“Merde!” Sebastiani swore, for the sound of the guard approaching and opening the door was always followed by a gusting of the paper pieces everywhere, game over.
The door rattled, but instead of the amiable old guard there was Grand Vizier Kose Musa and a phalanx of officials-and, incredibly, Zorlu, whose blank expression was an immediate warning.
Was this to be an entreaty for the noble captive to recant before trial and execution? What else could have brought the highest servant of the sultan here? Or could it be …
Renzi bowed politely in the English manner and was rewarded with an Oriental bow from Musa. Sebastiani was completely ignored.
A lordly statement was made; Zorlu politely relayed the platitudes.
Then came the real reason for the visit.
“We are here witness to the carrying out of the sentence handed down by Sultan Mustafa IV on the Englishman known as Fahn’ton Pasha.”
A chill of fear flooded Renzi.
Was this to be hauled out into the dingy quadrangle, there to be decapitated? His plan had failed and-
“His Greatness decrees that the said Fahn’ton Pasha be banished from his realm for ever.”
Zorlu’s control was nearly perfect but Renzi saw through it.
“Wherein an English ship has been summoned to carry out the sentence forthwith.”
“The Lord Farndon accepts his fate with sorrow, but will comply.”
There was visible relief.
“Providing his household and all his servants accompany him into exile.”
“Of course.”
He turned to Sebastiani to explain his departure, but the general, staring at him with wild eyes, blurted, “Take me with you-it was our bargain!”
So the villain had perfect English to overhear everything that had been said.
“I do remember,” Renzi replied. “As I do our agreement that the succoured should assume the status of internee to the other. Very well. Do you wish to be gone from this place?”
“I do,” the Frenchman said, with a fierce sincerity.
“Then consider yourself a guest of the British Crown, sir.”
To Zorlu, he said, “Tell the vizier I shall ask General Sebastiani to leave with me.”
This caused confusion and dismay.
“That is not possible. The general has yet to answer before a state trial why, when given all trust and resources, he failed to defend Constantinople against the Russians.”
For all the vainglory and boasting of the French, they had yet again been brought to their knees by the sea, the element Bonaparte would never understand.
“I’m sorry, General, so truly sorry,” Renzi said, shaking his head in compassion.
“You must help me! Please-help me, m’ lord,” he whispered hoarsely.
Renzi hesitated. He owed the man nothing, but the vision of his fine mind brought to a squalid conclusion under a Turkish scimitar troubled him-and, besides, was not his mission to achieve the ejecting of the French from the Porte? Then he would ensure that very article.
“Tell the vizier I’m desolated to hear that my wishes in the matter are ignored. Do not the Turks wish all infidels gone from their door? I desire the same thing, surely.”
“This cannot be done. The general must stand trial.”
“Then, unhappily, it seems I must decline to leave.” He went over to his bed and elaborately lay down.
Zorlu gave him a worried glance but Renzi knew he was reading the situation for what it was, that whatever pressure was being applied it was overwhelming and irresistible.
Musa flashed him a murderous look, then quickly collected himself. “Then it is granted on the understanding that, in addition, all the foreign unbelievers of the general’s household are taken off our hands.”
Renzi acknowledged this with a gracious bow and got to his feet. “Shall we go, mon general?”
The carriage stopped at the waterfront and Renzi was handed down by an imperturbable Jago. He raised his eyes and there before him was a vision beautiful beyond compare and which took away his breath in a shuddering realisation of who his saviour was.
HMS L’Aurore: trim, warlike and every bit as lovely as he remembered.
Come to take him home.
Her captain’s barge had put off and there, in the sternsheets, was a figure. One he would always count as his closest friend.
The boat glided in, her crew slapping the loom of their oars to bring them smartly vertical.
With tears pricking, Renzi watched Kydd step ashore and advance towards him, that same masculine stride, those direct brown eyes now so creased with pleasure.
“Why, Nicholas, m’ friend. Am I seeing you well?”
He stretched out his hand-but Renzi felt a tide of overwhelming feeling take him and he fell on Kydd’s neck, hugging him. The two clung to each other for a long moment, then drew away, embarrassed.
“We have to sail while the wind’s fair, Nicholas,” Kydd managed.
“Of course. Might I present General Horace Sebastiani de la Porta? He’s to take passage with us.”
The Frenchman’s eyes glittered and he bowed stiffly.
“Your household is not here to include with us, General?”
“They fled early,” Sebastiani bit off.
“Then it is only our own that comes. Mr Jago, are all present and correct?”
“They’re all here, m’ lord.”
Kydd intervened: “Have you seen two midshipmen and a boat’s crew b’ chance?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve heard some English were taken but I’ve not seen any sign of them.”
“That’s a great pity but we must be away before things turn bad.”
The launch and cutter arrived ready to take Renzi’s retinue.
“Mr Zorlu? You will come with us, of course.”
“Fahn’ton Pasha, I fancy there will be need for a British embassy before very long. I have therefore a duty to remain, my lord.”
“Then do so, and please believe that your services will be recognised in due course by the Crown, sir.”
Zorlu bowed wordlessly.
The two friends sat side by side in the sternsheets of the barge.
“Give way, you lubbers!” Kydd ordered happily.
L’Aurore hove to off Cape Janissary at the seaward entrance to the Dardanelles after an uneventful passage, secured for them by the large pennant they were instructed by Kaptan Pasha to fly prominently from the fore-masthead. This had now to be surrendered to the fort commander.
Kydd paced his quarterdeck slowly in satisfaction, relishing their achievement and his doughty crew, who had made it possible.
Renzi came on deck slowly, blinking in the sunshine.
“Nicholas!” he said, with pleasure. “You’re awake! You’ve slept more than a day, do you know that?”
“I needed it, brother. Where are we?”
“You’ll see the wide Mediterranean ahead, and those two points the entry to the Dardanelles.”
“So …”
“Yes, m’ friend, we’re free at last. I’m to make my number with Admiral Senyavin at Tenedos now, and when I get back we must see about what to do with you.”
“Please, dear fellow, don’t feel that-”
“Nonsense. We have to think about getting you back by some means. I’m detained here, so heartily regret I cannot take you.”
Curzon came up. “Boat ready, Sir Thomas.” It was amazing how formal L’Aurore had become simply by being the temporary bearer of a peer of the realm.
“We’ll talk when I get back, Nicholas.”
As Kydd left, Renzi drew a deep, shuddering sigh. The sights, sounds and comfortable smells of the frigate he had spent so much of his life in were working their balm on his soul.
Life had been so simple then, bounded by straightforward rules of conduct, of direct pleasures and the ever-changing purity of a seascape. Compared to the moral complexities and crushing responsibilities of his new calling, it had been such a very different existence. And here he was, if only for a short time, back in that world.
He strolled forward, past the main-mast and along the gangway over the guns to the foredeck. Grinning seamen touched their forelocks in exaggerated respect, and well-known faces stammered awkward words to their old shipmate as he passed them by.