In the delicate early light, the terrifying majesty of the spectacle was made poignant by the knowledge of what was to come. The Ottomans had broken the cease-fire and must now endure the consequences. That morning there would be scenes of destruction that would resound around the world.
L’Aurore took her position to starboard of the line. With the other frigate, her duty was to keep watch to seaward as the battleships did their work. At least Kydd’s ship would have no direct part in the ruin of the city.
The wind strengthened; sails caught and bellied, speeding the ships on to their destiny. Very soon magnificent buildings, olive groves and the splendour of the imperial palace spread out ahead, firming from a blue haze.
Within the hour they would …
Kydd grabbed a glass.
Stretching all along the seafront were moored warships, large and small, a ringing of the peninsula with a continuous line of guns. Kydd steadied his telescope further in-on the cannon manned and waiting, an unbroken chain of artillery that encircled the capital.
A monstrous gathering of strength, an insuperable barrier that even a battle fleet could not batter down.
They were too late.
Duckworth signalled the fleet to reverse its course in succession. It did so, carefully out of range. The shore guns remained silent.
Another signal-“Wear and advance.”
Tacking and veering in front of Constantinople, the admiral flaunted his might at the Turks in the hope of luring them to sea and a confrontation. Again and again, up and down, but the Turks never stirred from their unassailable positions.
It was useless, humiliating, and could have only one ending. Before the close of the day the British fleet had retreated: spread sail and set course southward for the Dardanelles and the wider world.
As they sailed into the darkness there was little cheer in L’Aurore. It was clear to the humblest crew member that the expedition, bigger by far than had taken Cape Town and Buenos Aires, comparable in scale to anything seen in the Mediterranean since Trafalgar, had completely failed.
To Kydd, it now seemed plain that, with their helplessness so vividly demonstrated, French influence could only increase to the point at which Bonaparte might at long last look to bursting out of his European confines.
And there was now no conceivable hope that anything could stop the inevitable slide from influence to power, from there to domination and rule, just as it had in so many countries. Would Bonaparte insist that the next sultan be a brother or cousin, crowned and loyal to France only? He would then have his royal road to India and the world.
It was an utterly depressing thought, made worse by their very helplessness.
That night the gun-room invited him to dinner. He was grateful, for a black mood had clamped in-not only at their dismal failure but at the news that Poulden, Cumby and the midshipmen had not been found in the monastery. He was leaving them behind to their fate in a Turkish prison.
“Cadiz will be a sad let-down after this,” Bowden offered.
“A pox on that,” retorted Curzon. “Any station that offers me a trifle of sport at the Frogs’ expense will do.”
“Afore there’s talk o’ going back,” Redmond, the gunner rumbled, “there’s a little matter should give us pause.”
“What’s that, then?”
“Yez saw how quick-smart your Turk was, gettin’ the defences as they were, in only a few days? Now, if they’s as nimble in the Dardanelles, we’re in for a right mauling as we sails down past them forts.”
“Wasn’t so bad coming up, Thad,” Oakley said. “All a mort pitiful, them Turks as had a try at us.”
“Ah-that’s because they weren’t expectin’. I’ll give youse a guinea to a shilling that they, knowin’ we has to go back the same way, has somethin’ in the way of a farewell salute in mind.”
“How piquant.”
Everyone looked suspiciously at the surgeon Peyton, who rarely spoke at gun-room gatherings.
“What do y’ mean, Doc?”
“Why, can’t you see? The French are the enemies of Turkey and have been since ’ninety-eight when they invaded their territory in Egypt. We’re their allies from the same date. So who’s firing at whom?”
“All a bit murky f’r an old shellback like me,” the boatswain growled. “I’d be beholden to the cap’n to give us a steer.” In the recent past the question would have been directed at Renzi.
“Not so hard to fathom. I’m grieved to say it, but we’re seeing yet another country drop into Napoleon’s bony hands. Unless we can come up with some sort of stratagem, I fear we’re witness to yet one more conquest.”
“Stratagem? You mean land an army or some such, sir?”
“Well, something-anything as sees Johnny Crapaud put to embarrassment, is all I can say.”
“No chance o’ that now, I’m thinking. We’re scuttling off like frightened rabbits, no glory in that a-tall.”
The evening tailed off, none of the usual jollity-well polished yarns, songs, sly digs and honest laughter. How could it be otherwise, with the pitiful burden of pain and suffering in the coach above and every mile they sailed into the night separating them from their chubby-faced midshipmen and honest British tars in some Turkish dungeon?
The next day the fleet was informed it was Duckworth’s decision that, as they had intention of making the straightforward passage of Gallipoli at night, they would anchor at Marmora Island, thirty miles from the northern entrance of the Dardanelles and there they would water.
Kydd had his reservations. Would not this give warning of the British re-passing? Nevertheless a chance to re-stow with fresh water was always welcome.
The anchors went down in the lee of the island, off a tiny fishing village nestling snugly beneath bare mountains. The watering place near the tip of the sharp headland could accommodate only a few boats at a time and several took the opportunity to land in the port to bargain for fish and vegetables.
“Go with ’em, Dillon. You never know what you might hear.”
After the loss of their shipmates on another island they were taking no chances, and the launch with its water leaguers was accompanied by a full section of armed marines.
They arrived back some hours later and Dillon hurried to Kydd. “Sir Thomas, I’ve disturbing news that I’m not sure you’ll want to hear.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
It was an extraordinary tale. An old fisherman, an ethnic Greek, had approached Brice with information to offer. His broken English could not easily be made out and Dillon was brought across. With a mix of makeshift modern Greek, a little English and much signing, the essence was learned.
After the first forcing of the Dardanelles the Turks had been enraged. Knowing they must return the same way, this time there would be a nasty surprise for the insolent British at its narrowest part. Monster guns would be put in place to smash the helpless ships to splinters. The very ones that the great Sultan Mehmet had used many centuries before to batter his way into Constantinople and bring down the Byzantine Empire and the last Roman Caesar.
The old man had seen them pass with his own eyes and had asked the marching gunners about them. He was told they were the biggest guns in the world, firing marble shot of immense size, each weighing as much as four men. No ship could pass them and live.
He had begged the English admiral to think again about going back through.
“I had no reason to disbelieve him, Sir Thomas. He had little to gain by telling us a fabrication.”
There was nothing for it but to go to Duckworth with the information.
“Monster guns? I’d believe eighty-pounders-we saw some great shot thrown at us on our way up, but more than that, I doubt it. I think your man’s been practised upon-how the devil would they load the piece if they can’t lift the ball? And what sort of charge would you need to … No, it’s just not possible.”
“There may be some truth behind it, sir.”
“Dragging out an old museum piece to frighten us? Where would they get the ammunition, hey? No, Kydd. We’ll be having a warm time of it at Pesquies but not like that. I’m surprised at you, upsetting your people with wild rumours from damned foreigners.”