Was he fishing for a suggestion or just making conversation?
“We saw little of the Turk Navy as would cause us to tremble, Dmitry. Why not bring ’em to battle, sweep them from the sea? You’ll then have only the guns to worry about.”
“You saw few because they were arrayed in the north against our Black Sea fleet, holding it powerless. Now it will be a different matter, but still we are outnumbered by an unacceptable margin.”
Kydd sympathised, but what could he do?
“I can give you help with currents, gun emplacements and similar,” he said. “We noted them down, every one.”
Senyavin’s face set. “I’ll be frank. It’s not a risk we can take, that our ships are destroyed in the eyes of the Turks. It would give them hope and excuse for vain display at our expense and my place at Court will be compromised. Yet I must do something.”
But then there was one thing Kydd could suggest. Perhaps the most effective weapon of all against Bonaparte-why wouldn’t it work here too?
“Dmitry. Your ships and trade are choked off, can’t move. We ourselves have long experience of this, and we call it the blockade by which we embarrass the French in their home ports.
“Why don’t you turn it on its head and pay back the Turk in his own coin? Mount a formal blockade of the Dardanelles, seal it off so no Turkish trade can exist?”
“A blockade of our own?” He rubbed his chin. “We’re not familiar with this. Unless it’s effective and complete, it will be seen as an act of the weaker.”
“I will tell you how you can do it, Dmitry. First you need a base, and what better than here at Tenedos? Now, blockade is in several depths and …”
Kydd went on to describe the complex multi-layered organisation that he’d first learned of in Teazer and the Channel fleet, the small ships to intercept, the larger to threaten retaliation for a sally, the constant sea-keeping with victualling support, the vigilance and steadfastness.
Senyavin was a swift learner and saw that, with the Black Sea fleet turned active at the opposite end, the result would be the entire Dardanelles and Bosporus a dead zone for the Turks.
“I’m grateful indeed for your advice, my friend. I rather think I will do it …”
CHAPTER 12
RENZI DESCENDED SLOWLY FROM THE MINARET, stunned. He had vaguely recognised one or two of the British ships but their war flags were unmistakable. And there had been no doubt about their course-it was direct for Constantinople. But now they were sailing away, with not a single shot fired. What in the name of all the devils in hell were they about?
Even in the little passage heading back to his cell he could hear the shouts of jubilation, the crack and pop of muskets fired into the air, raucous drumming, full-throated yelling; he winced at the humiliation.
Mahmut closed the door quietly and left.
It was an unmitigated catastrophe. With the only effective card the British had, played so disastrously, Renzi’s situation was now impossible. Before, he had had the ear of the sultan. Now …
He lay on the low bed, moodily staring up. The French had won by default and were now in a position to complete their grand project.
It was over.
With all options closed, there was nothing for it but to return to London and admit failure on his first mission.
At least he’d be quit of this place of menace and ignominy.
The evening gloom closed in with no lessening of the racket outside and time passed drearily.
A rattling at the door disturbed his melancholy. But it was only Mahmut, bringing leftovers from some celebration feast.
Renzi picked at it: lamb yahni and pomegranate sherbet. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed to depart without getting leave from Selim who, significantly, had not visited to discuss these final developments. Unease pricked him. On one hand he stood to be quietly forgotten as an embarrassment, to be done away with at a convenient time; on the other, if the French got to hear of him, it would be in Selim’s interest to hand him over to General Sebastiani.
The next day the sultan appeared in the afternoon without warning.
“Seigneur, how kind in you.” Renzi bowed.
Selim wore a magnificent turquoise and crimson gown with a large turban and pearls, clearly just returned from some grand occasion. Renzi, in his clothes of some days, and unshaven, tried to keep a lordly countenance.
“Fahn’ton Pasha, I’ve come to release you from this unfitting confinement.”
“Liberty is most precious to the human soul when it is absent, Sire.”
“Ah, perhaps not liberty.”
Renzi felt a stab of alarm. “I had hoped to-”
“It would be foolish for an Englishman to venture abroad at this time. I have thus arranged accommodation for you at a remove from this, but perhaps not to your accustomed degree of comfort. However, you will be safe there.”
“Thank you, Sire. It would be of some gratification to me to know what has transpired since I … was brought here. I have had no news.”
“Certainly. Things are much clearer to me now.” He gave a tight smile. “Even you can see that the British are powerless, for this is a contest on land, not on the sea where they are at their strongest. Our own borders are far from the sea, to the very Danube, and there the Russians are intriguing in the hope of expanding their empire at our cost. What we need are strong friends who can help us stand against them-armies, not navies.”
“And you believe the French will offer you this?”
“They have already done so, and I’m minded to accept.”
“Their price a formal alliance.”
Selim looked at him thoughtfully. “You are astute, indeed, for a simple scholar, Fahn’ton Pasha.”
“Seigneur, I thank you for the compliment, but confess to you that it is only what is readily to be observed in any country that falls under the sway of Napoleon Bonaparte. First the sweet words, then the formalities, and after, domination at the highest levels, which leaves the nation subservient to the wishes of the French. Finally there is placed on the throne yet another of Bonaparte’s family. Shall I rehearse to you the countries of Europe that have been served so? It is-”
“Thank you, no,” the sultan said sharply. “Recollect to whom you are speaking, sir!”
“My humble apologies, Your Majesty,” Renzi said, with a deep bow. “It is only my regard for your person and the dignity of the great Ottoman Empire that obliges me to speak in such manner.”
Selim’s expression did not change, but he went on quietly, “Nevertheless, I shall give your words careful thought before the alliance is signed, for it would grieve me deeply to make an enemy of your people, as no doubt I shall be required to do.”
Renzi knew that feeling against the English was running high: was Selim just exercising a degree of discretion in not revealing one in protection within the Topkapi Palace? There could be more sinister motives: the retaining of a high-value hostage for the inevitable confrontation with Britain, when their treaty was abrogated and interests aligned with the French.
Mahmut came for him after dark to take him to his new quarters.
The location was brilliantly conceived. He would be concealed in plain view-and in perfect safety.
In the second courtyard was the tallest structure in the palace. The Adalet Kulesi, the Tower of Justice, symbolised the eternal vigilance of the sultan against oppression. His people from far and near could look upon it and be reassured.
There were three storeys, and Renzi’s was to be the uppermost, the bare floor area cunningly set out with silk tents in imitation of a pasha’s field camp.
He was greeted in the middle storey by his wide-eyed staff and Zorlu, to one side.
“You have been here long?”
“Not so long, m’ lord,” Jago replied imperturbably. “As we was taken up when you went to … to where you went. Been here since, m’ lord.”
It would have been good to know they were secure while he had been distracted in his cell.
Zorlu listened intently to his experiences. “I rather fear your anxieties are not misplaced, my lord. The sooner we are gone …”