Pasha (42 page)

After midnight they approached the peninsula. It slumbered in darkness but at its end city lights pointed the way.

Ghosting along under staysails and jib, the frigate would be near invisible from the shore; the moon hung low in the east. It didn't take long to reach the tip—Seraglio Point. It was a great relief to see the anchorage deserted for it confirmed that all Turkish ships were away and they could flaunt their impudence without interference.

Instead of anchoring in the long outer stretch of water they came to at the series of buoys reserved for the Ottoman Navy and picked up moorings on the first. The inboard part of the mooring cable was not belayed, but seized together with light line. If there was the slightest trouble, the boatswain at the ready could, in a slice of his knife, set them free.

At first light there was the astonishing sight for the beleaguered city of a Royal Navy frigate calmly at a buoy, the largest ensign of the King's Navy at her mizzen and a white flag firmly at the fore-masthead.

Kydd smiled grimly at the thought of what must be happening ashore.

They should be opening fire with everything they had—but it would pass belief that this bold frigate, appearing from nowhere to take up rest, was challenging their defences. Why was it here? It must have a purpose, and better for all if they find out before anything happened that they might regret later.

Sure enough, the galley of Kaptan Pasha left for
L'Aurore
without delay.

As soon as he had clambered aboard, Kydd detected the man's consternation.

The dragoman bowed hastily. “Kaptan, he want to know, why you here?”

It seemed there were to be no subtle preliminaries so without a word Kydd pressed on with the main act.

He clapped his hands imperiously. From the main-hatch a pair of seamen bore a sea-chest draped with a Union flag. Everyone on deck snapped to attention.

They brought it forward and placed it by the main-mast.

Curzon stepped up, ceremoniously opened it, drew out the contents and held them aloft for all to see.

Kydd roared a command and at once everyone bowed deeply to it.

“Kaptan Pasha. This is from the King of England himself and it is to be placed in the hands of the sultan instantly.”

“My master, he say, what it contain?”

Kydd stared at him in apparent disbelief.

“This is a communication from one great sovereign to another and he asks what it says? I'm shocked that such a high official of the Sublime Porte is so ignorant of the ways of the immortals. Do convey it to the sultan without delay, at peril of his displeasure.”

“A
ND … THERE
! In check,
mon ami.
Another three moves, I think?”

His opponent played to his image, Lord Farndon was bored with it all—with himself, the four blank and noisome walls of his cell and Sébastiani, who was taking their chess game far too seriously.

They had squares of paper with inked pictures of the pieces on them and a scrawled board on the filthy little table. Sébastiani seemed to take a ferocious pleasure in marshalling his forces in detail to crowd in on Renzi before bringing about an elaborate and inevitable defeat.

And when it became too dim to see, there was nothing for it but to lie back on the rank-smelling beds and exchange life experiences.

At least it was entertainment of a sort: Renzi took satisfaction in conjuring up a pampered world of society balls, tricky situations at Court, errant footmen and charming foolishness for Sébastiani, who, to his surprise, was always naïvely agog for more.

In return, the French general brought out wearisome campaign anecdotes, interspersed with hesitations as he reviewed what he was going to say, that it did not offer intelligence of use to an Englishman.

Nevertheless Renzi was keenly interested, for Sébastiani's service included Egypt where he himself had been on the opposing and winning side. His cellmate had been at the Court of the Holy Roman Empire in its last days, being wounded and promoted at the battle of Austerlitz.

Then it was the unutterable tedium of the night, broken only in the morning by the clanking arrival of the guard, when another day would begin.

This day they had set up their “board” early for the general seemed to have a fierce need to break his record of six straight victories.

Another three moves? The noble lord could see it, but who cared?

“Merde!”
Sébastiani swore, for the sound of the guard approaching and opening the door was always followed by a gusting of the paper pieces everywhere, game over.

The door rattled, but instead of the amiable old guard there was Grand Vizier Köse Musa and a phalanx of officials—and, incredibly, Zorlu, whose blank expression was an immediate warning.

Was this to be an entreaty for the noble captive to recant before trial and execution? What else could have brought the highest servant of the sultan here? Or could it be …

Renzi bowed politely in the English manner and was rewarded with an Oriental bow from Musa. Sébastiani was completely ignored.

A lordly statement was made; Zorlu politely relayed the platitudes.

Then came the real reason for the visit.

“We are here witness to the carrying out of the sentence handed down by Sultan Mustafa IV on the Englishman known as Fahn'ton Pasha.”

A chill of fear flooded Renzi.

Was this to be hauled out into the dingy quadrangle, there to be decapitated? His plan had failed and—

“His Greatness decrees that the said Fahn'ton Pasha be banished from his realm for ever.”

Zorlu's control was nearly perfect but Renzi saw through it.

“Wherein an English ship has been summoned to carry out the sentence forthwith.”

“The Lord Farndon accepts his fate with sorrow, but will comply.”

There was visible relief.

“Providing his household and all his servants accompany him into exile.”

“Of course.”

He turned to Sébastiani to explain his departure, but the general, staring at him with wild eyes, blurted, “Take me with you—it was our bargain!”

So the villain had perfect English to overhear everything that had been said.

“I do remember,” Renzi replied. “As I do our agreement that the succoured should assume the status of internee to the other. Very well. Do you wish to be gone from this place?”

“I do,” the Frenchman said, with a fierce sincerity.

“Then consider yourself a guest of the British Crown, sir.”

To Zorlu, he said, “Tell the vizier I shall ask General Sébastiani to leave with me.”

This caused confusion and dismay.

“That is not possible. The general has yet to answer before a state trial why, when given all trust and resources, he failed to defend Constantinople against the Russians.”

For all the vainglory and boasting of the French, they had yet again been brought to their knees by the sea, the element Bonaparte would never understand.

“I'm sorry, General, so truly sorry,” Renzi said, shaking his head in compassion.

“You must help me! Please—help me, m' lord,” he whispered hoarsely.

Renzi hesitated. He owed the man nothing, but the vision of his fine mind brought to a squalid conclusion under a Turkish scimitar troubled him—and, besides, was not his mission to achieve the ejecting of the French from the Porte? Then he would ensure that very article.

“Tell the vizier I'm desolated to hear that my wishes in the matter are ignored. Do not the Turks wish all infidels gone from their door? I desire the same thing, surely.”

“This cannot be done. The general must stand trial.”

“Then, unhappily, it seems I must decline to leave.” He went over to his bed and elaborately lay down.

Zorlu gave him a worried glance but Renzi knew he was reading the situation for what it was, that whatever pressure was being applied it was overwhelming and irresistible.

Musa flashed him a murderous look, then quickly collected himself. “Then it is granted on the understanding that, in addition, all the foreign unbelievers of the general's household are taken off our hands.”

Renzi acknowledged this with a gracious bow and got to his feet. “Shall we go,
mon général?”

The carriage stopped at the waterfront and Renzi was handed down by an imperturbable Jago. He raised his eyes and there before him was a vision beautiful beyond compare and which took away his breath in a shuddering realisation of who his saviour was.

HMS
L'Aurore:
trim, warlike and every bit as lovely as he remembered.

Come to take him home.

Her captain's barge had put off and there, in the sternsheets, was a figure. One he would always count as his closest friend.

The boat glided in, her crew slapping the loom of their oars to bring them smartly vertical.

With tears pricking, Renzi watched Kydd step ashore and advance towards him, that same masculine stride, those direct brown eyes now so creased with pleasure.

“Why, Nicholas, m' friend. Am I seeing you well?”

He stretched out his hand—but Renzi felt a tide of overwhelming feeling take him and he fell on Kydd's neck, hugging him. The two clung to each other for a long moment, then drew away, embarrassed.

“We have to sail while the wind's fair, Nicholas,” Kydd managed.

“Of course. Might I present General Horace Sébastiani de la Porta? He's to take passage with us.”

The Frenchman's eyes glittered and he bowed stiffly.

“Your household is not here to include with us, General?”

“They fled early,” Sébastiani bit off.

“Then it is only our own that comes. Mr Jago, are all present and correct?”

“They're all here, m' lord.”

Kydd intervened: “Have you seen two midshipmen and a boat's crew b' chance?”

“No, I'm afraid not. I've heard some English were taken but I've not seen any sign of them.”

“That's a great pity but we must be away before things turn bad.”

The launch and cutter arrived ready to take Renzi's retinue.

“Mr Zorlu? You will come with us, of course.”

“Fahn'ton Pasha, I fancy there will be need for a British embassy before very long. I have therefore a duty to remain, my lord.”

“Then do so, and please believe that your services will be recognised in due course by the Crown, sir.”

Zorlu bowed wordlessly.

The two friends sat side by side in the sternsheets of the barge.

“Give way, you lubbers!” Kydd ordered happily.

L'Aurore
hove to off Cape Janissary at the seaward entrance to the Dardanelles after an uneventful passage, secured for them by the large pennant they were instructed by Kaptan Pasha to fly prominently from the fore-masthead. This had now to be surrendered to the fort commander.

Kydd paced his quarterdeck slowly in satisfaction, relishing their achievement and his doughty crew, who had made it possible.

Renzi came on deck slowly, blinking in the sunshine.

“Nicholas!” he said, with pleasure. “You're awake! You've slept more than a day, do you know that?”

“I needed it, brother. Where are we?”

“You'll see the wide Mediterranean ahead, and those two points the entry to the Dardanelles.”

“So …”

“Yes, m' friend, we're free at last. I'm to make my number with Admiral Senyavin at Tenedos now, and when I get back we must see about what to do with you.”

“Please, dear fellow, don't feel that—”

“Nonsense. We have to think about getting you back by some means. I'm detained here, so heartily regret I cannot take you.”

Curzon came up. “Boat ready, Sir Thomas.” It was amazing how formal
L'Aurore
had become simply by being the temporary bearer of a peer of the realm.

“We'll talk when I get back, Nicholas.”

As Kydd left, Renzi drew a deep, shuddering sigh. The sights, sounds and comfortable smells of the frigate he had spent so much of his life in were working their balm on his soul.

Life had been so simple then, bounded by straightforward
rules of conduct, of direct pleasures and the ever-changing purity of a seascape. Compared to the moral complexities and crushing responsibilities of his new calling, it had been such a very different existence. And here he was, if only for a short time, back in that world.

He strolled forward, past the main-mast and along the gangway over the guns to the foredeck. Grinning seamen touched their forelocks in exaggerated respect, and well-known faces stammered awkward words to their old shipmate as he passed them by.

Dillon came to offer congratulations on his escape and a marked curiosity about how he had come to be in Constantinople. He answered with the Gordion mission, which seemed to satisfy.

The young man had changed: no longer the pale-faced, studious youth he had last seen on the estate, he was now tanned, fit, and passed down the deck like a seasoned mariner.

Even as he asked, he knew the answer to his question: was Dillon desirous of returning to Eskdale Hall with him?

His charmingly evasive reply was to the effect that perhaps he would persevere for a little longer—if Captain Kydd was agreeable.

The sails slapped fretfully aback as they continued their heaving to and the bell was given two double-strikes. As if in a dream he swung up to the fore-shrouds and climbed up into the fore-top where he sat, as he had so often in the past, with his back to the mast, and closed his eyes in contentment.

All was well with the world.

A sudden raising of voices, then astonished cheering roused him and he looked over the edge of the fighting top—Kydd was returning in the boat.

Puzzled, he descended to the deck. He was just in time to see him coming over the side and a small crowd gathering.

“A glorious day!” Kydd grinned. “But first see who we've here!”