Sebastiani grunted dismissively and began pacing while Renzi smothered a sigh of relief. It appeared his secret was safe.
“So you really don’t know where you are?”
“No, I do not.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you. You’re in the Yedikule, Fortress of the Seven Towers, the worst hell-hole in Constantinople and reserved for foreign enemies of the state. There has been no mistake-the new order has decided. Above everything, it’s declared we’re both equally infidels and threatening to the old ways. Therefore our prospects are dim.”
Despite himself, Renzi felt a surge of sympathy for the man. Gifted and ruthless, he was a fine servant of his master Bonaparte and, but for Renzi’s coup, would have succeeded in his glorious destiny.
Sebastiani went on moodily, “Either they don’t know what to do with us or they’re taking precautionary hostages. In the first, we’ll probably be an embarrassment and will be eliminated. In the second we could still be here in ten years’ time.”
“We have to get out.”
“There’s no chance of leaving here by our own efforts,” mused Sebastiani. “Any release has to come from outside-influence, bribery, threat. Do you not agree?”
“Oh, well, yes, I imagine you’re right.”
“Now, how are we going to do that?”
“Perhaps by a letter of sorts. To someone we know will help?”
“Very good, milord,” Sebastiani said sarcastically. “And how-”
“Every man has his price,” Renzi said, as casually as he could. “When our gaoler finishes work today he seeks out my steward, for he has my note of hand. It instructs the fellow to hand over a certain sum-”
“Of your thirty pieces of silver!”
“-in return for my letter. This is then sent on urgently by my man. Then the world will know of my unjust sufferings in a Turkish prison.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Sebastiani. “You have it, I’m persuaded. Were it not for one small detail.”
“Oh dear.”
“That he carries not one but two letters. One from me. No offence intended, milord, but I’ve a fancy I have more friends in this part of the world than your good self.”
“Really? The baskani of Gordion, a formidable scholar, is hardly to be scouted as a friend.” His real letter, of course, would not be heading there.
“A good man, but I was thinking of Marshal Marmont in Dalmatia at the head of forty thousand poilu.”
“I see. Well, shall we agree that the first to arrive with succour will take the other?”
“Only if the other accedes to the status of internee, as it were?”
“Agreed.”
CHAPTER 13
GUN-SMOKE DRIFTED ACROSS KYDD’S VIEW in the light winds but it didn’t hide the immense triangular red pennant atop the Turkish flagship, marking the centre of their fleet stretching away northwards.
Unlike British practice, they were engaging in “long bowls,” occasionally yawing to bring guns to bear on their pursuers, firing at extreme range, then resuming their flight.
What were they about, sailing ever deeper into the Aegean and away from the Dardanelles when they could either have retreated inside or turned and brought about a deciding battle? Were the Russians being led on, and if so, into what?
A few days earlier Kydd had taken up an offer from Senyavin to join a short cruise with the Russian Navy-his price, the spinning of yarns of Trafalgar and Nelson at wardroom dinners. It was all going very agreeably until a frigate had sighted the Turks and they’d immediately set off in pursuit with no time to send Kydd back to his ship.
Kydd had squared his conscience about being away from L’Aurore as she was safely anchored at Tenedos and, after all, it was his duty to make measure of the naval capabilities of a foreign power.
He’d taken the trouble to get around Tverdyi, a 74-gun ship-of-the-line that was as technically competent as a British ship-perhaps over-gunned and with her cramped hold-space not as capable of long sea voyaging but every bit as powerful.
His escort and interpreter was the amiable and intelligent Lieutenant Aleksey Ochakov, whose English had been won from a two-year voyage in a Baltic trader.
They had toured all parts of the ship, Kydd alert for differences, inadequacies, strengths.
In the matter of the Russian crew, he was left with an impression of courage but of the passive kind-endurance, able to take the worst without complaint. They were stolid, blankly obedient, never lively or spirited. In their off-watch hours they would pass their time at cards, in prayer, asleep on the hard deck-or picking fleas.
Ochakov had explained that the Baltic fleet in winter was iced in and the ship cocooned. The men dispersed ashore, becoming in effect soldiers.
They would seldom return to the same ship in spring and their few months of sea-time gave no chance to build up the bond between sailor and ship that was so much in Jack Tar’s blood.
There was also a greater distance between the quarterdeck and the foc’s’le than in the Royal Navy. No Russian officer would ever think to visit the men’s mess-deck to inspect their living conditions. Ochakov had reluctantly agreed when Kydd had asked to see the sailors at their evening meal. Their entrance to the ill-lit gun-deck brought an instant hush to the low rumble of voices as every man looked up in astonishment at the two officers.
Most were dressed in little more than grey homespun, with long lank hair and deep-set eyes. They were eating mutton-bone gruel with their fingers from tin dishes. One by one they got to their feet, unsure and resentful.
Kydd had left quickly. Those men would fight to the finish but they lacked the initiative that came from individualism and confidence in their officers, the mark of a British seaman.
Talk over dinner with the Russian officers had revealed more divergence. There was no purser: the captain ran slops clothing and victuals and made good money out of it, appointing one of the officers to relieve him of the details. The master was a lower species, not having the respect or the qualifications of those in Royal Navy service and in effect left the captain to his own decisions. The doctor was nothing better than a barber-surgeon. Neither had a place in the wardroom.
But there was polished professional talk: that the Baltic fleet was top dog and the Black Sea fleet a poor relation, locked up, as it were, for long periods of history by the Ottomans. Poor morale, the naval dockyard at Sebastopol a disgrace, the ships in a deplorable state and-
Senyavin had subtly pointed out that such topics could not possibly interest their guest and the conversation had turned to St Petersburg and its attractions for a returned mariner.
As a ship in King George’s service was said to resemble an English village afloat, with the captain as squire, traditions and customs transplanted to sea, Kydd had mused, so the Tsar’s navy reflected the Russian countryside of serfdom and servility.
Now, standing a little back from the group on the quarterdeck, he took in more of the scene. This was their battle and he had no role, but nothing would have kept him below decks.
Senyavin was clearly frustrated by the light winds and pounded his fist into his palm. The other officers stood respectfully by, the seamen at the guns calm and patient.
The Turks were slowly pulling away. The Russians, far from their home dockyards and with foul bottoms, were unable to close to engage.
The guns fell silent as the range grew longer and the smoke cleared to allow Kydd a fine sight of the Ottoman formation.
The fleets were evenly matched, ten ships-of-the-line on either side. Time was not on the Turkish side. They needed to break the blockade-why did they not bring about a deciding battle?
Then it became clear to Kydd what the canny Turkish admiral must be scheming.
On the far horizon a faint line of grey was lifting above the blue haze. It was a long island and the Ottoman fleet was heading for its eastern tip.
Once out of sight they could position themselves in a number of ways. If Senyavin chose to follow them, they could sail around faster and fall on his rear. If he decided on the other end, the Turks could disappear southwards to the Dardanelles and safety while Senyavin was still north of the island.