Pasha (31 page)

A little short of the deadline the officer-of-the-watch handed his telescope to Duckworth. “Sir—I see a boat under sail come around the point, heading towards us.”

The admiral grunted. “Odd-looking, but has some sort of colours up.”

It drew closer. Kydd recognised the vessel type from a past voyage to Smyrna: a small
tekne.
It flew a triangular red flag with a moon and stars in white. A dignified gentleman, with a long beard, wearing a large turban, was sitting in its after part.

“Hale him aboard, if you please,” Duckworth ordered, and went down to the entry-port to meet him.

Two stepped on deck, the other plainly a dragoman.

“Great lord, may I present the noble Isaac Bey of Roumelia. He has been charged by the Reis-ül Kuttab to treat with you in this grave matter.”

Duckworth gave a short bow. The old man approached, then waited with glittering black eyes.

“Give him your hand,” hissed Smith, from behind.

“Oh, yes. Pleased to meet you, sir.” He extended his hand—but when Isaac Bey took it, he brought it to his forehead and lowered his head.

In the uncompromising martial simplicity of the ship it was a touching gesture and Duckworth was taken aback.

The man looked up and spoke flowery phrases in a reedy, high-pitched voice. It seemed he was flattered and honoured to be addressing one of Nelson's great commanders and knew he would be listened to with gracious respect.

“Ah, invite him down into my cabin and pass the word for the ambassador.”

Seated at the polished mahogany expanse of the vast table, where war maps were more likely to be found, their visitor seemed diminutive and vulnerable. His dragoman respectfully drew up a
chair, then Arbuthnot entered the cabin.

He saw the old man and started. “Isaac Bey!”

“You know him?” Duckworth asked.

“He is a much-respected man in Constantinople, a childhood friend of the sultan and with a record of service second to none. You may understand him to be the most trustworthy of emissaries, Admiral.”

Pompously, Duckworth told the dragoman, “Tell him that I also am honoured at the presence of such a name in my ship.”

“He is grateful for the opportunity to lay before you the dolorous condition in which the Porte finds itself.”

“Have him go on.” There was undisguised triumph on Duckworth's features.

He told of widespread fear and anguish in the population at their imminent destruction. Chaos and disorder on a scale that had made proper diplomatic dealings impossible. Worse, even, the helplessness of the Sublime Porte to placate the foreigners, to retain honour in the face of a naked threat to the sultan's authority, meant that a rising—a revolution by the lower orders—was no longer impossible. Sultan Selim might well be overthrown.

Arbuthnot got up, bent close to the admiral's ear and whispered, “This is a catastrophic result, Admiral. If Selim goes, the French will step straight into the vacuum—recollect, Marshal Marmont's veterans are in Dalmatia with artillery and …”

“You bring grave news indeed, Isaac Bey, and I can see why you've come out to us with your dilemma. We must discuss this as a matter of urgency.”

It was midnight before the envoy left.

Duckworth wiped his brow in fatigue. There had been no conclusion to the negotiations and he was tired, frustrated and angry.

“The man's as slippery as an eel,” he spat at Arbuthnot. “Why you humour him so escapes me, sir.”

“For the reason he's trusted and respected on both sides, sir. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm to bed before I drop of mortal tiredness.”

“The man's playing with us, can't you see it? Wasting time, hoping we'll sail away.”

“Admiral, can't this wait until the morning? I'm—”

“Well, I wouldn't put it past the blackguards to be hard at it, throwing up defences and similar while we're wasting time with the old man.”

“There's nothing you or I can do about it now, in the middle of the night. For God's sake—let's get some sleep.”

Kydd awoke muzzily to Curzon's anxious pleading.

“Sir! It's first light and the flagship has a signal hung out. Sorry to wake you but—”

“Which?”

“Sir, ‘Fleet prepare to weigh.'”

Kydd swung out of his cot. “Damn! It's on—turn up the hands and—”

“I've piped ‘stations to unmoor' this minute, Sir Thomas.”

“I'll be on deck presently, Mr Curzon. I shall expect it to be completed when I am.”

He was damned if he was going up without a shave. An imperturbable Tysoe had razor and strop at the ready.

“Clear for action, sir?”

“No. We're not in the line-of-battle and, besides, I want the men to get a proper breakfast first.”

He, too, snatched a quick meal and hurried back up. Around him the big battleships were preparing for sea, fo'c'slemen at the cathead with the fish tackle to secure the anchor when it came aboard, others at the braces in the waist trimming the heavy yards for a starboard tack when sail was set. A scene of seaman-like expectation.

At five minutes to eight the signal to weigh was hoisted, with the preparative flag, indicating that the manoeuvre would be executed the instant this was jerked down.

“Fo'c'slemen ready?” Kydd checked. Curzon responded with an injured look and turned back to watch the flagship.

The capstan was manned, the messenger secured to the cable. Joe Martin,
L'Aurore's
best fiddler, sat on the capstan head waiting for the word. Aloft, the topmen were ready to lay out along the yard to loose sail to the wind.

Eight bells sounded out from the belfry forward, and from every ship in a discordant chorus.

The men stood expectantly at their stations, gazing across at the flagship for the signal.

After ten minutes there was baffled murmuring on the quarterdeck.

“A mort less than smart in their motions, Mr Curzon.”

“
We're
ready, sir.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

More minutes passed and then, at a full hour later, Kydd stood the men down at their stations.

It was incomprehensible. A fleet at a split-yarn's readiness to sail and the preparative still close up? If the manoeuvre was cancelled, both flags would be struck—as it stood, the signification was that they could expect to proceed to sea at a moment's notice.

Another hour went by.

By now the men were lying on deck, telling yarns, taking a nap, laughing at well-worn mess-deck dits. If it lasted for much longer there would be real unrest, resentment at the imposition on their off-watch time.

Time stretched on interminably—at eleven another signal was made from
Royal George.

“Our pennant, ‘Captain to repair on board.'”

Kydd hastened to obey, as much out of consuming curiosity as duty.

He was not met at the entry-port by Duckworth, and a tight-lipped flag captain hurriedly escorted him to the admiral.

Admiral Duckworth was alone. “Captain Kydd. I'll not have you misled in this. There has been … That is to say, there is a difference of opinion between myself and Ambassador Arbuthnot that leaves me unable to continue in a productive relationship with the fool.”

“Sir, may I know—”

“He's tacked right about and now thinks an armed descent on Constantinople a mistake. A mistake! He the one who stirred up Whitehall to get an expedition mounted in the first place, he the one badgering Collingwood for ships and guns—and now he's gone tepid on the whole idea. So what does he expect me to do with a first-class fighting squadron? Sit about and wait?”

He fumed and retorted, “That's not my way, Kydd. I've done with this pettifogging diplomacy. You'll take my note of instant destruction by sunset if there's no favourable reply before that time. The only way to deal with the beggars.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And do go down and see Arbuthnot, there's a good fellow. He's in a sulk and insists his note goes along with mine.”

“Sir.”

The ambassador had taken over the first lieutenant's cabin with its private stern window looking out over the drab anchorage. It was at a gratifying separation from the admiral's quarters and was away from the noise and fuss of the higher levels.

Kydd knocked quietly on the door. “Ambassador?”

Arbuthnot was seated at the little desk, papers untidily in front of him. He swivelled round.

“Ah, Captain. You'll be on your way with the admiral's note, then.”

His eyes were bloodshot, his voice unsteady, and he didn't hold Kydd's gaze.

“I am, sir. It was mentioned you had a note as well, sir.”

“I—I have. Which is to say, there will be one shortly. I've had a hard time drafting it, you see.”

“Sir. All the same, Admiral Duckworth wishes his note to be delivered forthwith.”

“May I ask you something, Captain?”

“Of course,” Kydd answered warily.

“These several days I've been haunted by a vision. One that I … cannot shake off.”

“A vision, sir?”

“Yes.” He played with his pen, then looked up and said, “How would
you
like to go down in history, Captain? I would think as a brave and resourceful warrior of your sea world.”

“Why, yes.”

“So how would you feel, Sir Thomas, to be known down the ages as the man who destroyed Byzantium, the Hagia Sophia, a thousand and a half years of civilisation? Captain, I'll be for ever cursed by history. Every school child will learn of Arbuthnot the barbarian and—”

“Sir, in war there are many evil acts we're called upon to do in the line of duty. But you know better than I the terrible consequences to us of Bonaparte gaining access to India and the world. If this act is the only way we can put a stop to French influence then we have to do it. No matter how we feel.”

That he was needed to put backbone into a state envoy was a sorry state of affairs.

“Then you're the same as all the others,” Arbuthnot said, with venom. “More concerned to make distinction in the field in place of finer feelings. Do, then, glory in your destruction, Captain.”

Kydd stiffened. “I'll wait a half-hour on the quarterdeck for
your note, sir. After that, I leave. Good day to you, sir.”

Out in the open air under the eyes of the curious watch-on-deck he paced up and down, moodily reflecting on the idiocies he had been witness to. Now Duckworth was going ahead with the bombardment without support and agreement from the civil power.

“You're still here, Kydd?”

He wheeled around at the admiral's voice. “The ambassador hasn't finished his note, sir. I told him I'd wait half an hour before I—”

“Damn his hide. He's to have it up here in ten minutes or not at all. What's he said to you?”

Kydd hesitated, but saw no reason to conceal his revelation. “Sir, he feels he'll be cursed by history if he colludes in the bombarding of Constantinople.”

Duckworth recoiled in disbelief. “The man's demented! Doesn't he understand what we're up against, damn it? God only knows what he's put in his note but if it crosses mine I'll see him in hell.”

Just as he was about to leave, the ambassador's note came up and Kydd added it to the other in his dispatch satchel. He was piped down the side, glad to be quit of the flagship.

Light winds on the way to the Topkapi Steps made for a frustrating passage but the notes were finally delivered and he returned to his ship.

In the short time remaining before sunset a boat put out from the shore. In it was Isaac Bey once more heading straight for
Royal George.

Kydd waited for a summons but none came.

And in the morning all options, all alternatives and all opportunities were made null. The light wind had backed into a gentle westerly. Dead foul for Constantinople.

The fleet was as helpless as if it were in a blockaded port. It
was going nowhere. The initiative had passed out of their hands.

God only knew when the breeze would relent and give them a chance, but for now there was nothing but to stand down from sea routines and set about seeing to the ship with the never-ending tally of little tasks that could be done only while idle.

Around ten the purser came with a suggestion. “We're low on green stuff as usual, sir. What do you say we make visit to one of these islands and bargain for some?”

Kydd agreed. As a light frigate
L'Aurore
had a limited hold stowage and always came to the end of her victuals well before the others.

“Mr Calloway, take away the cutter and a crew of trusties and land at Prota, that big island over there. Mr Owen will tell you what he wants in the way of supplies.”

As an afterthought, he added, “And take along Midshipmen Clinch and Willock. They'll relish the jaunt.”

“And I, sir?” Dillon asked hopefully.

“Not this time.” Kydd had other plans. Without interruptions the day could be turned to advantage by the handing over of his private papers. It was the last stage of trust, but if he'd misjudged Dillon's character …

It was not as hard as he'd feared. The young man accepted politely and without question his origins and lack of an estate. Efficiently, and with a pleasing confidence, he set about organising things to best effect, separating ship business from personal matters and quickly finding his way around Kydd's life.

By mid-morning Kydd was happy to leave him to it. There were people in this world born to organise paperwork, had a gift for it.

He turned his attention to other concerns. The expedition would be over one way or the other in the not too distant future and the ships detached for it would be dispersed. Probably to Cádiz for
L'Aurore.
Already low on provisions he would need to think
about storing and victualling for a transit of the Mediterranean. That meant Malta and—