“Martin?” Another gunner.
“Cracking on wi’ a full spread o’ canvas-what if we touch? It’ll be all over main quickly, I’m thinking.”
“Good question. Here’s the answer: we’ve been up and down that damned ditch enough times we’re not going to be surprised by it. Most important, we’ve got some copper-bottomed pilot notes, thanks to Mr Kendall, which we’re going to use to set up a right good steer for ourselves. We go into this with the best navigation there is.”
A hum of interest started and he caught the word “Renzi” more than once.
Curzon came up beside him. “Sir, you’re saying that it’s Lord Farndon in a Turkish clink? How can this be? We left him in England. Are you sure this is not an imposter?”
“It’s him, sure enough. I’d recognise his hand anywhere-but the devil alone knows what he’s doing in all this.”
“What’ll ye do, sir, once we gets to Constantinople, like?” came a question from the tattooed hulk of Oakley, the boatswain.
“Ah, yes. That’s when we spin our yarn as says we’re scouts for the biggest fleet Nelson ever had, and if they’re not relieved of our men, our admiral will be tempted to come up the same way as we did before and finish the job.”
It brought hesitant laughs, for wasn’t Kydd joking? He must really have a secret plan as he always had before.
Now was probably the best time to try for the decider.
“So, maybe we’ll have a crack at it. I’m not going to call for a show of hands-I’m your captain, after all-but here’s my word on it: if any man feels he doesn’t want to be a part of it, he’s free to go ashore and wait it out with the Russians, no questions asked. And if-”
“Cap’n Kydd!” came Toby Stirk’s bull roar. “I were wi’ Renzi back in the old Royal Billy and, be buggered to it, I’m not leavin’ a messmate to die in some Turk chokey! I say what’re we waitin’ about for? Let’s get the bastard and our boat’s crew out an’ worry about it later!”
The answering cheer said it alclass="underline" they were going to Constantinople or hell, like true British tars, for a shipmate. The adventure was on.
The master took his time studying the chart before he gravely pronounced, “This’n is the hardest beat to wind’d of any run I’ve heard … ’Cepting Cap’n Cook’s night sail up the St Lawrence as fooled the Frenchies, o’ course,” he added.
“What I advises is a passage plan as takes advantage of the shore seamarks, there bein’ no buoyage in the Dardanelles. We’re lucky the Turk has plenty o’ them mosques-they’re always white an’ will show in the moonlight. So we has our waypoints depending on these.”
It was a sound plan: he’d noted quite a number of mosques and had taken their bearings at points along their course. What they had to do now was to come up with a best track; then at the waypoints where a change of course was necessary, transfer to the original plotted course new bearings. This would fix the point at which the helm should go over.
It was professional work in which Kendall could be expected to excel, and Kydd turned his mind to the practicalities.
The passage through would be all in one board, on the starboard tack, so sail-handling would not be a problem.The only need to touch gear was in the dog-leg between the inner castles when they would have to brace around to conform to their heading.
Firing back was out of the question-gun-flash would blind the helm and those taking sights. They would have to make the entire distance without defending themselves.
The slightest error in the bearings would be disastrous. It was crucial to be sure of the course changes, and Kydd took pains to make it so.
The passage plan waypoints were in the form of specified bearings. That was, if the seamark bore on its line of bearing at the same time as an opposite one lined up with its own, then the waypoint had been reached and the wheel would be put over.
He would have all the officers at the same task: separately equipped with boat compasses, they would each be tracking progress on their side of the ship and call a warning when coming up to a line of bearing. At the same time the master’s mates would be ahead of them, searching out and identifying the next seamark.
It was as much as they could do to prepare-but would it be enough?
Kydd was uncomfortably aware of the two things he could not control and which might in a trice render them a helpless wreck: the moon and the wind.
The quarter-moon was favourable: enough to make out their marks ashore but not so bright as to allow the fort gunners to aim accurately. But if the worst happened-clouds coming up to veil the face of the moon-then they would no longer make out their seamarks, and under full sail a quick end was inevitable.
For the moment the wind was fair: east-southeasterly. But Kydd knew now that the usual pattern in this part of the world was for the reigning winds tending to be either northeasterly or southwesterly. The master’s log, taking wind direction every watch, showed their present good fortune to be only a stage in a slow but persistent backing as it shifted from south to north.
They had a bracket of time that was unknown-if it came round too swiftly they would be headed, unable in the narrow confines to make way against it, and must anchor or return. If it happened while passing through the danger zone, disaster would be complete.
They had just two hours before they must set sail.
The boatswain, accompanied by his mate, roamed the ship like a bear, becketing up loose gear and laying along stopper tackles ready to clap on to any severed line.
Dillon set about his duty: the vital task of assembling all confidential papers, codes, lists, anything of value to the enemy. He placed these in a canvas sack weighted with grape shot and securely padlocked. If the worst happened he would throw this out of the stern window to sink out of reach.
Kydd, however, had leisure to worry and endlessly go over the plan.
But two things were on their side.
Surprise! A mighty fleet might try but a lone frigate? At speed under cover of night-it would be the last thing expected.
And the Ottoman Navy. It was all somewhere in the Aegean trying for conclusions with the Russians. He therefore need not fear meeting any on the way or when they reached Constantinople.
With the sun a glowing orb behind them, L’Aurore weighed and proceeded.
She began under easy sail, as if on blockade searching here and there for prey. The forts at the entrance didn’t bother with a shot as the last of the daylight dwindled and they took up on a slant inward.
It was time to make their move.
“Lay out ’n’ loose!”
Topmen leaped into action and sail fell from the yards. Courses on fore and main, the biggest and most powerful driving sails, caught the wind with a bang and a flap before being sheeted in, the driver on the mizzen brought in and hauled in hard.
L’Aurore felt their impetus and the trot turned to a gallop.
“A whisker off twelve!” The cry from the log showed them now creaming through the water at a full four times the speed of soldiers quick-marching. Nothing could touch the flying L’Aurore on a bowline.
Kydd looked up anxiously. There was cloud but it was scattered in low layers and for now the moon poured its chill splendour freely upon the scene. The coastline could be made out distinctly, darker shadowing against the moonpath.
“Mark t’ larboard!” sang out Saxton. His outflung arm towards the European shore had Bowden and Curzon up and sighting while on the other side Brice and Kydd waited impatiently for their call.
“Mark to starboard!” Kydd put his compass to work with its dimmed lamp and steady lubber’s line, the card swimming lazily. Kendall was right: the mosque’s white dome was an indisputable mark for them.
Usually all but deserted in the night watches, the deck was full of men, the tension keeping conversation short as they concentrated.
As they neared the bearings, warnings rapped out and the sailing master bent to the binnacle with its main ship’s compass and waited for the right moment. “Helm up, steer nor’east b’ north.”