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.”
“He is grateful for the opportunity to lay before you the dolorous condition in which the Porte finds itself.”
“Have him go on.” There was undisguised triumph on Duckworth’s features.
He told of widespread fear and anguish in the population at their imminent destruction. Chaos and disorder on a scale that had made proper diplomatic dealings impossible. Worse, even, the helplessness of the Sublime Porte to placate the foreigners, to retain honour in the face of a naked threat to the sultan’s authority, meant that a rising-a revolution by the lower orders-was no longer impossible. Sultan Selim might well be overthrown.
Arbuthnot got up, bent close to the admiral’s ear and whispered, “This is a catastrophic result, Admiral. If Selim goes, the French will step straight into the vacuum-recollect, Marshal Marmont’s veterans are in Dalmatia with artillery and …”
“You bring grave news indeed, Isaac Bey, and I can see why you’ve come out to us with your dilemma. We must discuss this as a matter of urgency.”
It was midnight before the envoy left.
Duckworth wiped his brow in fatigue. There had been no conclusion to the negotiations and he was tired, frustrated and angry.
“The man’s as slippery as an eel,” he spat at Arbuthnot. “Why you humour him so escapes me, sir.”
“For the reason he’s trusted and respected on both sides, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m to bed before I drop of mortal tiredness.”
“The man’s playing with us, can’t you see it? Wasting time, hoping we’ll sail away.”
“Admiral, can’t this wait until the morning? I’m-”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past the blackguards to be hard at it, throwing up defences and similar while we’re wasting time with the old man.”
“There’s nothing you or I can do about it now, in the middle of the night. For God’s sake-let’s get some sleep.”
Kydd awoke muzzily to Curzon’s anxious pleading.
“Sir! It’s first light and the flagship has a signal hung out. Sorry to wake you but-”
“Which?”
“Sir, ‘Fleet prepare to weigh.’”
Kydd swung out of his cot. “Damn! It’s on-turn up the hands and-”
“I’ve piped ‘stations to unmoor’ this minute, Sir Thomas.”
“I’ll be on deck presently, Mr Curzon. I shall expect it to be completed when I am.”
He was damned if he was going up without a shave. An imperturbable Tysoe had razor and strop at the ready.
“Clear for action, sir?”
“No. We’re not in the line-of-battle and, besides, I want the men to get a proper breakfast first.”
He, too, snatched a quick meal and hurried back up. Around him the big battleships were preparing for sea, fo’c’slemen at the cathead with the fish tackle to secure the anchor when it came aboard, others at the braces in the waist trimming the heavy yards for a starboard tack when sail was set. A scene of seaman-like expectation.
At five minutes to eight the signal to weigh was hoisted, with the preparative flag, indicating that the manoeuvre would be executed the instant this was jerked down.
“Fo’c’slemen ready?” Kydd checked. Curzon responded with an injured look and turned back to watch the flagship.