God damn, but he missed Renzi!
He rose reluctantly-then had a thought. He employed a confidential secretary. Why shouldn’t he make use of him?
Admiralty regulations gave no hard and fast rules over who should do the ciphering, merely that the captain must be in a position to assure himself of their strict confidentiality. Renzi, previously a naval officer, had had impeccable credentials. Did Dillon?
He quashed the retort that he could never be another Renzi, for no one could. He had to be taken on his own terms or not at all.
The young man was willing enough, but his romantic leanings were out of place in a man-of-war. Apparently he wrote poetry, had declaimed into his first Mediterranean sunset and had grown soulful over the distant sight of Lesbos-much as Renzi had, Kydd was forced to admit.
Then again he’d seen him dress for a gun-room dinner in a blue velvet jacket and artistically deshabille neck-cloth, his hair unclubbed and long. The rig of a trusted and discreet amanuensis?
With his easy manner Dillon had found acceptance there, a character in his own right. That he didn’t know his nauticals was no bar to fellowship for he’d made it plain that this was not his calling. At the first-night dinner, when Curzon had cattily put him right over the meaning of “martingale” as applied to a bowsprit, he had innocently asked him to explain the word itself. At Curzon’s reluctance, Dillon had lightly mused on its horse-coping usage and then, to the delight of the others, had gone on to trace its probable Middle English origins back to Chaucer and Piers Plowman.
Kydd sighed. If he didn’t trust the man he had no right to engage him as a secretary. He’d served in L’Aurore now for some time and never shown himself unfit for the position or slack in stays as regards diligence-and if he couldn’t bring the man on he would have to do the work himself indefinitely.
It was being forced on him but there was little choice. He’d do it-perhaps with the proviso that Dillon swore himself to confidentiality.
This last idea pleased him, and it led to another. If he was being entrusted with codes, vital national secrets, then surely he was to be trusted with his personal matters. Kydd was a martyr to paperwork, loathing its passive nature, tedium and need for form and correctness, but had not felt able to turn it over to Dillon because it felt a violation of privacy. His humble origins as a wig-maker and pressed man were now behind him, but if he gave access to his papers, his financial details and so on, Dillon would know everything.
He didn’t recall who had said it but the old saw “No man can be a hero to his valet” came to mind.
“Desire Mr Dillon to attend on me,” he ordered at the door, and returned to his chair to consider his decision.
“Sir Thomas?”
As usual he stood loosely, features composed and respectful.
“Ah, Dillon. A word with you,” Kydd harrumphed.
“Sir?”
“I think it time for you to earn your keep. I desire that you assume duties of a more confidential nature.”
“Of course, sir. I’d be delighted.” There was an animation that seemed to show he had been waiting for just this moment-a release from the mundane?
“Then you’ll be instructed in ciphering, for you will be transcribing my dispatches from this point forward.”
“I understand, Sir Thomas. About the grave nature of being privy to such secrets, I mean.”
“Good. I shall, of course, require you swear that you will keep them and so forth. Have you any objection?”
“None, Sir Thomas.”
“Very well. And, further, you are to undertake the care and upkeep of my personal correspondence and papers.”
“I’m honoured by your trust, sir.”
“Yes. Well, that’s decided, then. How are you settling in-the gun-room mess, that is?”
“Happily, thank you, Sir Thomas. In large part I’m obliged to Lieutenant Bowden for his amiable manners and patience, which have enabled me to take my place in such august and hearty company.”
It appeared the young man was succeeding well in fitting in and finding fulfilment in their fellowship.
Kydd continued, “I see you are keeping the young gentlemen to their studies. Are they progressing well?”
“Both in their way, sir. But, you see, there is …”
“Yes?”
“My grasp of mathematicals is slender, I do confess, and their navigation studies require that …”
“Well. Perhaps we shall leave that side to the sailing master.” It was oddly gratifying that he’d discovered a weakness in the young man.
“Thank you, Sir Thomas.”
“I should mention that your confidential work will be carried out in this cabin. You may use the escritoire, for which I have the key, and … and should you have need of good daylight, do feel free to use … that chair.” Renzi’s accustomed seat.
“Right. Well, we’ll begin this afternoon at three bells. Good day to you, Dillon.”
But the next day the winds relented, veering to a playful southerly. Almost as soon as it was light enough to see, Royal George ran up a signaclass="underline" “Prepare to weigh.”
Kydd felt a lurch of unreality. Against all reason it was going ahead: the British fleet was on its way to force the Dardanelles and level Constantinople to the ground.
CHAPTER 9
FROM THE DARDANELLES SHORE it was a grim sight: a long line of battleship after battleship, with their rows of guns, frigates, others, all under full sail-and flying from each the feared ensign of Admiral Nelson. Now there could be no longer any doubt of British intentions.
Smith held his squadron at the rear in a tight line; his orders to them were simple-clap eyes on his flag and no other, obey signals on the instant, and be prepared for anything. From the sudden appearance of the Ottoman Navy to the rescue of a stricken firstrate hammered to destruction by the forts, mused Kydd.
Each ship towed its boats astern for if the worst happened-a hopeless tangle of trapped vessels under fire-there would be no time to launch them.
It was eerily quiet as they entered the strait.
The first side to fire would break the treaty between Turkey and Great Britain and be responsible for whatever followed. Yet what they were doing was an act of war in itself, an intolerable provocation in sending a battle fleet against the capital.
The fortifications across the entrance remained silent as the ships passed, their colours flapping lazily in the light breeze.
They must have been seen-were they going to get away with it?
The British fleet were all at quarters, guns loaded, but not run out. The gun-ports remained firmly closed. If the Turks opened fire it would be on warships ostensibly about their peaceful occasions.
The sides of the passage began closing in. Kydd knew that not so far ahead were more fortresses, the “outer castles,” and these were massive-at a particularly constricted point.
Still the deathly quiet.
He looked ahead to the van of the line. Canopus was leading Repulse and the two three-deckers into the narrows, the wind fair but light. They seemed to be favouring the north bank-deeper water and away from the bigger fortress.
Nearer and nearer … Then both citadels erupted in smoke and gun-flash. These were shotted and Canopus was quickly straddled, Repulse next. But there was no return fire-Duckworth was going to play it out as the injured party.
There was no holding back from the shore. Each ship was targeted as they passed … still with no reply. And these were heavy-calibre weapons, sending up plumes to the main-yards-sixty-pounders was the best guess, vastly out-gunning anything the fleet mounted.
The line moved on agonisingly slowly as the guns played on them. The three-deckers were clearly the focus of anger but still their gun-ports remained obstinately shut.