There were men in the water here and there, some splashing and shouting, others ominously still, but no sign of Blackwood.
He stroked clumsily to a piece of wreckage. It turned out to be a chicken coop, drowned fowls still inside and a body slumped half across it. There was no sign of life, its eyes stared sightlessly up. He gently pushed it off and tried to pull himself up. It was a mistake-out of water the wind cut into him cruelly and, reluctantly, he slid back into it.
The burning hulk of Ajax retreated into the distance and the boats finally moved in.
At the last extremity of bitter cold Kydd was dragged out of the water and a rough blanket wrapped tenderly about him. He joined two or three others bundled on the bottom boards. Shuddering uncontrollably he took a gulp from the flask of rum offered, then lay down, letting the fire of the spirit spread through his body.
It was now only a matter of enduring.
“I think I speak for all of us,” Duckworth declared ponderously, “when I say how in sympathy we are for Captain Blackwood on the loss of his ship.”
“And her company,” muttered Smith.
“And at such tragic cost,” he added, glaring at his junior.
“So we think it in the region of some, two-three hundred perished?” Smith remarked drily.
“By muster, two hundred and fifty-two,” snapped Blackwood, looking haggard and drained. “All good men. Most fought and survived at Trafalgar, poor souls.”
“Then we must think it one of the worst disasters the Navy has suffered in these wars,” Smith came back smoothly.
Kydd felt a rush of anger. Petty bickering to make points when the burial parties had not yet returned from Tenedos. Ajax had drifted as planned, taking the ground on the island to detonate in a thunderous cataclysm in the early hours of the morning.
Duckworth shifted uncomfortably. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I won’t have any further talk on the loss of Ajax before the court of inquiry sits. We are in the presence of the enemy as well you know and have decisions to make.”
“Then you have reconsidered this venture, sir?” Smith asked innocently.
Duckworth fiddled with a pencil. “We must reflect on our position, I believe. That no one in modern times has forced the Dardanelles bears hard on our hopes that we might be an exception. And with the wind still foul …”
“As is a delay enabling the Turk to be forewarned and bring up his navy,” Smith said.
“Admiral Smith! I am annoyed and wearied by your attitude. Your duty as a senior officer is to support His Majesty’s arms in any operation ordered by their lordships. You’ll be more positive and helpful in your remarks or, by God, I’ll have you relieved of your command, sir!”
Smith gave a half-smile and looked down.
“Now! The ambassador requires we should proceed in this enterprise. We have no option in the matter.” He tugged at his collar irritably.
“Admiral Smith, do you care to outline the military situation that confronts us?”
“Why, that’s simple enough,” Smith answered easily, as if nothing had happened. “The forts are paired along the strait, one on the north, European, shore and another on the Asiatic side. The chief ones are at the entrance, then the outer castles at Sedil Bahr, where it narrows to a couple of miles. Some nine miles further on we have the inner castles at Chanak Kaleh, where the entire width of the Dardanelles is less than three-quarters of a mile. More defences under Point Pesquies, but if we get past those we’ve clear sailing for a space-until the worst is to be met with at Gallipoli.”
“A hard tale,” Boyles of Windsor Castle remarked softly. “And after Gallipoli what must we face?”
“Afterwards? Nothing. We enter the Sea of Marmora with naught but the open waters between us and Constantinople.”
“Except the Ottoman Navy,” Duckworth said darkly. “My information is that their order of battle includes ships-of-the-line and frigates by the score.”
“I rather fancy these will be in the north, arrayed against the Russians whom they are not fond of, but I could be wrong,” Smith said languidly.
Duckworth glowered, then gave a thin smile. “You are ready enough with your opinions, sir. Now, tell me, is it in your conceiving that the forces opposing us are too formidable to contemplate an attempt on the Dardanelles?”
Smith paused, and Kydd knew why. He was being asked either to hand Duckworth the excuse he needed to call off the operation, or to hazard his reputation on predicting a successful outcome.
“These forces are daunting indeed, yet I believe it will be the fortunes of war that will as ever determine the issue,” he answered.
“Ah! So you see before us no immediate impediment to the expedition?”
“Beyond those I have mentioned, no.”
“Thank you,” Duckworth said. “And with that assurance from you we shall advance the operation.”
So Smith was to be implicated in the event of a failure. It would not stand up in a court-martial but might perhaps colour the findings.
Duckworth leaned back. “My orders are this. If, and only if, a fair wind is squarely in our favour, we shall proceed. You, Admiral Smith, will form one division in the rear, comprising Pompee, Thunderer, Standard, L’Aurore and the two bomb-ketches, while I shall command from Royal George in the van with the heavier class of ships. We shall enter in line-of-battle and engage the forts hotly as we pass.”
There was more: detail on signals, towing and other matters, but it added up to just one thing. The British fleet would penetrate into the Dardanelles. They would go in single line ahead and trust to their fire-power to silence the forts on the way.
There was much to think about as Kydd returned to L’Aurore. A pall was hanging over the whole operation and it wasn’t just from the so-recent distressing scenes of Ajax’s immolation. A divided command, not just politically but in personalities-it cast the worst of omens before them.
He was in Smith’s squadron. While Duckworth’s heavies would stay dutifully together, the restless Smith would take any opportunity for action, however far it strayed from the main mission, if only to prove how active he was compared to his senior.
Why did such a gifted and intelligent man have to be so damned contrary? And was it really so necessary to flatten the ancient city, the beautiful Hagia Sophia and all? It probably wouldn’t happen-the odds were very much against them ever getting past all of thirty-eight fortresses with their hundreds of guns.
In a black mood he took to his cabin and sat by the stern windows, automatically leaving “Renzi’s seat” vacant. But Renzi was part of the past. He was alone now and had to make the best of it. He’d have the old chair struck down in the hold and be damned to it all.
Tysoe appeared, like magic, with a whisky and water and left quickly. How the devil did the villain know?
He sipped appreciatively and let his thoughts wander. It was now more probable than not that some day he would be an admiral himself. How would he have dealt with a junior like Smith? And such a situation with the civil power telling him what he had to do. Well, he wasn’t an admiral yet and therefore didn’t have to find an answer. He began to feel better.
Then his eyes strayed to the work he’d taken out ready from his locked escritoire and his sour mood returned. It was his dispatches to Collingwood, following his return from Constantinople, and they were pressing: a cutter would leave shortly with those from all captains, as well as Arbuthnot’s, and his weren’t ready.
He swore out loud. It wasn’t the communication itself that took the time-it was a plain enough tale-but the ciphering afterwards. A tedious but important task that, until now, Renzi had quietly relieved him of. Some captains told off one of the officers for the duty but he would never do that. First, it involved taking the officer off the watch bill, understandably unpopular with his fellows, but more importantly, he would no longer have the assurance that the captain alone knew the content of the dispatch.