It was child’s play for the clever Frenchman to turn this into an interminable delay: where would the parley take place, there being no neutral ground? Who was there on both sides to be invested with plenipotentionary powers to conclude a peace? What precautions would be needed to guarantee the safety of both parties?
Renzi lay in his cell, more helpless and frustrated than he’d felt in his life before. He’d racked his brains, trying to conceive of a line of argument, a ruse even, that would repair the damage. But there was not a thing he could think to do.
The morning came and, with it, more hours of insufferable tedium in the little cell.
And then, a little before midday, Selim visited.
He was a different man. Calm, dignified and completely in possession of himself, he thought it only right to tell Renzi that, first, he had been informed the winds had changed and an assault by the British fleet was now foreseeably impossible. Then, in neutral tones, he allowed that at that very moment English captives from the fleet were being paraded through the streets before incarceration.
Renzi’s mind reeled. Did this mean there had been an action and a British ship had hauled down its colours?
In dumb incomprehension, he heard further that Sebastiani had clandestinely landed troops and cannon on the main island overlooking the fleet and now was menacing the ships at their anchorage.
Selim looked at him kindly. “I rather think this unpleasant business will soon be over, Fahn’ton Pasha. We will keep you here, perhaps until the ships are all gone, and then consult the circumstances to see if it be wise to restore you to your residence.”
“I thank you, Sire,” he muttered. “You have been always most amiable towards me and I am truly grateful.”
The sultan’s face softened. Then, hesitantly, he offered his hand. Just in time Renzi caught himself, and touched it to his forehead.
“I would that we could meet in more tranquil times, my friend.”
“There’s much I would know about your great country and its ways, Seigneur. On a different occasion, perhaps.”
Renzi spent a miserable night. The worst of it was that he was in a fog of ignorance. He had been comprehensively outflanked by the brilliant Sebastiani.
But when morning dawned everything changed.
Voices sounded outside and the sultan burst in, his face contorted with anxiety.
“The wind, it has shifted. Fahn’ton Pasha-the fleet of Nelson, it has up its anchor, it sails to here!”
“You are saying the ships are heading for Constantinople?” he said in amazement.
“Yes, yes! What will happen? You must tell me!”
Throwing off the dull tiredness of his night, Renzi flogged his mind.
“Sire, it is very difficult for me to say from my place here. Cannot a way be found that I can see them for myself that I can better advise?”
Selim gave him a hunted look, then shot a volley of instructions at the chief eunuch. “The morning prayers are not yet started. Go with Mahmut. He will take you high into the minaret where you may see them. But-this is a sacrilege. If you are discovered it will be death to you.”
“I go now, Sire.”
The steps up the slender minaret were a giddy torment but eventually he reached the tiny gallery at the top.
His eyes blinked at the strength of the morning sun. He stared out-and saw, in line-of-battle, the sails of Royal Navy battleships stretching away, one after the other into the distance.
In perfect station, there was no mistaking their course. Close to the wind at the northern point of the peninsula, they would then put helm down to fall before the wind, to come triumphantly down with starboard broadsides run out.
It was going to happen: Duckworth had finally lost patience and Constantinople was about to be cannonaded to a ruin.
CHAPTER 11
THE VOYAGE ACROSS THE SEA OF MARMORA from Gallipoli was uneventful and, as intended, the fleet reached its anchorage as dusk was drawing in.
Kydd stood down L’Aurore but lingered on deck, the moment intense with the knowledge that he was part of an expedition that had as its objective the razing to the ground of ancient Byzantium. The Constantinople of the last Roman emperor. The glory of the Turks for a century or more before Shakespeare’s time.
The war against Bonaparte was reaching new depths of ruthlessness, and who knew what else he would be called upon to wreak on the civilised world?
If his old friend Renzi could see this warlike array, what would he think? He would, no doubt, hear later of it in England, read of the part his former shipmate had played and shake his head sorrowfully.
The doomed city could not be seen from the deck but was in plain view from the tops. Several men had climbed up to look across the water of the Bosporus to the sight so enchanting in the early evening. In the morning those same domes and minarets would know the anger of their guns.
Depressed, Kydd left the deck for the solitude of his cabin. Dillon was still working there but gathered his papers and rose respectfully. If this had been Renzi there would most certainly have been a lively discussion in promise.
Impulsively Kydd asked, “Tomorrow we destroy Constantinople. Does it not trouble you, Dillon?”
“We all have our duty, Sir Thomas,” he replied neutrally.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Sir, it’s not my place to have views on the operations of this ship, whatever the outcome.”
“Not even when it involves the destruction of a great and noble city?”
“Sir.”
“And if I give you leave to say your mind?”
It was unfair to press the issue but Kydd felt a stubborn need to.
“Sir?”
“Say away, Mr Dillon.”
“Then, sir, I’d be obliged to reflect that it will stand on its own as a peerless act of barbarity, and under the flag of England. Will that be all, Sir Thomas?”
Kydd nodded sadly.
In the last of the light Royal George hung out the signal for all captains. Kydd’s barge quickly pushed off to join the others that converged on the flagship.
Admiral Duckworth was at the entry-port in welcome and took them to his day cabin. It was of prodigious size compared to L’Aurore’s modest appointments and easily accommodated the dozen or so captains, seated around the broad table in strict order of seniority.
The admiral assumed his seat at one end, Arbuthnot at the other, looking peevish and ill-at-ease. Kydd sat next to Moubray of Active, another frigate, and opposite Blackwood, now a supernumerary in the flagship.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Duckworth said genially, looking about. “It’s my pleasant duty to congratulate us on our success in penetrating the Dardanelles under arms, as we have, with virtually no loss. This stands as an achievement without parallel in history. Well done, all of you.”
There was a polite murmuring but every face was guarded.
“So, Mr Arbuthnot, what do you say to that, sir? We have fulfilled our mission and lie at the gates of Constantinople, as you have desired us. And tomorrow we are ready for the final sanction.”
He frowned at the ambassador’s sour expression. “Are you not content, sir? So ardent in your martial encouragements, I would have thought-”
“Spare me your comradely cheer, Admiral, if you would,” came the acid reply. “And let us hear your plans for the morrow. I fancy it will be a long day.”
“Which we will endeavour to bear,” Duckworth said, with a sarcasm that appeared lost on him. “So now I address myself to my captains.”
He picked up a paper. “It will be a straightforward enough procedure, I’m persuaded, gentlemen. I have in my hand a note for the Sublime Porte, which will be delivered at first light. It contains a demand laid out in the strongest terms that the French will be ejected forthwith or they shall suffer the consequences.”
“Are these spelled out?”
“They are indeed,” Duckworth grunted. “Failing they hand over Sebastiani and his scurvy crew, they then have the choice of surrendering their entire navy to me-or suffer a bombardment of half a thousand great guns that will leave their precious capital in ruin.”