Pasha (34 page)

Standard
had been cruelly mauled but steady work had seen her taken in hand just as
Thunderer
and others came under fire from the opposite shore.

Canopus
had been pierced through and seen her helm dissolve into splinters;
Royal George
had suffered shrouds carried away and masts injured. One of the immense marble shot had not gone completely through the massive 1
00
-gun first rate and was lodged below.

The reporting captains went down to inspect the monstrous object—an obscenely huge, pale sphere stuck in the fore-peak timbers. The carpenter was summoned to take a measure of the beast and reported it as more than six feet around; quick calculation revealed it as being near five men in weight. The old fisherman had not exaggerated.

The roll of dead and injured was long, but not as grievous as the searing experience had foreshadowed. At thirty killed and 1
38
wounded, the fleet had escaped lightly for its temerity in challenging the Ottoman Turks.

Duckworth made it plain he was not about to waste time in recrimination and the captains returned to their ships. After immediate repairs the fleet was to sail in three days, away from the scene of their humiliation.

But just before anchors were weighed, the Russians arrived: six ships-of-the-line and five frigates in immaculate order. Allies of the British and in a stroke doubling their force. This was now a legion capable of a major fleet action and therefore things had changed radically.

While elaborate salutes were exchanged, Kydd looked with interest at the ships. Virtually the same as their own, even down to the Nelson chequer, the only real difference from the outside was the colours: the double-headed black eagle on a yellow banner of the Romanovs.

Their seamanship was capable enough, coming to a moor opposite as if to demonstrate how it was to be done.

It was not long before a ceremonial barge put out from the Russian flagship to make its way to
Royal George,
the dash of colour in the sternsheets contrasting with the plain grey of the boat's crew.

The sound of the Russian admiral piped aboard carried clear across the water and Kydd saw him go up the side steps and disappear into the entry-port. What happened in the next hour was going to determine the fate of so many.

Surprisingly quickly, the Russian emerged and his boat returned to his own ship.

This first meeting was probably only preliminary, Kydd reasoned, setting a time for lengthier deliberations on how the allies would co-operate.

Soon after, Kydd was summoned to
Royal George.

“That was Admiral Senyavin,” Duckworth grunted dismissively. “Seems to think if we joined forces we'd have a better chance against the Turk. I told him it was nonsense—if the Royal Navy couldn't achieve anything then adding an odd few Russians won't change things.”

“So he's leaving, sir?”

“No, Kydd. We leave, he stays. That is why I sent for you. Don't forget the Russians are in a state of war with Turkey. He's under orders from his tsar to attack them and dare not disobey. What I want you to do is just stay here, see what happens. They'll fail, of course, but we need to know the details. Shouldn't take long.”

“Sir.”

“No need to get involved, no heroics, just observe is all.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Kydd watched the British fleet sail away, the feeling of unworthy failure lifting with their departure, and he settled to observe the Russians.

It felt odd,
L'Aurore
anchored within plain sight, watching them at their domestics. An occasional flash on the quarterdeck of their ships showed it was not altogether a one-way thing.

He wondered whether it would be a politeness to call on Admiral Senyavin but decided not. There was every chance they would give up and leave very soon, in which case he would be released.

The following day, however, at eight in the morning the L'Aurores were treated to the sight of bands on each ship coming to life and flags rising in a stream in the rigging. The Russians were dressing ship for some occasion.

A little later a boat put off, heading directly for
L'Aurore.
In the sternsheets sat a young officer in full ceremonials. The boat came smartly alongside and the officer stiffly boarded, his bearing impeccable. With a bow and a click of the heels, he handed Kydd a sealed letter.

It was formally addressed to the captain of
L'Aurore
frigate in proper naval terms and in English. The young man waited: an answer was clearly expected.

Kydd opened it. “An invitation to join the admiral and officers of the
Tverdyî
on the occasion of the anniversary of the accession of Tsar Alexander I of Russia.”

“Well, now, and do you remember the Ivans in the Adriatic before Trafalgar at all?” Curzon rubbed his hands in glee. “I've a yen to see 'em again, a pretty notion of entertaining as I remember.”

“Shall I take a notebook, Sir Thomas?” Dillon said lightly. “No knowing what will be said.”

“It will be full-fig uniform and swords, I'd imagine,” Bowden said, buffing his lace absent-mindedly.

“And if y' requires more stout hands—”

Kendall's barely disguised plea was cut off. “I shall have need of only the first and second lieutenant and my secretary. Mr Brice to remain in command.”

They were welcomed over the side of the 7
4
with full ceremony and escorted to the wardroom, where solemn toasts were proclaimed.

When Kydd left to talk with Admiral Senyavin in his great cabin, the wardroom was well advanced in merriment, drunken cheers and off-key bass voices. Curzon had mimed an old navy wardroom turn, and Bowden's light baritone was delivering “Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill” to a bemused audience of burly sons of the steppes.

Kydd had vivid memories of vodka and had to plead his stomach to avoid the many refills thrust on him. He wanted to remain clear-headed. From what Duckworth had said, Senyavin had some crucial decisions to make and needed information. And what better source than one who had just returned from the field?

The Russians were at war with Turkey, and for the usual reason. The Black Sea had the only ports in Russia that were free of ice year round. A major part of their trade plied from there, grain and timber from the Crimea and the vast interior, imports from the greater world flooding inward. Yet there was a fatal weakness in its situation: access was by only one route—the Dardanelles. Any disagreements with Turkey, and it was instantly closed to Russian ships, an intolerable provocation.

Was Senyavin really thinking of striking at the Ottomans? Now aroused and heavily defended?

“Perhaps a little cognac—it will be easier on the stomach.” Senyavin's English was good; it was rumoured he had spent some time with the Royal Navy.

“That's kind in you, Admiral,” Kydd answered politely.

“Please, ‘Dmitry' while we are alone, sir.” He was a small man but with a controlled intensity and neat manners.

The great cabin was sparse and dark-timbered, small portraits and Russian country scenes the only concession to domesticity. A large, frowning Tsar Alexander dominated one side and the few pieces of furniture were sombre and heavy.

The cognac was excellent and Kydd allowed himself to be seated in a chair by the stern windows.

“You have passed through the Dardanelles under fire, Captain. My congratulations—it is something we've never been able to achieve.”

“Thank you, Dmitry. It has to be said, the giant guns at Point Pesquies gave us pause.”

Freedom of the seas was second nature to the Royal Navy; he tried to see things from the Russian's point of view.

To get here, with the Dardanelles closed to him, Senyavin would have had to sail his squadron the thousands of miles from Kronstadt, in the deep Baltic around Scandinavia, through the Channel, past hostile France and Spain, then the whole length of the Mediterranean. Yet only at the opposite end of this same strait, past Constantinople, there lay the Black Sea Russian fleet at Sebastopol no more than a couple of days' sail away.

And he was being ordered by his tsar to strike at the Turks and free their stranglehold. Duckworth's refusal to join with them must have been a bitter blow.

“I've heard that you were before Constantinople threatening a bombardment.” The tone was cautious but respectful.

“The winds failed us in the end,” Kydd replied. “Without brisk airs we couldn't cross the current, and when we did the French had strengthened defences to the point at which we couldn't contemplate a confrontation.”

Senyavin, even if he didn't already know it, would hear all this later anyway.

“Ah, the French. Such a great pity we could not have gone
forward together to bundle the vermin out of Constantinople.”

“Well, yes.” He was not going to commit himself to commenting on Duckworth's strategics.

The admiral sighed. “And now I'm being asked to take the war to the Ottomans. If Nelson's fleet cannot achieve a humbling, what chance is there for me?”

Was he fishing for a suggestion or just making conversation?

“We saw little of the Turk Navy as would cause us to tremble, Dmitry. Why not bring 'em to battle, sweep them from the sea? You'll then have only the guns to worry about.”

“You saw few because they were arrayed in the north against our Black Sea fleet, holding it powerless. Now it will be a different matter, but still we are outnumbered by an unacceptable margin.”

Kydd sympathised, but what could he do?

“I can give you help with currents, gun emplacements and similar,” he said. “We noted them down, every one.”

Senyavin's face set. “I'll be frank. It's not a risk we can take, that our ships are destroyed in the eyes of the Turks. It would give them hope and excuse for vain display at our expense and my place at Court will be compromised. Yet I must do something.”

But then there was one thing Kydd could suggest. Perhaps the most effective weapon of all against Bonaparte—why wouldn't it work here too?

“Dmitry. Your ships and trade are choked off, can't move. We ourselves have long experience of this, and we call it the blockade by which we embarrass the French in their home ports.

“Why don't you turn it on its head and pay back the Turk in his own coin? Mount a formal blockade of the Dardanelles, seal it off so no Turkish trade can exist?”

“A blockade of our own?” He rubbed his chin. “We're not familiar with this. Unless it's effective and complete, it will be seen as an act of the weaker.”

“I will tell you how you can do it, Dmitry. First you need a base, and what better than here at Tenedos? Now, blockade is in several depths and …”

Kydd went on to describe the complex multi-layered organisation that he'd first learned of in
Teazer
and the Channel fleet, the small ships to intercept, the larger to threaten retaliation for a sally, the constant sea-keeping with victualling support, the vigilance and steadfastness.

Senyavin was a swift learner and saw that, with the Black Sea fleet turned active at the opposite end, the result would be the entire Dardanelles and Bosporus a dead zone for the Turks.

“I'm grateful indeed for your advice, my friend. I rather think I will do it …”

R
ENZI DESCENDED SLOWLY FROM THE MINARET,
stunned. He had vaguely recognised one or two of the British ships but their war flags were unmistakable. And there had been no doubt about their course—it was direct for Constantinople. But now they were sailing away, with not a single shot fired. What in the name of all the devils in hell were they about?

Even in the little passage heading back to his cell he could hear the shouts of jubilation, the crack and pop of muskets fired into the air, raucous drumming, full-throated yelling; he winced at the humiliation.

Mahmut closed the door quietly and left.

It was an unmitigated catastrophe. With the only effective card the British had, played so disastrously, Renzi's situation was now impossible. Before, he had had the ear of the sultan. Now …

He lay on the low bed, moodily staring up. The French had won by default and were now in a position to complete their grand project.

It was over.

With all options closed, there was nothing for it but to return to London and admit failure on his first mission.

At least he'd be quit of this place of menace and ignominy.

The evening gloom closed in with no lessening of the racket outside and time passed drearily.

A rattling at the door disturbed his melancholy. But it was only Mahmut, bringing leftovers from some celebration feast.

Renzi picked at it: lamb
yahni
and pomegranate sherbet. He knew he wouldn't be allowed to depart without getting leave from Selim who, significantly, had not visited to discuss these final developments. Unease pricked him. On one hand he stood to be quietly forgotten as an embarrassment, to be done away with at a convenient time; on the other, if the French got to hear of him, it would be in Selim's interest to hand him over to General Sébastiani.