Pasha (40 page)

“An enjoyable cruise with the Ivans, sir?” Curzon asked, with ill-disguised curiosity.

“Yes, indeed. And some tolerable entertainment provided for us by the Turk.”

He sketched out what had happened. “Admiral Senyavin was mortified that on account of light winds the Turks hauled away, but I've no doubt there'll be a reckoning before long.”

“As will release us to quit this place.”

“Just so.”

“Oh, one thing. The Russian guard ship at the entrance to the strait was approached by a disreputable Moor and thought it right to pass it on to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you believe it? The fellow climbed aboard and demanded they accept a letter addressed to the nearest English man-o'-war. Had a covering note to the effect that in return for handing it over he was to receive the sum of twenty
kuruş
in gold. The captain is anxious that he be reimbursed before we sail, he said.”

“Very well. We'll take a look at this expensive piece of mail after I'm fettled.”

With remarkable speed Tysoe produced a piping hot hip-bath and a clean rig.

Refreshed, Kydd took the little packet, salt-stained and grubby, to the stern windows and sat in his favourite chair.

Was this another plea to be taken back to England at His Majesty's expense? The address, barely legible, was in impeccably correct form.

Inside, the folded paper was of very poor quality and ink had stained through it to the other side. A traveller fallen on hard times?

In a wash of disbelief Kydd could only stop and stare.

It was signed “The Right Honourable the Lord Farndon”—and how could he ever forget the elegant, sweeping hand that he had last seen on ship's papers in this very cabin?

Renzi!

Kydd feverishly re-read the words. A prisoner of the Turks in Constantinople, Renzi calmly requested that authorities be alerted with a view to negotiations for his release.

Thoughts stampeded through Kydd's mind.

What in the name of God was Renzi doing in Constantinople?
He quickly put that aside as unanswerable.

There was a more pressing question, namely, which authorities could be reached quickly?

Admiral Duckworth was somewhere near Alexandria, engaged in an opposed landing and not to be distracted. Rear Admiral Louis was at large in the Adriatic and said to be now mortally ill.

That left the civil authorities. Malta was the closest, weeks' sailing away, but it was a small station, no relations with or interest in Turkey or the Dardanelles.

In effect, there was no English representation of standing and influence in the entire Mediterranean now.

There was only Collingwood, out in the Atlantic off Cádiz, who had any kind of power, and by the time he was reached and came to a decision, Renzi might have been …

Kydd shot to his feet and paced about the cabin.

Collingwood would probably see the fate of a single British subject caught up in the recent humiliation and retreat as regrettable but no reason to mount another attempt on the Sublime Porte.

Kydd's orders were to remain in the area to report on Russian operations, not leave station to go off looking for help.

It had to be faced. Renzi would probably rot in an Oriental gaol for ever …

But could he return to England and tell Cecilia that he had done nothing to save her husband?

Were there any possibilities, however improbable?

A return through the Dardanelles and a daring rescue? Not after the mauling they had taken escaping—and, besides, with the Russians abroad, the forts would be reinforced, well manned and alert.

Some kind of furtive undercover expedition? But without the language, the local knowledge—even finding where Renzi was held in chains—made it impossible. And then to hack his way
into some fortress prison against the hordes of …

This was wild thinking. What was needed now was guile, not hot-blooded recklessness.

What if he … ?

Yes! Crazy, lunatic, even, but this would give him a chance, however slight.

He would sail to Constantinople and demand that if they didn't hand over Renzi he would call on all of Nelson's fleet, which was not far behind, to finish the job.

Something like that, anyway.

Constantinople was only a day or two away, less for a taut sailer like
L'Aurore.

Supposing, with the experience he now had of the Dardanelles and Kendall's meticulous notes, he made passage—at night?

Timing—a fair wind, moonlight. It could be done.

He went on deck to sniff the wind and collect his thoughts, then called the master down.

“Mr Kendall, we have a duty to the hydrographer of the Navy to report on areas of possible future operations. I'd like your thoughts on how a British man-o'-war might fare, should she look to passing Point Pesquies at night under full sail.”

He stared at Kydd as though he were mad. “At night, sir? I'd be obliged to call that an act o' desperation. Full sail—if she were t' touch bottom at speed it could send her sticks down, an' if the wind turned foul, there'd be—”

“Think again, Mr Kendall. Enough moonlight we can see, the gunners ashore not so much. Wind fair and brisk from the east-sou'east …”

Rubbing his chin, the seasoned old mariner replied slowly, “Well, I suppose it could be done. If they has m' notes, there's mention of a useful current around the point hard against the Europe shore and I've note of all seamarks as can be seen. An' if
it's to be an east-sou'easterly like now, why, that's fair for 'em all the way—and back, if'n it holds.”

Kydd held down a rush of hope. “That seems reasonable enough, Mr Kendall. Thank you.”

This night there was a quarter-moon as well—it was as if the gods were encouraging them on.

After the master had left he eagerly went back to the charts. From Cape Janissary at the entrance to the outer castles was ten miles. To the monster guns at Point Pesquies—the inner castles—another four or five. If
L'Aurore
gave of her best they could do it.

Then objections rushed in.

He was leaving station, the gravest of crimes. He would argue that one when it came—he would be gone only a day or so, if he got through. If not, it didn't matter anyway.

Placing his command in mortal hazard? This was always a judgement of the captain's, and could not be questioned.

But there was one final hurdle: the moral dimension.

Had he the right to thrust
L'Aurore's
company into mortal danger, just for the sake of a friend?

Given the range of what could go wrong, there was a good chance that the whole enterprise might come to a sorry end.

He strode to the door. “The officer-of-the-watch to see me. Now!”

Bowden entered, mystified.

“Clear lower deck. I'm to address the ship's company in ten minutes. That's the lot—watch-on-deck, idlers, everybody.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was a rare occasion that brought the entire crew of the frigate on deck at the same time. Divisions, church, dress ship—but none had the power that “clear lower deck” had. This was the order that brought every single soul up without exception: watch-keepers, cooks, men off-watch sleeping, marine sentries, the carpenter.

Word came that they were assembled. As soon as he emerged
on deck the excited murmuring died, making superfluous Oakley's furious pipe of “still.”

Curzon touched his hat. “Ship's company mustered as ordered, Sir Thomas.”

“Very good,” Kydd replied, and stepped up to the little deck space left to him, by the wheel.

“L'Aurores,” he began impressively, but at the last moment hesitated at the enormity of what he was asking of them. And what could he do if they held back?

“Ahem. I'll have you know I had a letter a little while ago. It was from an Englishman in a desperate plight in chains in some fortress in Constantinople.

“It pleads with the nearest British man-o'-war to find an authority to negotiate for his release. I have to tell you that at this stage in our political fortunes there is none.”

He let it sink in.

“This means that if we sail away, his last hope will be extinguished and he must lie there, abandoned by all.”

He raised his voice aggressively. “I can't let that happen! While I have my honour, and an English heart that beats, I will not cease from an attempt at his liberty!”

There was a roar of tigerish approval so he went on, “I have a plan. It will not be easy, in fact it'll be damned dangerous, but I know you'll want to be with me.”

The noise fell away—it was replaced by a muttering.

“A racing passage through the Dardanelles—at night, and under full sail. Something you'll tell your grandchildren, the day when
L'Aurore
caught the Turk on the hop and rescued a countryman, like heroes.”

There was now an unmistakable hush, then low murmuring. They were not fools and could work out the fearful dangers lying in wait.

“It's only a day's run, if our stout frigate cracks on sail, and I've got the timings as will allow us to do it before they wake up. What say you, L'Aurores? Are you with me?”

All the officers stared at him as if he was mad.

“For the sake of our people—boat's crew and the midshipmen, they'll be with him, no doubt on it.” He couldn't know, of course, whether they would be there.

This brought an agitated growling but no full-throated clamour.

He was losing them.

It was time to play his last and only card.

“What if I told you the name of this captive, this victim of Turkish treachery? It's one you know—for he's been your shipmate since
L'Aurore
was first commissioned.”

There was an astonished silence at this.

“I'll tell you who. It's Nicholas Renzi as was. Who's seen us through more than one adventure, put his life at stake for his ship, always played us true. Now, will we sail away without we even try?”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“What about them monster guns? We ain't got a chance agin 'em all firing at one target.”

“I'm surprised at you, Mason, a fine gunner like you. I ask you, how do we fight a night action? Always yardarm to yardarm, that way we can't miss, for at night sighting is useless. So even if they're ready for us—which they won't be—they'll not get off a shot worth the aiming.

“Martin?” Another gunner.

“Cracking on wi' a full spread o' canvas—what if we touch? It'll be all over main quickly, I'm thinking.”

“Good question. Here's the answer: we've been up and down that damned ditch enough times we're not going to be surprised
by it. Most important, we've got some copper-bottomed pilot notes, thanks to Mr Kendall, which we're going to use to set up a right good steer for ourselves. We go into this with the best navigation there is.”

A hum of interest started and he caught the word “Renzi” more than once.

Curzon came up beside him. “Sir, you're saying that it's Lord Farndon in a Turkish clink? How can this be? We left him in England. Are you sure this is not an imposter?”

“It's him, sure enough. I'd recognise his hand anywhere—but the devil alone knows what he's doing in all this.”

“What'll ye do, sir, once we gets to Constantinople, like?” came a question from the tattooed hulk of Oakley, the boatswain.

“Ah, yes. That's when we spin our yarn as says we're scouts for the biggest fleet Nelson ever had, and if they're not relieved of our men, our admiral will be tempted to come up the same way as we did before and finish the job.”

It brought hesitant laughs, for wasn't Kydd joking? He must really have a secret plan as he always had before.

Now was probably the best time to try for the decider.

“So, maybe we'll have a crack at it. I'm not going to call for a show of hands—I'm your captain, after all—but here's my word on it: if any man feels he doesn't want to be a part of it, he's free to go ashore and wait it out with the Russians, no questions asked. And if—”

“Cap'n Kydd!” came Toby Stirk's bull roar. “I were wi' Renzi back in the old
Royal Billy
and, be buggered to it, I'm not leavin' a messmate to die in some Turk chokey! I say what're we waitin' about for? Let's get the bastard
and
our boat's crew out an' worry about it later!”

The answering cheer said it all: they were going to Constantinople or hell, like true British tars, for a shipmate. The adventure was on.

The master took his time studying the chart before he gravely pronounced, “This'n is the hardest beat to wind'd of any run I've heard … 'Cepting Cap'n Cook's night sail up the St Lawrence as fooled the Frenchies, o' course,” he added.

“What I advises is a passage plan as takes advantage of the shore seamarks, there bein' no buoyage in the Dardanelles. We're lucky the Turk has plenty o' them mosques—they're always white an' will show in the moonlight. So we has our waypoints depending on these.”