The capstan was manned, the messenger secured to the cable. Joe Martin, L’Aurore’s best fiddler, sat on the capstan head waiting for the word. Aloft, the topmen were ready to lay out along the yard to loose sail to the wind.
Eight bells sounded out from the belfry forward, and from every ship in a discordant chorus.
The men stood expectantly at their stations, gazing across at the flagship for the signal.
After ten minutes there was baffled murmuring on the quarterdeck.
“A mort less than smart in their motions, Mr Curzon.”
“We’re ready, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
More minutes passed and then, at a full hour later, Kydd stood the men down at their stations.
It was incomprehensible. A fleet at a split-yarn’s readiness to sail and the preparative still close up? If the manoeuvre was cancelled, both flags would be struck-as it stood, the signification was that they could expect to proceed to sea at a moment’s notice.
Another hour went by.
By now the men were lying on deck, telling yarns, taking a nap, laughing at well-worn mess-deck dits. If it lasted for much longer there would be real unrest, resentment at the imposition on their off-watch time.
Time stretched on interminably-at eleven another signal was made from Royal George.
“Our pennant, ‘Captain to repair on board.’”
Kydd hastened to obey, as much out of consuming curiosity as duty.
He was not met at the entry-port by Duckworth, and a tight-lipped flag captain hurriedly escorted him to the admiral.
Admiral Duckworth was alone. “Captain Kydd. I’ll not have you misled in this. There has been … That is to say, there is a difference of opinion between myself and Ambassador Arbuthnot that leaves me unable to continue in a productive relationship with the fool.”
“Sir, may I know-”
“He’s tacked right about and now thinks an armed descent on Constantinople a mistake. A mistake! He the one who stirred up Whitehall to get an expedition mounted in the first place, he the one badgering Collingwood for ships and guns-and now he’s gone tepid on the whole idea. So what does he expect me to do with a first-class fighting squadron? Sit about and wait?”
He fumed and retorted, “That’s not my way, Kydd. I’ve done with this pettifogging diplomacy. You’ll take my note of instant destruction by sunset if there’s no favourable reply before that time. The only way to deal with the beggars.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And do go down and see Arbuthnot, there’s a good fellow. He’s in a sulk and insists his note goes along with mine.”
“Sir.”
The ambassador had taken over the first lieutenant’s cabin with its private stern window looking out over the drab anchorage. It was at a gratifying separation from the admiral’s quarters and was away from the noise and fuss of the higher levels.
Kydd knocked quietly on the door. “Ambassador?”
Arbuthnot was seated at the little desk, papers untidily in front of him. He swivelled round.
“Ah, Captain. You’ll be on your way with the admiral’s note, then.”
His eyes were bloodshot, his voice unsteady, and he didn’t hold Kydd’s gaze.
“I am, sir. It was mentioned you had a note as well, sir.”
“I-I have. Which is to say, there will be one shortly. I’ve had a hard time drafting it, you see.”
“Sir. All the same, Admiral Duckworth wishes his note to be delivered forthwith.”
“May I ask you something, Captain?”
“Of course,” Kydd answered warily.
“These several days I’ve been haunted by a vision. One that I … cannot shake off.”
“A vision, sir?”
“Yes.” He played with his pen, then looked up and said, “How would you like to go down in history, Captain? I would think as a brave and resourceful warrior of your sea world.”
“Why, yes.”
“So how would you feel, Sir Thomas, to be known down the ages as the man who destroyed Byzantium, the Hagia Sophia, a thousand and a half years of civilisation? Captain, I’ll be for ever cursed by history. Every school child will learn of Arbuthnot the barbarian and-”
“Sir, in war there are many evil acts we’re called upon to do in the line of duty. But you know better than I the terrible consequences to us of Bonaparte gaining access to India and the world. If this act is the only way we can put a stop to French influence then we have to do it. No matter how we feel.”
That he was needed to put backbone into a state envoy was a sorry state of affairs.
“Then you’re the same as all the others,” Arbuthnot said, with venom. “More concerned to make distinction in the field in place of finer feelings. Do, then, glory in your destruction, Captain.”
Kydd stiffened. “I’ll wait a half-hour on the quarterdeck for your note, sir. After that, I leave. Good day to you, sir.”
Out in the open air under the eyes of the curious watch-on-deck he paced up and down, moodily reflecting on the idiocies he had been witness to. Now Duckworth was going ahead with the bombardment without support and agreement from the civil power.
“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.