“To Constantinople?” The master tried to hide his anxieties. “We’ve nary a chart as takes us past the Sigeum, and I’ve heard the currents inside are a sore trial. And as well-”
“We find a pilot.”
“Sir?” Pilots had legal obligations, duties of care, and in England were closely examined for competency by Trinity House. If there was an equivalent here, where the devil … ?
“Mr Curzon will take a boat away and find one who knows his Dardanelles in the first town of size he comes to.”
The first lieutenant was hesitant. “If the capital is in an uproar then what’ll we meet? No one who’s about to cross the grand sultan by conning a British man-o’-war up the strait.”
“Constantinople is far away and they owe it nothing but taxes. You’ll offer honest silver, and I’d find it singular should any in these parts refuse coin for a simple passage up the strait.”
“Not wishing to cry coward, Sir Thomas, but there’s one objection I feel I do have to voice.”
“And what’s that, pray?”
“I’ve not a word of the Turkish. How I’m to persuade some old fellow to our way of thinking without the lingo, I’m vexed to know, sir.”
“Why, you’ve no need to. On board we happen to have a scholar of modern languages who I’m sure would bear you a hand.”
Dillon was more than happy to take on the role.
“Do I have to wear a cutlass?” he asked, and looked disappointed when it was explained that the entire boat’s crew would be going without weapons to forestall any accusation by the Turks of an armed incursion.
“You’ve twenty-four hours,” Kydd told Curzon genially. “Then we’ll come and look for you.”
They were back before nightfall with not one but two gentlemen, both sporting an elaborate turban and gown to the clear satisfaction of L’Aurore’s crew.
“What’s this, then, Mr Curzon?”
“My idea, sir,” he answered smugly. “We have one in the bows, one on the quarterdeck. If they’re in agreement on a helm order, we do it. If not, we can be sure one’s up to trickery.”
“Well done, Mr Curzon. And you too, Mr Dillon. So you’ve studied the Turkish?”
“Not really, sir. That’s a heathen tongue, by origin from Tamerlane and his ilk of Central Asia, who overran these lands not so many centuries ago.”
“Then how … ?”
“All in these parts know a species of barbarous Greek, which answered, Sir Thomas.”
“Good work! Then we’ll not waste time any further. Hands to unmoor ship!”
Kydd clutched to himself the thought that should get them through: his brazen entry would catch any hostile elements by surprise. Their speed would ensure they were well past before orders could arrive from Constantinople to stop them.
But no captain ever relished putting his ship voluntarily into restricted waters and the Dardanelles was narrow and confined.
A cleft of sea pointing to the northeast, it ran for forty miles or so of tight navigation, at times with opposite shores being less than a mile apart, then opened up into the internal Sea of Marmora, which narrowed again to the Bosporus at Constantinople. Beyond that were the Black Sea and Russia.
It meant that any wind within three points either side of northeast would be dead foul-if this present northwesterly held, they were fair for the ancient city but if it changed, while they were deep within the passage, it would be a serious matter. Kydd’s experience and sea sense told him that the flood of fresh water from the Black Sea mixing with the salt water would create complex and baffling currents, which, if strong, could prevail against anything from sails in a light breeze.
The biggest unknown was the Turkish fleet.
It consisted of ships-of-the-line, frigates and many smaller types, any or all of which Kydd could find arrayed across his path.
L’Aurore got under way for the entrance, slipping within two headlands not more than a couple of miles apart.
The coast on the left was steep and forbidding, to the right more even and low, and when they closed in on both sides, here and there a pale-walled fortress could be made out.
But wearing the colours of an ally they were not troubled and they made good time through the narrow waterway until they reached the Sea of Marmora, an open stretch of water.
After an easy overnight sail a grey coastline appeared with the morning-the fabled Constantinople, a city of the Byzantines but now the capital of the great Ottoman sultan, Selim III, with his harem and all the mystery of an Oriental court.
Kydd was well aware that he was taking his ship into a situation with not the slightest knowledge of what was going on. Should he proceed closed up at the guns in readiness or would that be construed a provocative act? Or should he play the part of a peaceable visitor and be defenceless?
His “pilots” had not eased his mind with their insistence that both be dropped at one of the islands before Constantinople, and as the coast firmed, his anxiety grew.
Dismayingly, there was no offshore multitude of merchant shipping in this chief port between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. Had they fled an impending calamity?
Nearer still the city took shape: sea-walls miles long were surmounted by hills thronged with white buildings, domes and lofty minarets, then the unmistakable form of the beautiful Hagia Sophia at the end of a peninsula to the left.
A mile-wide channel, the famed Bosporus leading to Russia, separated the coast of Asia to the right from Europe to the left.
Palaces and stately buildings amid parks and groves occupied most of the end of the peninsula and, with another noble grouping further along, made for one of the most dramatic and magnificent sights Kydd had ever seen.
“Sir, where … ?” The master seemed subdued by the spectacular panorama.
“We heave to for now, Mr Kendall. Two cables off should do it.”
“A boat, sir?” Curzon asked.
Kydd eyed the shoreline where excited activity was building at their arrival, whether in fear or outrage it was not possible to tell.
“No, I’m sending nobody ashore in this.”
“Then?”
“We wait. I’ve yet to come across a port without it has its swarm of meddlesome officials. We’ll find out from them how the land lies.”
Bowden had his glass up. “My, but they’re in a taking over something, and I rather think it’s us, sir.”
Kydd borrowed it. Along the seafront he saw waving fists, odd triangular flags and crowds coming together.
They were safe for now and, without an anchor cast, if any hostile sail appeared it was the work of minutes to loose canvas and be under way again.
“Boat, sir,” Calloway called, pointing.
An odd-looking craft was heading their way. A wide-gutted galley of at least fifteen oars a side, it flew an enormous two-tailed crimson and gold pennant and proceeded to the beat of a heavy drum.
“Man the side,” Kydd ordered.
They welcomed a visitor in embroidered robe and magnificent turban.
“His Excellency Kaptan Pasha,” an interpreter announced, his hands respectfully prayerful, his accent colourful. “He in charge the harbour and ship of Constantinople.”
The pasha gave a sketchy Oriental bow, hand on heart, which Kydd tried to return, then without change of expression gave out with a barrage of Turkish.
“He say, what are your business in the port, sirs?”
“Tell him we come to attend on our ambassador.”
It was relayed but produced only a contemptuous snort and another declamation.
“Kaptan Pasha is not please, you at imperial anchorage. You move to Seraglio Point, is better. There you wait your ambassador bey.”
“Ask him … ask him if there is trouble on the land, the people stirred up against us.”
This evoked a sharp look and a snapped retort.
“He say, why you ask? English are ally with Turkey, nothing to worry.”
“We are seeing the people on the shore. They’re disturbed, shouting.”
“Their business, nothing you worry. He say I will take you to Seraglio Point, you go now.”
Despite his anxieties Kydd was enchanted by the prospect as they slowly sailed the mile or so to the point, past the white beauty of Hagia Sophia and the splendour of the Topkapi Palace. The anchorage was just around the promontory, well situated at the entrance to the fabulous Golden Horn, the trading and shipping heart of an empire.