And finally, if he made the logical decision to split his forces and send half to either end to make sure, the Ottoman admiral could pounce on either outnumbered half and cripple it first before attending to the other.
It was a gamble for the Turks but in the light winds a bigger one for Senyavin.
But by this the Ottomans could achieve their deciding clash and break the stranglehold.
As Kydd watched, the sails of the Turkish fleet disappeared around the point.
Then a memory came from years ago: of a big French privateer chasing his little ship, then concealing itself in a similar manner behind an island. The Ile de Batz, off Roscoff. And he had outwitted it by landing in a boat and going to the crest of the hill to spy out the hidden privateer, then sailing off in the opposite direction.
In a different way it would work here.
“Sir, a word?”
Senyavin understood instantly. Signal was made to shorten sail and slow. At his request, Kydd quickly found himself with Ochakov and two signalmen in a boat, together with an escort of half a dozen musket-wielding Russians.
It was a simple enough task. Go to the top of the island, sight the Turks and signal back with one of two flags, red or blue depending at which end the enemy were lying. Tverdyi in turn would have a white flag hoisted at the fore, which would instantly be lowered on satisfactorily sighting their signal.
The boat hissed into sand at the base of a small cliff. The escort tumbled out and looked cautiously about even though the island was said to be uninhabited.
The signalmen carried a long pole between them and together the party hurried up the cliff path.
At the top a gentle scrubby slope led to the bare summit with an escarpment further to the right. The island was clear of any signs of humans. Only scraggy bushes covered the rust-coloured soil and they reached their objective in minutes.
And there the Turks were! They had settled on the far end. Blue flag!
The signalmen bent it on and one went to the highest point and heaved the pole up. The flag streamed out satisfyingly.
But within moments a bullet slapped through it. Shocked, the man dropped the pole and everyone fell prone.
Kydd saw a wisp of smoke arising from a bush further down the rise but their unknown assailant would have quickly moved. How many others did the dark scrub conceal?
Ochakov snarled a command and the men with muskets spread out protectively.
“Alexsey, if we don’t-” Kydd began.
“I know.” He rapped an order.
One of the signalmen heaved the pole up again and held it against the wind, the whites of his eyes showing, his head turning in fear.
A bullet took splinters out of the pole but he gripped it doggedly. Another went past low, its whuup clearly audible.
The soldiers fired at the origin of the shot but another took the signalman in the thigh. He staggered and clamped his eyes shut in pain but obstinately clutched the pole upright.
Kydd looked back to the flagship: her white flag was still at the fore.
He then saw that a fluke of topography had directed the wind so the flag was fluttering end on directly towards Tverdyi and hadn’t been seen.
His eyes darted about and he spotted the thin line used to secure the landed gear. It would be enough. He slithered towards it, his back crawling as he imagined a sniper taking aim.
A ball took the signalman full in his body and he fell with a choking gasp, the flag tumbling down with him. The man writhed and groaned, then was still.
Ochakov growled a single word.
The second signalman went stolidly to take up the pole but Kydd motioned for him to get down while he secured the line to the fly of the flag.
“Now!” he told him, gesturing vigorously upwards.
The man stood and heaved the pole vertically. A bullet flew past him, then another hit the pole with a shocking judder, but Kydd was already yanking on the line and the flag was pulled sideways, bellying full like a sail.
In seconds the white flag jerked down. It was done.
Now to get away. The boat lay off, the crew alarmed but unable to do anything. And between them and it, there was a quarter-mile of treacherous scrub.
“Over there.” Kydd pointed towards the escarpment. “There’s sure to be caves.”
After a painful scramble they were behind boulders and impregnable against anything but a full-scale assault.
The firing stopped.
Hidden in the lee of the island, Senyavin’s squadron raced to intercept the Turks-their gamble was called.
In their place of refuge Kydd had time to think. It made no sense to garrison an uninhabited island on the odd chance that an enemy would land. Who were their attackers?
He smiled ruefully. The Turkish admiral was smarter than he’d given him credit for. These were no more than his men doing the same as themselves-signalling the movements of Senyavin’s fleet from a lookout. And when they had seen the flag atop the hill they must have realised what was going on and moved to stop it.
If that was right, then …
Sure enough, the Ottoman fleet was already warned and had hauled in to resume their run north. No doubt their shore party had re-embarked, but it was a different matter for themselves. They could get to their boat now but Senyavin was well past in close pursuit of the fleeing Turks.
There was nothing for it but to wait for rescue.
Kydd stepped aboard L’Aurore with satisfaction and relief. In the time she had lain idly at anchor, her first lieutenant had not wasted days and the ship was spotless, not a rope out of place, the decks gleaming white. He murmured in appreciation.
“An enjoyable cruise with the Ivans, sir?” Curzon asked, with ill-disguised curiosity.
“Yes, indeed. And some tolerable entertainment provided for us by the Turk.”
He sketched out what had happened. “Admiral Senyavin was mortified that on account of light winds the Turks hauled away, but I’ve no doubt there’ll be a reckoning before long.”
“As will release us to quit this place.”
“Just so.”
“Oh, one thing. The Russian guard ship at the entrance to the strait was approached by a disreputable Moor and thought it right to pass it on to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Would you believe it? The fellow climbed aboard and demanded they accept a letter addressed to the nearest English man-o’-war. Had a covering note to the effect that in return for handing it over he was to receive the sum of twenty kurus in gold. The captain is anxious that he be reimbursed before we sail, he said.”
“Very well. We’ll take a look at this expensive piece of mail after I’m fettled.”
With remarkable speed Tysoe produced a piping hot hip-bath and a clean rig.
Refreshed, Kydd took the little packet, salt-stained and grubby, to the stern windows and sat in his favourite chair.
Was this another plea to be taken back to England at His Majesty’s expense? The address, barely legible, was in impeccably correct form.
Inside, the folded paper was of very poor quality and ink had stained through it to the other side. A traveller fallen on hard times?
In a wash of disbelief Kydd could only stop and stare.
It was signed “The Right Honourable the Lord Farndon”-and how could he ever forget the elegant, sweeping hand that he had last seen on ship’s papers in this very cabin?
Renzi!
Kydd feverishly re-read the words. A prisoner of the Turks in Constantinople, Renzi calmly requested that authorities be alerted with a view to negotiations for his release.
Thoughts stampeded through Kydd’s mind.
What in the name of God was Renzi doing in Constantinople? He quickly put that aside as unanswerable.
There was a more pressing question, namely, which authorities could be reached quickly?