He smiled ruefully. The Turkish admiral was smarter than he’d given him credit for. These were no more than his men doing the same as themselves-signalling the movements of Senyavin’s fleet from a lookout. And when they had seen the flag atop the hill they must have realised what was going on and moved to stop it.
If that was right, then …
Sure enough, the Ottoman fleet was already warned and had hauled in to resume their run north. No doubt their shore party had re-embarked, but it was a different matter for themselves. They could get to their boat now but Senyavin was well past in close pursuit of the fleeing Turks.
There was nothing for it but to wait for rescue.
Kydd stepped aboard L’Aurore with satisfaction and relief. In the time she had lain idly at anchor, her first lieutenant had not wasted days and the ship was spotless, not a rope out of place, the decks gleaming white. He murmured in appreciation.
“An enjoyable cruise with the Ivans, sir?” Curzon asked, with ill-disguised curiosity.
“Yes, indeed. And some tolerable entertainment provided for us by the Turk.”
He sketched out what had happened. “Admiral Senyavin was mortified that on account of light winds the Turks hauled away, but I’ve no doubt there’ll be a reckoning before long.”
“As will release us to quit this place.”
“Just so.”
“Oh, one thing. The Russian guard ship at the entrance to the strait was approached by a disreputable Moor and thought it right to pass it on to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Would you believe it? The fellow climbed aboard and demanded they accept a letter addressed to the nearest English man-o’-war. Had a covering note to the effect that in return for handing it over he was to receive the sum of twenty kurus in gold. The captain is anxious that he be reimbursed before we sail, he said.”
“Very well. We’ll take a look at this expensive piece of mail after I’m fettled.”
With remarkable speed Tysoe produced a piping hot hip-bath and a clean rig.
Refreshed, Kydd took the little packet, salt-stained and grubby, to the stern windows and sat in his favourite chair.
Was this another plea to be taken back to England at His Majesty’s expense? The address, barely legible, was in impeccably correct form.
Inside, the folded paper was of very poor quality and ink had stained through it to the other side. A traveller fallen on hard times?
In a wash of disbelief Kydd could only stop and stare.
It was signed “The Right Honourable the Lord Farndon”-and how could he ever forget the elegant, sweeping hand that he had last seen on ship’s papers in this very cabin?
Renzi!
Kydd feverishly re-read the words. A prisoner of the Turks in Constantinople, Renzi calmly requested that authorities be alerted with a view to negotiations for his release.
Thoughts stampeded through Kydd’s mind.
What in the name of God was Renzi doing in Constantinople? He quickly put that aside as unanswerable.
There was a more pressing question, namely, which authorities could be reached quickly?
Admiral Duckworth was somewhere near Alexandria, engaged in an opposed landing and not to be distracted. Rear Admiral Louis was at large in the Adriatic and said to be now mortally ill.
That left the civil authorities. Malta was the closest, weeks’ sailing away, but it was a small station, no relations with or interest in Turkey or the Dardanelles.
In effect, there was no English representation of standing and influence in the entire Mediterranean now.
There was only Collingwood, out in the Atlantic off Cadiz, who had any kind of power, and by the time he was reached and came to a decision, Renzi might have been …
Kydd shot to his feet and paced about the cabin.
Collingwood would probably see the fate of a single British subject caught up in the recent humiliation and retreat as regrettable but no reason to mount another attempt on the Sublime Porte.
Kydd’s orders were to remain in the area to report on Russian operations, not leave station to go off looking for help.
It had to be faced. Renzi would probably rot in an Oriental gaol for ever …
But could he return to England and tell Cecilia that he had done nothing to save her husband?
Were there any possibilities, however improbable?
A return through the Dardanelles and a daring rescue? Not after the mauling they had taken escaping-and, besides, with the Russians abroad, the forts would be reinforced, well manned and alert.
Some kind of furtive undercover expedition? But without the language, the local knowledge-even finding where Renzi was held in chains-made it impossible. And then to hack his way into some fortress prison against the hordes of …
This was wild thinking. What was needed now was guile, not hot-blooded recklessness.
What if he … ?
Yes! Crazy, lunatic, even, but this would give him a chance, however slight.
He would sail to Constantinople and demand that if they didn’t hand over Renzi he would call on all of Nelson’s fleet, which was not far behind, to finish the job.
Something like that, anyway.
Constantinople was only a day or two away, less for a taut sailer like L’Aurore.
Supposing, with the experience he now had of the Dardanelles and Kendall’s meticulous notes, he made passage-at night?
Timing-a fair wind, moonlight. It could be done.
He went on deck to sniff the wind and collect his thoughts, then called the master down.
“Mr Kendall, we have a duty to the hydrographer of the Navy to report on areas of possible future operations. I’d like your thoughts on how a British man-o’-war might fare, should she look to passing Point Pesquies at night under full sail.”
He stared at Kydd as though he were mad. “At night, sir? I’d be obliged to call that an act o’ desperation. Full sail-if she were t’ touch bottom at speed it could send her sticks down, an’ if the wind turned foul, there’d be-”
“Think again, Mr Kendall. Enough moonlight we can see, the gunners ashore not so much. Wind fair and brisk from the east-sou’east …”
Rubbing his chin, the seasoned old mariner replied slowly, “Well, I suppose it could be done. If they has m’ notes, there’s mention of a useful current around the point hard against the Europe shore and I’ve note of all seamarks as can be seen. An’ if it’s to be an east-sou’easterly like now, why, that’s fair for ’em all the way-and back, if’n it holds.”
Kydd held down a rush of hope. “That seems reasonable enough, Mr Kendall. Thank you.”
This night there was a quarter-moon as well-it was as if the gods were encouraging them on.
After the master had left he eagerly went back to the charts. From Cape Janissary at the entrance to the outer castles was ten miles. To the monster guns at Point Pesquies-the inner castles-another four or five. If L’Aurore gave of her best they could do it.
Then objections rushed in.
He was leaving station, the gravest of crimes. He would argue that one when it came-he would be gone only a day or so, if he got through. If not, it didn’t matter anyway.
Placing his command in mortal hazard? This was always a judgement of the captain’s, and could not be questioned.
But there was one final hurdle: the moral dimension.
Had he the right to thrust L’Aurore’s company into mortal danger, just for the sake of a friend?
Given the range of what could go wrong, there was a good chance that the whole enterprise might come to a sorry end.
He strode to the door. “The officer-of-the-watch to see me. Now!”
Bowden entered, mystified.
“Clear lower deck. I’m to address the ship’s company in ten minutes. That’s the lot-watch-on-deck, idlers, everybody.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It was a rare occasion that brought the entire crew of the frigate on deck at the same time. Divisions, church, dress ship-but none had the power that “clear lower deck” had. This was the order that brought every single soul up without exception: watch-keepers, cooks, men off-watch sleeping, marine sentries, the carpenter.