Pasha (43 page)

A gaunt Poulden shepherded two wide-eyed young midshipmen
over the side, the rest of
L'Aurore's
missing boat's crew following. They arrived on deck to slaps on the back, shouts of joy and a rising babble of incredulous talk.

“They were found in irons in the Turk flagship. This was after a famous battle when Senyavin caught up and did for 'em in splendid fashion.”

Almost stumbling in a dream-walk, the lads were led below by kindly sailors.

Kydd chuckled. “They'll not know it now, but in years to come, wardrooms around the fleet will be hearing of the time they were held captive by Turkish fiends.”

“You said a famous battle?”

“As would stand with any since Trafalgar, I'm persuaded. But don't you see, Nicholas? It's done, over. The Turks will now be seeking peace and I've no more reason to stay here in this benighted land.

“We sail for Cádiz this hour. And tonight we'll dine together—for the first time since, let me see … a very long time.”

That evening, as
L'Aurore
put out over the Mediterranean into a setting sun that blazed with a splendour that touched the heart, the two friends supped together.

“I haven't seen M'sieur Sébastiani,” Renzi said, reaching for yet more gilt-head bream.

“Ah. The devil was too quick for us. Just as we were passing the Gallipoli forts, rejoicing in our flag of protection, he leaped over the side and stroked out like a good 'un for the shore. Knew, o' course, he was safe—that we couldn't turn in the narrows or sail back against the blow.”

He held his Moschofilero up to the light. “Splendid drop this, don't you think?”

There was a pause of some significance. Then Kydd put down
his wine. “I don't suppose you'll tell me why you're in these waters, Nicholas?”

“Perhaps at another time.”

Kydd sighed, his face thoughtful. “I'm sanguine Collingwood will look kindly on your suffering. He's a considerate sort of chap and I'll wager he'll ask me to be so good as to convey such a noble martyr back to England.”

“That will be a particular pleasure, dear friend. And I'm sure I could prevail upon Cecilia to allow me to entertain you for a space at Eskdale Hall.”

Kydd grinned. “In course there'll be such a public fuss for
L'Aurore,
she having snatched a belted earl from the clutches of a sultan of the Turks and—”

“It mustn't happen!” Renzi snapped. “I don't want it known, under any circumstances.”

“Well, well. If I didn't know you better, I'd think you a wanton noble out on a tour sporting with the native ladies.”

“No, believe me, it's much more important than that.”

Kydd smiled wickedly. “Then I think you'd better confess to me before Cecilia gets to hear of it.”

“She already has,” Renzi whispered, his eyes filling.

Touched, Kydd said softly, “Then what's to do, that my friend's in such a moil?”

“Do forgive me, old chap. It's been somewhat of an ordeal.”

“I'll try to understand, dear fellow, but if you don't tell me—”

“Perhaps I will. There's none in this world that I'd trust beyond your good self, Thomas. That I swear to you.”

“Thank you, Nicholas—I suspect you're now to tell me something singular.”

“I am. The year 'ninety-four. We were in
Seaflower
cutter in the Caribbean and had on board the Lord Stanhope. Then the hurricane and our open-boat voyage. Do you remember?”

“I do. A near-run thing.”

“Do you know why Lord Stanhope insisted on departing in the boat? Instead of remaining safely on the island?”

“Don't I remember you two being particularly hugger-mugger together?”

“Quite so. He told me all.

“He had intelligence of a Spanish plot and had to reach England before war was declared—”

“Ah! Now I understand. It always puzzled me why, when he didn't need to, he took his life in his hands in our little boat.”

“It's because this was what he did.”

“You're not being clear, old trout.”

“Lord Stanhope was in fact a species of servant to the Crown who had no office but a calling, one of such gravity and importance that he had the respect and gratitude of the highest in the land. And for this he required the most complete discretion, the exercise of the strictest confidence, for, you see, he deployed his aristocratic lineage as a cloak to conduct activities that diplomats, soldiers and others could not.”

“Nicholas, why are you telling me this? If ever it's known …”

“Because Lord Stanhope—or should I say the Marquess of Bloomsbury?—has lately laid down his burden. My dear fellow, I am anointed his successor.”

“Good God!”

He hesitated, then asked, “You said Cecilia … ?”

“Yes. She knows all. As did Lady Stanhope.”

“You didn't—”

“I forbade her to come on this mission, if that is your meaning.”

“I'm damned glad to hear it. But it has to be said that things didn't turn out well for you this first time.”

“On the contrary. The French are ejected from the Sublime Porte. That is all that counts.”

“You're not telling me everything, m' friend.”

“And neither should I. There was nothing you could have done, nothing I could have asked and nothing that wasn't achieved by other means than the broadside of a saucy frigate.”

“Damn it all! There's something—”

“When we're old greybeards together, perhaps we'll sit by a winter fire and tell our stories. Then you'll know. Until then it's imperative I assume the foolishness of rank. Now you can see why my daring exit—which I've yet to express my sensibility of—should not be widely known.”

“It shall be done, old friend. The L'Aurores will stay mum if I tell 'em.”

“And it goes without saying, our conversation tonight is in the highest confidence.”

“Understood, Nicholas. Will you tell Cecilia of your adventures here?”

“There can be no secrets between us,” Renzi said softly. He stopped. “Ah, that is to say …”

“You said
no
secrets from Cecilia.”

“Well, there is actually … Can I rely on your understanding, brother? It's rather embarrassing …”

“Possibly.”

“It's about—”

“What are you asking me to conceal from my sister?”

“Portrait of an Adventurer,
Il Giramondo.”

“Ah, your novel. It was published, then.”

“She must never know! I …” He tailed off miserably.

Kydd roared with laughter. “So I've something over you, m' lord. Ha!”

He recovered and managed, “Pay no mind, Nicholas, I'll keep it quiet.”

“Thank you.”

“In the meantime …”

“Yes?”

“If there's trouble and pestilence somewhere in this world, do I take it that not far away a certain peer of the realm might be found?”

Renzi gave a half-smile and refilled their glasses.

“My dear fellow, I couldn't possibly comment.”

C
ONSTANTINOPLE—OR SHOULD
I
SAY
I
STANBUL
?—is one of the world's genuinely iconic locations. It is surpassingly beautiful and has a beguilingly romantic air, tinged with Oriental mystery.

It was one of my life's special moments when, on location research for this book, I stood on a balcony of Topkapi Palace on Seraglio Point and looked out over the Golden Horn, across to Asia and up through the Bosporus in the direction of the Black Sea and Russia. I urge the reader to make the pilgrimage.

There is much remaining of what is mentioned in my book: the sublimity of the Hagia Sophia still takes the breath away; Topkapi, although now without a sultan in residence, is there in its glory and mystery, and the Tower of Justice stands to this day, albeit altered from what Renzi would recognise. Even Bab-i Ali, the Sublime Porte, still exists, now a bit sad-looking and off in a side-street.

The Dardanelles is a place of fierce currents, and the narrows funnel winds of surprising briskness. To give an idea of the respect it retains, the Admiralty Pilot of today warns that even modern ships should not attempt the strait when currents exceed six knots.

I enjoyed writing this book: that Kydd's world of salt-water seamanship intersected so centrally with such tectonic events in the history of the Levant not well known to the West was irresistible to me.

For the main part things happened much as I relate they did, and as always, although I've taken occasional liberties with elapsed time to tighten the story, I've kept the sequence of events true to history. (For example, I've brought forward by some months Selim's slaying in order to make the experience for the reader more complete.)

The fates of the historical players are interesting.

Blackwood was honourably acquitted over the
Ajax
fire: it remains one of the gravest tragedies the Royal Navy has suffered. The unsmiling Blackwood went on to become admiral but an ill-judged contretemps later with Lord Keith ended his active service.

Arbuthnot returned to a frosty reception, but as a friend of Wellington, and with his wife a lady-in-waiting to Princess Caroline of Brunswick, he escaped censure, as did the well-connected Admiral Duckworth, who went on to command the Channel fleet but died soon after the end of the war.

Senyavin, in my opinion, is a much underrated figure, to this day hardly mentioned by his own navy even though he served with great distinction before and afterwards. The battle to which I alluded in the last chapter, Athos (or Lemnos), in which he finally confronted the Ottomans, was on a scale comparable to Trafalgar. No less than twenty battleships with frigates met off the entrance to the Dardanelles and in a smashing victory Senyavin won the day, the result equally as conclusive—the Turks sued for peace two weeks later. It remains an action almost completely unknown to us in the West and, yes, two British midshipmen and a boat's crew were found in irons in the Turkish flagship and restored to their ship.

Unfortunately for Senyavin, the tide of history turned and he found himself formally at war with Collingwood's fleet. How he diplomatically avoided a clash and sailed his Baltic fleet back after two years' travail is an epic tale in itself, but once home he fell foul
of the Tsar and St Petersburg politics and was retired.

Selim met a grim fate, but so did Mustafa, who replaced him, killed on the orders of his younger brother Mahmud, who went on to reinstate the reform agenda.

For Sébastiani, an ironic fate awaited. Biding his time, he returned to Constantinople, then worked tirelessly to restore French influence and Bonaparte's dream of a road to India. But the wily emperor lost interest in the project entirely when he beguiled Tsar Alexander of Russia into an alliance instead, fatally antagonising the Ottomans.

Incidentally, in a quirk of history, at the time Sébastiani was being considered for his post in Constantinople the French Directory thought him too valuable to lose and the choice fell on a lesser, also an artillery, officer. This last, however, in the weeks before he was due to depart made himself indispensable in the affair of “the whiff of grapeshot,” which put down a rebellion in Paris with cannon on the streets. Sébastiani went on to Constantinople; one N. Bonaparte remained in Paris.

The monster guns that wreaked havoc on Duckworth's fleet were real enough, and did indeed originate from the time of the fall of Constantinople and the last Roman Caesar. As far as I'm able to trace, this was their only taste of action since that time. However, as a postscript, the reforming Sultan Abdülâziz after the Crimean War gave one to Queen Victoria who, no doubt bemused, thanked him and tried to think what to do with it.

Today you can see the Great Turkish Bombard for yourself—I've stood next to and marvelled at the giant near twenty-ton bronze beast where it's stored, in Fort Nelson, above Portsmouth.

I've a lot of sympathy for Selim, a cultured and sensitive man, whose compositions are played to this day in Istanbul but whose delicacy and love of learning were no match for the titanic struggles around him.

There's something of a similarity between him and Admiral Duckworth. They both dithered in the face of a need for resolution and firm decision. General Sébastiani himself admitted in later years that if Duckworth had followed Collingwood's orders to stand by his half-hour ultimatum he would have been delivered up to the English instantly. For Selim, if the uprising had been met with immediate orders to his Nizam-i Cedid it would have been another story I'd be telling, but his temporising ways were part of the man and led directly to his death.

The salutary lesson of the Dardanelles expedition was the fatal consequence of divided command. What possessed Whitehall to go over the heads of the sage and competent Collingwood to order the bombardment of Constantinople, to subject the military decisions of the operational commander to the civil power and to second-guess events thousands of miles and months away passes my understanding.

This forcing of the Dardanelles stands alone, never having been done before or since, the last attempt being in the First World War when it stalled at Gallipoli where the Anzacs went on to win immortality. Since then Turkey has been our ally and during the Cold War firmly kept the door locked on the Russians, whose only warm-water port could therefore be denied the Mediterranean and the outer world.

To all who assisted me in the research for this book I am deeply grateful. I would like to express my special thanks to Ziya Yerlikaya, Jason Goodwin and Tacdin Aker, for generously sharing their knowledge of Turkish history and culture.

And a large huzzah to Team Stockwin—my splendid editors at Hodder & Stoughton, Oliver Johnson and Anne Perry, and their creative art/design team; and copy editor Hazel Orme, who has brought her meticulous blue pencil to bear on the Kydd series right from the debut title. And, as always, heartfelt appreciation to my wife and literary partner Kathy—and my agent Carole Blake.