Greek Wedding (43 page)

‘Oh, you're impossible.' She was somewhere between laughter and tears, but she sat down as he had commanded.

‘Nothing of the kind. I have a living to make, remember, for us and our son.'

‘Daughter.' Her voice was almost steady as she picked up the pen. ‘Very well, my lord, dictate.'

All the long day, the battle raged, and all day long, Phyllida sat at the table, writing to Brett's dictation, steadied by the need to listen for his voice against the thunder of gunfire from outside
and from above.

‘One good thing.' Brett paused in his dictation to come and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘I think the Egyptians must have forgotten all about us.'

‘As well they might.' Her voice was almost drowned by a ragged burst of firing from the battery above them.

‘I don't think they're doing a bit of damage from up there.' He had felt her fear. ‘Not now. Their chance was when the Allied Fleet sailed in, and they let it go. Our ships won't think them worth powder and shot, not now. Luckily for us.'

‘I do so hope you are right.'

Hard to tell when the glow of many fires in the bay merged with that of sunset. In his corner, Andreas was praying. Brett turned, wearily, from his window. ‘I think it's almost over.'

‘You mean?' She rose, stiffly, to join him.

‘I think—' He stopped, as a Turkish ship blew up in a blaze of horrible light that revealed, for a moment, the whole sweep of the bay. ‘You see? It's the Allied ships that are still there.'

‘They've taken a terrible pounding.' Silent tears streamed down Phyllida's cheeks.

‘Yes, but they're all firing still, which is more than the Turks are.'

Darkness came suddenly, emphasising the red glow of the burning ships, the occasional shower of sparks as one blew up. The firing had slackened now, and the battery above them was silent. Lights began to show on the Allied ships, still anchored in formation. ‘They'll keep close watch tonight,' said Brett. ‘And so must we. I can trust you, Andreas?'

‘I swear it, by bread and by the deaths of my children.'

‘Then you and I will take watch about. We must be ready for the Egyptians if they should decide to break down the door.'

In fact, none of them slept much. The red glow persisted all night, and from time to time there was another explosion as a Turkish ship blew up. ‘They must be destroying them on purpose,' said Brett. ‘It's like them.'

Worst of all, now that the firing had ceased they could hear the screams of the wounded, some drifting on spars in the bay, white faces caught for a moment in the light of a burning ship, others doubtless on the orlop decks of the surviving ships, where the surgeons would be about their dreadful business.

Towards dawn, Phyllida slept a little, restlessly, and woke to see Brett and Andreas back at the windows. It was quiet at last and only daylight filtered into the dismal little room.

‘It's all over.' Brett turned as she stirred on the brushwood divan. ‘A classic victory. I think it may mean the beginning of freedom for Greece.'

‘Yes.' Andreas looked a thousand years old this morning. ‘And what does it mean for me, a traitor?'

‘Nothing of the kind,' said Brett. ‘We were ambushed, don't you remember, by pure chance? And a lucky one, I begin to think, for my brother and me. Think, man, if you'd taken us to Nestor's Cave as was arranged, what chance would we have had of being picked up by a British boat, with that battle raging?'

‘I hadn't thought of that.' Hope dawned on his ravaged face. ‘You'll tell that story for me,
kyrie
, you and the boy?'

‘I don't see why not.' He turned back to the window, the subject finished. ‘Ah! There's a Turkish boat going out to the
Asia
. I hope to God old Codrington's survived.'

‘Yes.' Phyllida was up now, moving stiffly about the cell. ‘Brett, do you know we're almost out of water?'

‘Yes. If they don't remember us fairly soon, we'll have to call attention to ourselves, but, frankly, I think the longer we leave it the better. Just don't wash your face this morning, love. It looks charming as it is.'

‘I doubt that.' She made a face at him.

He laughed. ‘To me, you'll always look beautiful. But God knows what your aunt's going to say. It's not just your dirty face, it's that hair of yours!'

‘Is it terrible?'

‘Just as well we've no glass. I only hope I still look enough of an English milord to convince Ibrahim.' He looked ruefully down at his shabby blue surtout and stained canvas trousers.

‘The extraordinary thing is, that you do. I can't think how you manage it. Here I am, a complete slut, and you're still a perfect English gentleman. Even without a shave!'

‘I'm not absolutely sure I like your tone. I've half a mind to give you a brotherly beating, strictly for the benefit of our friend there.'

‘Pray don't! But are you really going to let him off?'

‘Why not? If we get out of this ourselves.'

‘Yes.' Had she let herself take it too much for granted, this
morning, that they would?

Time dragged. Out in the bay, the Allied ships were scenes of frenzied activity as sailors swarmed over them, repairing the damage of the day before. ‘Most of them will be fit to sail by tomorrow,' said Brett. ‘And probably will. There's nothing more for them to do here. I hope Ibrahim gets back before then.'

‘You're waiting for that?'

‘Partly. Besides, it's important not to lose face. I'd rather they came to fetch us. If you can hold out a while longer?'

‘Of course.' She was starving, and parched with thirst. They had shared the last mouthful of warm, brackish water a couple of hours earlier and the heat in the little room made thirst even harder to bear than hunger. But if Brett and Andreas could bear it, so could she.

It was afternoon, and the activity on the Allied ships had diminished somewhat when they heard the sound of trumpets on the landward side of their prison. ‘That sounds like Ibrahim,' said Brett with satisfaction. ‘I just hope, among all the bad news, someone remembers to tell him about us. Take the wedges out of the door, Andreas. We don't want to seem to have been afraid.'

‘Yes,
kyrie
.'

Phyllida watched with amusement as Andreas obeyed the casual order. ‘Will you bully
me
?' she asked in English.

‘Bully? Oh—I see.' He smiled at her. ‘It's good for him, don't you see. It makes him feel safe.'

‘I wish I did.'

‘Maybe I'd better bully you too. Ah, here they come. You're my tiresome little brother, remember. And,' in Greek, ‘Andreas, you will say as I say.'

‘Yes,
kyrie
. Though it mean death.'

‘I hope it won't.' He turned to face the door as it was thrown open to reveal an Armenian interpreter, unmistakable in his strange-shaped cap and fur-trimmed pelisse.

‘At last!' Brett's voice was angry. ‘I come with messages for your master, and you leave me here for twenty-four hours, without food or water.'

‘Ibrahim himself has sent me.' The man looked frightened. ‘You are to come at once.'

‘Without food?' Brett appeared to think it over, then conceded the point. ‘Very well. I can understand that Ibrahim has
much on his mind today. We will come.'

‘He said nothing about the other two. It is only you he wants.'

‘I do not move without them.'

This time it was the Armenian who yielded.

*          *          *

Ibrahim Pasha was a short, stout, vulgar-looking man with a face badly marked by smallpox. Plainly, almost shabbily dressed, he still stood out unmistakably the leader, among a group of richly furred two- and three-tailed pashas.

Brett approached him without hesitation, the Armenian protesting at his side. ‘We don't need this man. I speak your language.' Brett was half a head taller than the Egyptian, but the two pairs of eyes met and held steadily.

At last, Ibrahim smiled. ‘You are a brave man, milord. Yesterday, your ships destroyed ours, and today you dare speak to me thus?'

‘Not only
your
ships,' said Brett. ‘The Turks seemed to me to suffer even more than the Egyptians.'

Something flashed in Ibrahim's grey eyes. ‘You bring me a message from Reshid in the north?'

‘So I said.' There was the slightest possible emphasis on the last word. ‘What I have to say to you, Your Excellency, is not for all ears.'

Once again, Ibrahim's lips parted in the cruellest smile Phyllida had ever seen. ‘Very well. Stand apart, all of you. But I warn you, Englishman, this is not a good day with me. If you are wasting my time, you and your friends will not live long to regret it. Nor will your death be easy.'

Phyllida and Andreas were dragged away by their guards before they could hear more. Brett was speaking fast, and with conviction, but what in the world could he be saying? He seemed very far away, the whole thing hopeless. ‘Andreas,' Phyllida whispered in Greek, ‘if the worst happens, will you kill me, quickly?' She could see the outline of the dagger still in his boot.

‘Yes,
kyria
. I promise. It will hardly hurt.'

Kyria
. How long had he known? But a movement in the crowd brought her eyes back to Brett and Ibrahim. It was over.
Ibrahim was laughing and clapping Brett on the shoulder. ‘You shall have Tahir Pasha for your escort,' he said as they moved nearer. ‘You will tell Milord Codrington from me that he may be all-powerful at sea but I remain master here on land. You shall see my army before you go.'

‘I shall be honoured,' said Brett. ‘We would also be glad, my companions and I, of food and drink. We have had nothing for twenty-four hours.'

‘Companions? Oh—' He glanced at Phyllida and Andreas. ‘Your brother, of course. The Greek is mine.'

‘No,' said Brett, very quickly. ‘I gave him my word.'

There was a little pause. Then Ibrahim laughed. ‘You're a man, Englishman. You would not consider staying to advise me? I need men like you, now that those rats of Frenchmen have shown their true colours by abandoning my fleet in its hour of need.'

‘They put it in very good order first,' said Brett.

*          *          *

Phyllida sometimes thought that the meal that followed was the worst of all she had been through. ‘If I seemed too eager,' Brett explained to her afterwards, ‘I was afraid he might think again.'

The greasy Turkish food choked her and in this strictly Muslim camp there was no wine to wash it down. Beside her, Brett was talking easily to Ibrahim about life in Paris and London. How had he realised that the Egyptian longed to be thought a man of the world? As time dragged on, she began to think that Brett was being too successful. Would they ever get away?

The light outside the tent was dwindling. Brett looked up. ‘Your Excellency, it will be dark soon. I do not in the least wish to be mistaken for a boarding party by the British. We know too well what good shots they are.' His tone managed to make it a compliment, implying that only heroes could have defeated the Egyptians.

‘You're right.' Ibrahim was on his feet. ‘But I am sad to part with you, Englishman. Come back some day, in happier times, when I am master here in Greece, and we will talk again.' And then, looking beyond Brett to Phyllida. ‘Your brother is very quiet.'

‘He knows his place,' said Brett. ‘Make your bow to the Pasha, Phyl. We must be going.'

She managed a passable bow, acutely aware of her Greek costume and the absurdity of it all. Greek. What had happened to Andreas?

‘Well, boy,' said Ibrahim. ‘What is your name, pray?'

‘Philip Renshaw, Your Excellency.' Her voice came out a nervous squeak.

‘So he can speak. But younger than I thought. I'm surprised you risked him here in Greece, milord. Well, Philip Renshaw, I like you none the less for having accompanied your brother into danger. Ask a boon, and I will grant it.'

Goodness, she thought, he thinks he's something out of the Arabian Nights. And spoke up quickly. ‘Your Excellency, our man, Andreas, he comes with us?'

‘Oh, the Greek!' Ibrahim looked round in feigned surprise. ‘What happened to him? Fetch him, someone. He goes with his masters.'

Andreas joined them down at the quay, bleeding horribly from a network of light sabre-cuts. ‘It's nothing,' he answered Brett's exclamation. ‘They were only beginning. God bless you,
kyrie
, for remembering me.'

‘You have my brother to thank.' But Tahir Pasha had already boarded the Turkish version of an Admiral's barge, the slaves, some of them Greek, were bending to their oars, there was no time for thanks. Only, as they climbed on board: ‘I didn't tell them,
kyria
,' whispered Andreas.

As they approached, it was possible to see the full extent of the damage the
Asia
had suffered the day before, but discipline on board was as precise as ever, the decks were already white again, with only a sinister stain, here and there in the scuppers, as a reminder of all the blood that had poured across them yesterday. Best of all was the sight of Lord Codrington, waiting to receive them, imposing in his full dress uniform as Admiral of the Fleet. If he felt any surprise at the sight of Brett and Phyllida following in Tahir Pasha's wake, he did not show it. His interpreter was ready to join Tahir's, and Phyllida listened in a daze of relief as the first formal exchanges took place. The Pasha had brought Ibrahim's assurances that no further hostilities would take place—at sea. ‘On land is another matter, but the milord here is empowered to speak to you about that.' A
Turk, Tahir did not seem to like this much, and Codrington favoured Brett with a quick, considering glance, then turned to settle the armistice terms with the Pasha.