Kendall spotted that Royal George was shortening sail and the entire battle line therefore was slowing. For a moment Kydd did not realise what was going on.
Then he had it. “As he wishes to transit the Gallipoli forts under cover of dark, a bold notion, don’t you think?”
It also gave a chance for the tired men to be fed and take their grog.
As planned, the fleet reached the closing point at the far end of the Dardanelles, Gallipoli, in darkness. Unlike passing the outer and inner castles, which involved two bends nearly at right angles and impossible to navigate at night, here the narrows were straight and uncomplicated. It might just work.
Under a press of sail the fleet swept on by the Gallipoli fortresses. Wild firing tore apart the night but a brisk breeze saw them past unscathed and into the Sea of Marmora beyond.
It was miraculous. They had penetrated the famed Dardanelles, and all their number, save Ajax, still with them.
There was nothing between the powerful battle fleet and Constantinople but the open sea.
CHAPTER 10
RENZI ALLOWED HIMSELF TO BE DRAPED with a napkin and accepted a quite decent claret, apparently from the Balkans. He was fussed over by a possessive Jago, who took it upon himself to keep the heathen Turkish servants at bay.
In the warm light of the oil-lamps Zorlu sat decorously opposite-they would talk together only after they were left alone.
Renzi was under no delusions: Selim was using him. The shrewd sultan wanted to hear from all sources, not just the French, before he made up his mind, and an English lord’s presence was a very convenient situation. Renzi allowed himself a touch of optimism. If he could exploit this further, perhaps by-
But something was happening. Out beyond the palace walls, shouts and disorder.
Zorlu’s eyes caught his in alarm.
More noises-Zorlu excused himself. He was back quickly, his face lined. “They’re shouting something about Nelson’s fleet returning to take its vengeance-I couldn’t make out more.”
They must mean the frigate that had taken off the ambassador just before he’d arrived. But why would it come back, knowing it would inflame the population? Taking vengeance was nonsense, of course: no captain would be mad enough to think to restore honour by beginning a shooting war against an ally.
“It’ll settle down.” Renzi tried to sound confident but he was aware that only a single gate separated them from a gathering mob.
They continued eating but the unrest grew louder, more strident.
“I don’t like it, my lord,” Zorlu muttered. “They’re-”
At the outside door there was a fierce knocking.
A frightened Miller answered but was pushed aside roughly by a Janissary. The man glowered, then pointed at Renzi, unmistakably ordering him outside.
Zorlu got up, protesting. A scimitar hissed out, and he stopped in his tracks.
“Stay, Zorlu Bey. I’ll be back when-”
The Janissary shouted at him, gesturing angrily.
In the outer darkness Renzi could see at least a hundred of the elaborately plumed soldiers, the steely gleam of their weapons caught in the moonlight.
At an ill-tempered command he was jostled into the centre of the group, which closed around him and stepped off quickly.
Out of the courtyard, then on to the inner second one, advancing right across to a long domed and arched edifice, shadowed, but in parts lit luridly by torches. Waiting for him was a smaller party of men in tall white hats and gold-edged robes. He was handed over: his wrists were bound and a hood placed over his head. Then he was marched away.
After a succession of turns they finally came to a halt. Renzi heard a door being unlocked and he was pushed inside. His hands were untied and his hood removed. The door crashed shut, leaving him alone in a room lit only by a small lamp on a side table. There was a low, plain bed and a form of dresser with a water-jug.
He sat on the bed and calmed his racing heart. He was a hated Englishman of the tribe that was bringing their ship against the capital. It could all be over quickly when the frigate captain came to his senses and left … or just as easily the crowd could bawl for his head as a token of defiance.
In the deathly quiet he tried to think. Would he ever see dear Cecilia again? He crushed the thought.
The door suddenly rattled and a tall dark man in the same white robes he’d seen before stepped in. He bowed without a word, then beckoned Renzi to follow.
They passed down a narrow passage into a small room, richly ornamented with intricate gilded fretwork.
Sultan Selim rose from a divan. He was alone.
“You will appreciate, my dear Fahn’ton Pasha, that this is for your own protection.”
With a courtly bow, Renzi murmured an acknowledgement and added, “My household, Sire?”
“They will be protected, never fear. Do you know why you are here?”
“Seigneur, I heard an English warship lies close.”
“Not one. Many! There is a fleet of great ships now at anchor by the Princes Islands, not eight miles from us here. Some with three lines of guns, many with two. And others.”
It took Renzi’s breath away. This was no stray frigate-with first-rate battleships it was a squadron of a size equipped to engage in a fleet action. What in Hades was a major asset like this, so sorely needed out on the Atlantic blockade, doing here?
There was no sense in any of it and he tried to blink away his confusion.
“What do you think they mean by it, Fahn’ton Pasha,” Selim said quietly, “that they so terrify my people by their presence?”
“I-I cannot think it has any meaning to me, not a military man, sir.” What was Whitehall contemplating-to reduce French influence by a flourish, by force? If so, it was madness!
“Then I must put my own construction upon it. I believe you English wish me to gaze upon your might that I may stop my ears to the French whispering. That you desire me to follow your path, not theirs. Am I right?”
“This I cannot possibly answer, sir.”
“I understand.” He looked away, his expression unreadable.
After a few moments the sultan said softly, “All Constantinople now believes you to be taken, to have disappeared into the Topkapi Palace, as so many have done, never to be seen again. And they will approve. But I can see how it may be to our mutual advantage.
“You are safe here. But in return you will give me your counsel, your opinions, which I greatly value.”
“If you wish it, Sire.”
“And perhaps there will be time for you to read to me from your poetry, to plumb its depths of meaning for me.”
Renzi felt a jet of sympathy for the man: with the seething currents of plotting and power struggles all about him, was he groping for something like friendship?
“It will be my honour.”
“Do advise me now, my friend. What do the English want? The people are frantic-I must tell them something.”
Renzi concentrated savagely. The fleet commander would have his orders; any assessment he gave had a chance of frustrating their intent. Yet he had to come up with some sage counsel that would satisfy or he was finished.
Damn to hell the unknown politicals who had dreamed up whatever hare-brained scheme this was, without either telling him or giving his mission a chance to succeed, as it was certainly beginning to.
“Sire, the character of an Englishman is one who cherishes fair play above all else. There will be no precipitate falling upon you, no invasion, no firing on your great city, not until a formal note is communicated to you specifying any grievance.”
Any admiral would be committing professional suicide to open fire without the due formalities recognised by civilised nations.
“Therefore, Sire, my advice is to wait calmly for the demand and then, knowing what is asked, let enlightened diplomacy relieve the situation. Meanwhile, your people are in no danger and must wait patiently, as we are all obliged to do.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Quite certain, sir.”