There was also a greater distance between the quarterdeck and the foc’s’le than in the Royal Navy. No Russian officer would ever think to visit the men’s mess-deck to inspect their living conditions. Ochakov had reluctantly agreed when Kydd had asked to see the sailors at their evening meal. Their entrance to the ill-lit gun-deck brought an instant hush to the low rumble of voices as every man looked up in astonishment at the two officers.
Most were dressed in little more than grey homespun, with long lank hair and deep-set eyes. They were eating mutton-bone gruel with their fingers from tin dishes. One by one they got to their feet, unsure and resentful.
Kydd had left quickly. Those men would fight to the finish but they lacked the initiative that came from individualism and confidence in their officers, the mark of a British seaman.
Talk over dinner with the Russian officers had revealed more divergence. There was no purser: the captain ran slops clothing and victuals and made good money out of it, appointing one of the officers to relieve him of the details. The master was a lower species, not having the respect or the qualifications of those in Royal Navy service and in effect left the captain to his own decisions. The doctor was nothing better than a barber-surgeon. Neither had a place in the wardroom.
But there was polished professional talk: that the Baltic fleet was top dog and the Black Sea fleet a poor relation, locked up, as it were, for long periods of history by the Ottomans. Poor morale, the naval dockyard at Sebastopol a disgrace, the ships in a deplorable state and-
Senyavin had subtly pointed out that such topics could not possibly interest their guest and the conversation had turned to St Petersburg and its attractions for a returned mariner.
As a ship in King George’s service was said to resemble an English village afloat, with the captain as squire, traditions and customs transplanted to sea, Kydd had mused, so the Tsar’s navy reflected the Russian countryside of serfdom and servility.
Now, standing a little back from the group on the quarterdeck, he took in more of the scene. This was their battle and he had no role, but nothing would have kept him below decks.
Senyavin was clearly frustrated by the light winds and pounded his fist into his palm. The other officers stood respectfully by, the seamen at the guns calm and patient.
The Turks were slowly pulling away. The Russians, far from their home dockyards and with foul bottoms, were unable to close to engage.
The guns fell silent as the range grew longer and the smoke cleared to allow Kydd a fine sight of the Ottoman formation.
The fleets were evenly matched, ten ships-of-the-line on either side. Time was not on the Turkish side. They needed to break the blockade-why did they not bring about a deciding battle?
Then it became clear to Kydd what the canny Turkish admiral must be scheming.
On the far horizon a faint line of grey was lifting above the blue haze. It was a long island and the Ottoman fleet was heading for its eastern tip.
Once out of sight they could position themselves in a number of ways. If Senyavin chose to follow them, they could sail around faster and fall on his rear. If he decided on the other end, the Turks could disappear southwards to the Dardanelles and safety while Senyavin was still north of the island.
And finally, if he made the logical decision to split his forces and send half to either end to make sure, the Ottoman admiral could pounce on either outnumbered half and cripple it first before attending to the other.
It was a gamble for the Turks but in the light winds a bigger one for Senyavin.
But by this the Ottomans could achieve their deciding clash and break the stranglehold.
As Kydd watched, the sails of the Turkish fleet disappeared around the point.
Then a memory came from years ago: of a big French privateer chasing his little ship, then concealing itself in a similar manner behind an island. The Ile de Batz, off Roscoff. And he had outwitted it by landing in a boat and going to the crest of the hill to spy out the hidden privateer, then sailing off in the opposite direction.
In a different way it would work here.
“Sir, a word?”
Senyavin understood instantly. Signal was made to shorten sail and slow. At his request, Kydd quickly found himself with Ochakov and two signalmen in a boat, together with an escort of half a dozen musket-wielding Russians.
It was a simple enough task. Go to the top of the island, sight the Turks and signal back with one of two flags, red or blue depending at which end the enemy were lying. Tverdyi in turn would have a white flag hoisted at the fore, which would instantly be lowered on satisfactorily sighting their signal.
The boat hissed into sand at the base of a small cliff. The escort tumbled out and looked cautiously about even though the island was said to be uninhabited.
The signalmen carried a long pole between them and together the party hurried up the cliff path.
At the top a gentle scrubby slope led to the bare summit with an escarpment further to the right. The island was clear of any signs of humans. Only scraggy bushes covered the rust-coloured soil and they reached their objective in minutes.
And there the Turks were! They had settled on the far end. Blue flag!
The signalmen bent it on and one went to the highest point and heaved the pole up. The flag streamed out satisfyingly.
But within moments a bullet slapped through it. Shocked, the man dropped the pole and everyone fell prone.
Kydd saw a wisp of smoke arising from a bush further down the rise but their unknown assailant would have quickly moved. How many others did the dark scrub conceal?
Ochakov snarled a command and the men with muskets spread out protectively.
“Alexsey, if we don’t-” Kydd began.
“I know.” He rapped an order.
One of the signalmen heaved the pole up again and held it against the wind, the whites of his eyes showing, his head turning in fear.
A bullet took splinters out of the pole but he gripped it doggedly. Another went past low, its whuup clearly audible.
The soldiers fired at the origin of the shot but another took the signalman in the thigh. He staggered and clamped his eyes shut in pain but obstinately clutched the pole upright.
Kydd looked back to the flagship: her white flag was still at the fore.
He then saw that a fluke of topography had directed the wind so the flag was fluttering end on directly towards Tverdyi and hadn’t been seen.
His eyes darted about and he spotted the thin line used to secure the landed gear. It would be enough. He slithered towards it, his back crawling as he imagined a sniper taking aim.
A ball took the signalman full in his body and he fell with a choking gasp, the flag tumbling down with him. The man writhed and groaned, then was still.
Ochakov growled a single word.
The second signalman went stolidly to take up the pole but Kydd motioned for him to get down while he secured the line to the fly of the flag.
“Now!” he told him, gesturing vigorously upwards.
The man stood and heaved the pole vertically. A bullet flew past him, then another hit the pole with a shocking judder, but Kydd was already yanking on the line and the flag was pulled sideways, bellying full like a sail.
In seconds the white flag jerked down. It was done.
Now to get away. The boat lay off, the crew alarmed but unable to do anything. And between them and it, there was a quarter-mile of treacherous scrub.
“Over there.” Kydd pointed towards the escarpment. “There’s sure to be caves.”
After a painful scramble they were behind boulders and impregnable against anything but a full-scale assault.
The firing stopped.
Hidden in the lee of the island, Senyavin’s squadron raced to intercept the Turks-their gamble was called.
In their place of refuge Kydd had time to think. It made no sense to garrison an uninhabited island on the odd chance that an enemy would land. Who were their attackers?