The evening tailed off, none of the usual jollity-well polished yarns, songs, sly digs and honest laughter. How could it be otherwise, with the pitiful burden of pain and suffering in the coach above and every mile they sailed into the night separating them from their chubby-faced midshipmen and honest British tars in some Turkish dungeon?
The next day the fleet was informed it was Duckworth’s decision that, as they had intention of making the straightforward passage of Gallipoli at night, they would anchor at Marmora Island, thirty miles from the northern entrance of the Dardanelles and there they would water.
Kydd had his reservations. Would not this give warning of the British re-passing? Nevertheless a chance to re-stow with fresh water was always welcome.
The anchors went down in the lee of the island, off a tiny fishing village nestling snugly beneath bare mountains. The watering place near the tip of the sharp headland could accommodate only a few boats at a time and several took the opportunity to land in the port to bargain for fish and vegetables.
“Go with ’em, Dillon. You never know what you might hear.”
After the loss of their shipmates on another island they were taking no chances, and the launch with its water leaguers was accompanied by a full section of armed marines.
They arrived back some hours later and Dillon hurried to Kydd. “Sir Thomas, I’ve disturbing news that I’m not sure you’ll want to hear.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
It was an extraordinary tale. An old fisherman, an ethnic Greek, had approached Brice with information to offer. His broken English could not easily be made out and Dillon was brought across. With a mix of makeshift modern Greek, a little English and much signing, the essence was learned.
After the first forcing of the Dardanelles the Turks had been enraged. Knowing they must return the same way, this time there would be a nasty surprise for the insolent British at its narrowest part. Monster guns would be put in place to smash the helpless ships to splinters. The very ones that the great Sultan Mehmet had used many centuries before to batter his way into Constantinople and bring down the Byzantine Empire and the last Roman Caesar.
The old man had seen them pass with his own eyes and had asked the marching gunners about them. He was told they were the biggest guns in the world, firing marble shot of immense size, each weighing as much as four men. No ship could pass them and live.
He had begged the English admiral to think again about going back through.
“I had no reason to disbelieve him, Sir Thomas. He had little to gain by telling us a fabrication.”
There was nothing for it but to go to Duckworth with the information.
“Monster guns? I’d believe eighty-pounders-we saw some great shot thrown at us on our way up, but more than that, I doubt it. I think your man’s been practised upon-how the devil would they load the piece if they can’t lift the ball? And what sort of charge would you need to … No, it’s just not possible.”
“There may be some truth behind it, sir.”
“Dragging out an old museum piece to frighten us? Where would they get the ammunition, hey? No, Kydd. We’ll be having a warm time of it at Pesquies but not like that. I’m surprised at you, upsetting your people with wild rumours from damned foreigners.”
At dusk they weighed for the Dardanelles.
As before, they made the transit of Gallipoli in pitch darkness. This time the night was split apart by gun-flash in a frenzy of violence but they sailed on untouched. In the morning they were well down the passage and nearing the awkward dog-leg about Point Pesquies and Abydos, which had to be navigated in daylight.
At full alert the fleet stole on, gun-ports open, ready for what must come in the narrows. Battleships in line ahead, frigates on either side.
There was an eerie quiet as the head of the line closed with the same point of land where Smith’s division had overwhelmed the Turkish force. The many wrecks were still there and the sour stink of destruction lingered.
The first ships rounded the point-and first one, then another titanic blast of sound erupted, like an earthquake sending shockwaves through the ground and water.
Almost too quick to register, Kydd saw a brief blur that transformed a seaman into a hanging red mist and flung his shipmates into a huddle of bodies. Then, with a violent crash, the ball went on to send the main-mast of Windsor Castle teetering and falling like a great tree in a forest.
Another fearful roar of sound, now accompanied by a tempest of other cannon-fire. It stunned the senses but Kydd reasoned the mammoth guns would not be wasting their gargantuan shot on mere frigates: they would be going after the big three-deckers.
“Shiver the tops’ls,” he bellowed. L’Aurore slowed until she could slip in astern, out of the line of fire. Towering pyramids of smoke ashore drifted over, masking targets for her own gunners, but under the furious storm of shot the only essential was to get off a convincing reply.
The noise was indescribable. Could they survive the holocaust?
He watched helplessly as, ahead of them, Windsor Castle grappled with their damage. She was under topsails but the loss of her biggest mast with its staysails badly unbalanced the ship.
An out-of-control battleship would effectively block the escape of others behind.
Kydd looked in dread past her to Repulse as one of the massive shots struck and sent up a spray of black specks-how much more could they take?
The firing reached a mind-numbing crescendo-but then he saw how they had a chance. The wind was not only fair but now from dead astern, urging them on without the need for Windsor Castle and others to risk sail manoeuvres. And the monster guns might have been giant in calibre but this brought with it a fatal disadvantage-a paralysingly slow rate of fire.
They had only to win through the narrows and they would be in the open sea.
The furious cannonade became ragged and gradually died, the gun-smoke clearing. There had been devastation and casualties but the fleet was still together, every ship under way in a blessed release.
There were a few desultory shots from Cape Janissary and then they were free of the Dardanelles.
Tenedos was the fleet rendezvous. The anchors had barely gone down when a demand was signalled for a damage survey and casualties report. L’Aurore had escaped lightly: a scored yard, rigging parted, two small shot-holes. And one seaman killed with three lying moaning in their hammocks. Clinton was now fully conscious and showed every sign of being on the mend.
It was a different matter for some of the others. The gigantic stone ball strike Kydd had seen had smashed through Repulse’s poop, splintering the deck, carrying away her wheel and nearly severing her mizzen-mast. As it did so, it had killed both quartermasters, five seamen and three marines, and wounded many more in a single blow.
Standard had been cruelly mauled but steady work had seen her taken in hand just as Thunderer and others came under fire from the opposite shore.
Canopus had been pierced through and seen her helm dissolve into splinters; Royal George had suffered shrouds carried away and masts injured. One of the immense marble shot had not gone completely through the massive 100-gun first rate and was lodged below.
The reporting captains went down to inspect the monstrous object-an obscenely huge, pale sphere stuck in the fore-peak timbers. The carpenter was summoned to take a measure of the beast and reported it as more than six feet around; quick calculation revealed it as being near five men in weight. The old fisherman had not exaggerated.
The roll of dead and injured was long, but not as grievous as the searing experience had foreshadowed. At thirty killed and 138 wounded, the fleet had escaped lightly for its temerity in challenging the Ottoman Turks.