“You’re still here, Kydd?”
He wheeled around at the admiral’s voice. “The ambassador hasn’t finished his note, sir. I told him I’d wait half an hour before I-”
“Damn his hide. He’s to have it up here in ten minutes or not at all. What’s he said to you?”
Kydd hesitated, but saw no reason to conceal his revelation. “Sir, he feels he’ll be cursed by history if he colludes in the bombarding of Constantinople.”
Duckworth recoiled in disbelief. “The man’s demented! Doesn’t he understand what we’re up against, damn it? God only knows what he’s put in his note but if it crosses mine I’ll see him in hell.”
Just as he was about to leave, the ambassador’s note came up and Kydd added it to the other in his dispatch satchel. He was piped down the side, glad to be quit of the flagship.
Light winds on the way to the Topkapi Steps made for a frustrating passage but the notes were finally delivered and he returned to his ship.
In the short time remaining before sunset a boat put out from the shore. In it was Isaac Bey once more heading straight for Royal George.
Kydd waited for a summons but none came.
And in the morning all options, all alternatives and all opportunities were made null. The light wind had backed into a gentle westerly. Dead foul for Constantinople.
The fleet was as helpless as if it were in a blockaded port. It was going nowhere. The initiative had passed out of their hands.
God only knew when the breeze would relent and give them a chance, but for now there was nothing but to stand down from sea routines and set about seeing to the ship with the never-ending tally of little tasks that could be done only while idle.
Around ten the purser came with a suggestion. “We’re low on green stuff as usual, sir. What do you say we make visit to one of these islands and bargain for some?”
Kydd agreed. As a light frigate L’Aurore had a limited hold stowage and always came to the end of her victuals well before the others.
“Mr Calloway, take away the cutter and a crew of trusties and land at Prota, that big island over there. Mr Owen will tell you what he wants in the way of supplies.”
As an afterthought, he added, “And take along Midshipmen Clinch and Willock. They’ll relish the jaunt.”
“And I, sir?” Dillon asked hopefully.
“Not this time.” Kydd had other plans. Without interruptions the day could be turned to advantage by the handing over of his private papers. It was the last stage of trust, but if he’d misjudged Dillon’s character …
It was not as hard as he’d feared. The young man accepted politely and without question his origins and lack of an estate. Efficiently, and with a pleasing confidence, he set about organising things to best effect, separating ship business from personal matters and quickly finding his way around Kydd’s life.
By mid-morning Kydd was happy to leave him to it. There were people in this world born to organise paperwork, had a gift for it.
He turned his attention to other concerns. The expedition would be over one way or the other in the not too distant future and the ships detached for it would be dispersed. Probably to Cadiz for L’Aurore. Already low on provisions he would need to think about storing and victualling for a transit of the Mediterranean. That meant Malta and-
“Sir?” A grave-looking Bowden popped his head around the door. “I rather think you’re needed on deck.”
Kydd gathered up his papers, passed them to Dillon, then followed him up.
A pale-faced Calloway was standing with Brice.
“Trouble, sir,” the third lieutenant said, seeing Kydd.
“Yes?”
“Calloway has returned from his provisions run.”
“And?”
“He reports four men missing.”
Calloway faced Kydd nervously. “It’s like this, sir. Poulden, Cumby and the two reefers went off to the market-”
“What were you doing?”
“Ah, stayed with the boat-keeper, sir. No taste for gallivanting, like.”
No doubt they had shared a flask of something congenial while the others were away.
“Carry on.”
“When they didn’t come back, as I told ’em, I got worried, went off to see what they was up to. The market was not a good place t’ be, they all hard-faced an’ all. No sign of our people so I went back to the boat, and that’s when we saw ’em.”
“Who, damn it?”
“Up on the sides o’ the hill. In uniform, coming down, and I swear they has muskets!”
“And?”
“Well, we didn’t like the look of ’em, too many for us, so I lies off in the boat, hoping Poulden would come, but he doesn’t. Then someone takes a pop at us like-the ball nearly takes Jevons, sir.”
“You were under fire?”
“Well, a few times. It weren’t like regular soldiers.”
“And you saw uniforms.”
“My oath on it, sir.”
There had been a precautionary sweep of the islands when the fleet had come to anchor. Where had these come from?
“You were right to come back, Mr Calloway.”
It was not like an old hand such as Poulden to stray; the midshipmen were, in the Navy way, nominally in charge but would recognise the coxswain’s moral authority and the steadying influence of the older boatswain’s mate, Cumby.
“Mr Brice, away the cutter, Mr Saxton in charge,” he threw at the officer-of-the-watch.
“We’re going back, Mr Calloway. Get hold of Stirk, ask him for four men, arm them and meet me in ten minutes.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Kydd went down to his cabin to find his secretary.
“We’re missing four men ashore, Dillon. I’ve no right to ask it, but it would be obliging of you to come with us when we look for them, to ask the villagers questions.”
“Sir Thomas, of course I’d be glad to-but the Turkish lingo is like no other. It originates in the great steppe lands and-”
“I’m sure you’ll do your best. Now, I can’t be certain we won’t face a mort of pother. Are you up for it at all?”
“Certainly, sir.” The young man’s eyes shone at the talk of danger.
A grim-faced Stirk and the men were waiting, fingering cutlasses and with a brace of pistols each in their belts. “Shaky dos, sir, L’Aurores gone straggling in among all them Turks.”
Dillon saw the weapons and his eyes widened. “Sir Thomas, you can’t expect me to go on the land unarmed. May I?” He pointed to the lethal grey steel of a cutlass.
“Find Mr Dillon a slasher, if you please.”
The young man was delighted, and even more so when he was also handed a baldric and scabbard to fit over his plain black secretarial clothes.
“Mr Curzon, the ship’s yours. If I’m not back in an hour or two send word to Admiral Duckworth. And no rescue parties-clear?”
“Sir.”
The boat put off and scudded in to the little jetty.
They looked around watchfully, ready for any hostile move.
There was nothing-but Kydd could feel tension in the air. One or two villagers stopped to stare, their features defensive, while others walked hurriedly away.
“Where’s the market?”
“Up the street t’ the left, sir,” Calloway said uneasily.
They strode up the steep incline in a tight group, under orders not to draw weapons unless threatened.
The houses on either side were of nameless antiquity, poor with peeling shutters. The market was on level ground, still in full swing, noisy and crowded, but when the party came into view the babble fell away.
Kydd went to the nearest merchant, an onion-seller in a grubby turban with a seamed face. “Dillon, ask him if he’s seen anything of our friends.”
The man’s beady eyes never left Kydd’s as he listened. Then he spread his hands and shrugged.
Dillon took out a notebook and wrote some words in Greek. The man glanced at them, then drew back and spat on the ground. A murmuring began in the crowd gathering behind him.
Kydd gave a wry smile. “We’ll get nothing out of them. Can’t spy any uniforms here-Calloway, where did you see them?”