It was more than an hour before Bowden’s sharp eyes picked up the boat’s sails hoisted once more.
Soon it was alongside and Curzon came aboard, spluttering with indignation. “Unable to get it delivered, sir, the rogues!”
Kydd couldn’t believe his ears. “You mean they refused to take it?”
“Not even that. That rogue Kaptan Pasha in his fancy galley kept us off and when I went in anyway he fired on us.”
“With a white flag up? They can’t have seen it.”
“I gave it more’n a few tries, sir,” Curzon said stubbornly.
“Well, rig two flags and lie to until they let you go in. They’ve got to get that note.”
Well into the morning, he was back.
“No damned luck, sir. Lets me sit there until I make a move in and then they fire away.”
Kydd cursed under his breath. Curzon was not to blame and there was no future in sacrificing a boat’s crew in a gesture, but now he had to explain himself to the admiral.
“You-you’ve not even handed over the note?” Duckworth spluttered. “After wasting all this time and they’ve not got our demands?”
He went red with frustration and the other captains pointedly looked away.
“I’m disappointed in you, Kydd, and I don’t care who hears it. If you’d only-”
“He’s not to know.”
“Wh-what did you say, sir?” Duckworth gobbled.
Sidney Smith languidly raised his eyebrows. “Those who’ve been in the Levant more than a dog-watch have learned that a white flag means nothing to your Turk. They probably thought it an impertinence, with that colour topping it the sultan’s flunkey to get on shore.”
“Damn it, Smith, I’ll not hear of such tomfoolery. We’re English, that’s our tradition and they know it. This is a ridiculous state of affairs and I won’t stand for it.”
He smouldered, then rounded on Kydd. “Captain, I desire you to return and, by any means you choose, get that note in the hands of the Ottomans or you’ll answer to me for it. Understood?”
On the way back to his ship Kydd reviewed his options. Force was out of the question; a boat of marines to fire back would only start a war. To capture a native craft and smuggle the note in was not possible: there was nothing prepared to be on the water, which was as clear as a swept board.
Then he remembered the supercilious Kaptan Pasha and his enormous turban-and before he had reached L’Aurore he had a plan.
“Lay ’em out, Tysoe-as quick as you may.”
In minutes he was ready and the weary boat’s crew set out again for the shore, this time with their captain himself in the sternsheets looking grim and unforgiving.
The galley of Kaptan Pasha swept out and muskets were flourished.
“Keep on,” Kydd growled.
There were faint shouts and then the pop of musket fire.
The boat’s crew fearfully ducked below the gunwale but Kydd made his way to the prow of the boat and stood up, dignified and erect.
It was an impressive sight. He was in formal full dress uniform with every star, decoration, length of gold lace and medal he had been able to find, glittering and imposing. It was foolhardy-but it worked.
The musket fire died away at the vision. Was this a great admiral pasha come to parley? A panjandrum of fearsome power demanding the sultan’s presence? It would be folly to fire upon such, inevitably to answer later to the grand vizier for their rash act.
It was enough. The boat hastened to the Topkapi Steps and Kydd lordly stepped ashore. Too late, Kaptan Pasha hurried after him.
Kydd bowed and, with great ceremony, handed the packet to an unsuspecting minion, who unthinkingly presented it to the fuming official. It was then just a matter for Kydd to declaim, “Sir, I have sufficient witnesses to state that this note to the Sublime Porte from my commander has been duly accepted by you.”
“They have it, sir.”
“Thank God for that. Now we’ll see some action. I’d wager the whole palace is in a right commotion now, don’t you think so?”
Arbuthnot got up abruptly and left the cabin.
“Odd fellow,” mused Duckworth, with just a hint of malice.
“We wait, sir?”
“For a space-let them stew.”
The wind was now brisk and fair. The moment the admiral gave the word, in the same hour the entire fleet would have Constantinople under its guns.
After some time the flag-captain diffidently pointed out that the half-hour was well past but was met with a withering blast from Duckworth. “I know that, damn it! Do you want the world to hear I ordered a bombardment without I wait for a reply?”
He glowered at the unfortunate man, then snapped, “They don’t seem to have any notion of what they’re facing. I’ll have to spell it out for them, the useless shabs.”
Within the hour he was back. “Take this, Kydd. Make sure they sign for it or some such.”
“Aye aye, sir,” he replied, only too glad to get away from the tensions and boredom of inactivity.
There were no problems in delivery, and he was able to report its acceptance, even if by blank-faced functionaries.
After midday Duckworth took to his quarterdeck, pacing fiercely up and down. At two he threw his cocked hat to the deck. “Good God! I’ve given those villains every chance but they’ve tried my patience too long. Mr Arbuthnot, we can’t waste this northerly. I’m sailing against them in one hour. How does that please you?”
The ambassador looked uncomfortable. “I’d rather we had our reply, Admiral. Give them a little longer, I beg.”
Duckworth glanced at him with irritation. “Sir, you were the one on fire to bring the Turks to their senses. Why should we indulge ’em any further?”
“I’d be happier if we did.” The steel in his voice was unconcealed.
“Very well. But at four I move-a few hours of daylight is all I need to bring that damned place to a ruin.”
A little short of the deadline the officer-of-the-watch handed his telescope to Duckworth. “Sir-I see a boat under sail come around the point, heading towards us.”
The admiral grunted. “Odd-looking, but has some sort of colours up.”
It drew closer. Kydd recognised the vessel type from a past voyage to Smyrna: a small tekne. It flew a triangular red flag with a moon and stars in white. A dignified gentleman, with a long beard, wearing a large turban, was sitting in its after part.
“Hale him aboard, if you please,” Duckworth ordered, and went down to the entry-port to meet him.
Two stepped on deck, the other plainly a dragoman.
“Great lord, may I present the noble Isaac Bey of Roumelia. He has been charged by the Reis-ul Kuttab to treat with you in this grave matter.”
Duckworth gave a short bow. The old man approached, then waited with glittering black eyes.
“Give him your hand,” hissed Smith, from behind.
“Oh, yes. Pleased to meet you, sir.” He extended his hand-but when Isaac Bey took it, he brought it to his forehead and lowered his head.
In the uncompromising martial simplicity of the ship it was a touching gesture and Duckworth was taken aback.
The man looked up and spoke flowery phrases in a reedy, high-pitched voice. It seemed he was flattered and honoured to be addressing one of Nelson’s great commanders and knew he would be listened to with gracious respect.
“Ah, invite him down into my cabin and pass the word for the ambassador.”
Seated at the polished mahogany expanse of the vast table, where war maps were more likely to be found, their visitor seemed diminutive and vulnerable. His dragoman respectfully drew up a chair, then Arbuthnot entered the cabin.
He saw the old man and started. “Isaac Bey!”
“You know him?” Duckworth asked.
“He is a much-respected man in Constantinople, a childhood friend of the sultan and with a record of service second to none. You may understand him to be the most trustworthy of emissaries, Admiral.”
Pompously, Duckworth told the dragoman, “Tell him that I also am honoured at the presence of such a name in my ship.”