his captain.

“How goes it for you, William?” Kydd asked.

“S-sir, what … am I doing here?”

“Never mind. Ship's company at their grog, too noisy for a sufferer,” he answered gruffly.

The field guns Kydd had seen landed had been turned on the British and a six-pounder ball impacting near Clinton had driven shards of rock into his body and caused a concussion.

The marine had stood at Kydd's side in the climactic last days of siege in Buenos Aires and other adventures too numerous to recall. His heart wrung with pity at the thought of the young
officer leaving his bones to rot here—and for what grand cause?