Their course was now shaping more northward and the two sides of the Dardanelles began closing in on them-they would meet ahead at the outer castles and then they would know their fate.
Completely silent to any watcher, the frigate raced on, a halfacre of sail aloft, prettily illuminated by the calm moonlight. But so far there was no interest showing from the shore.
They were nearly up with the forts that Kydd remembered so well when the first alarm was given. A signal cannon from the solid mass of the fortress to starboard-and another, but no firing on them.
He smiled thinly: it would be a scene of consternation ashore, where a sleepy duty officer was being asked to decide urgently if they should open fire on what could well be one of their own fleeing from a pursuer. The hapless man could have seen no colours aloft, for L’Aurore was flying none, but evidently he’d thought the chances of an English ship sailing at full tilt up the narrows in the dead of night was too bizarre to contemplate and they passed through without a shot being fired.
Reaching their next waypoint precisely mid-stream, the helm was put up another point and their track was now dead north-with Point Pesquies just two miles ahead.
Their wake seethed and bubbled in a straight line astern, white and glistening in the night, like an accusing finger towards them as the dark thrust of the headland loomed.
This was the most treacherous place of all-the narrows, where the decision had to be made to stay by the north bank, away from the guns but with the greatest current set against them, or the south bank, with clearer water but closer to the guns. And at the same time there was the complication of the risky sharp turn to starboard through nearly a right angle.
Lights twinkled ashore; people there had no idea that an English ship was-
But suddenly-a monstrous gun-flash and deep concussion. Soon gunfire was general, livid flashes and thunderous booming echoing about the still night.
The flash and smoke were making it impossible to spot the passive white of the mosques.
“I’ve lost the mark!” Saxton burst out.
Kendall’s pale face turned to Kydd. “If I doesn’t have the bearings …”
The custom of the sea demanded it was up to the captain to make the fateful decision.
“Lay the foreland two cables to starboard,” Kydd ordered. It was a known position and took them closer to the guns but faster around the point.
The firing was intense-but they were gloriously untouched. Closer stilclass="underline" distant figures of the gunners could be seen frozen in the gun-flash as they frenziedly plied their cannon, but the shots were going wild, giant splashes rearing up in the darkness, smaller skittering across the moonpath.
The point neared-a dull twanging aloft was a backstay shot through and unstranding. A thud and tremor followed: L’Aurore had suffered at least one ball strike to the hull.
She began the turn; they could take up their marks again once they were around and-
In an instant Kydd’s world was transformed into a chaos of pain and disorientation. He found himself sprawled on deck, hearing from an infinite distance Curzon shouting orders and seeing the quartermaster looking down anxiously.
He levered himself up and noticed a still shape next to him. Kendall.
Shaking his head to clear it, he staggered to his feet.
“Sir-wind o’ ball!” Bowden said anxiously.
It took long seconds to register that the path of a cannon ball that had blasted between them had knocked Kendall unconscious and thrown him down with concussion.
The sailing master-of all of them to be taken out of the fight …
Through the pain of a blinding headache Kydd forced himself to focus.
Point Pesquies was coming up fast and the guns were blasting out in a frenzy-but he could see that, blinded by the constant flashes, they were firing more or less at random and probably would not even know when L’Aurore had passed by.
When they lay over at last for the haul to the northeast, they left behind thundering guns in manic play on an empty sea.
They were through!
Kydd’s body throbbed with pain and he squeezed away tears as he flogged his mind to concentration.
It was not over yet.
There was a stretch of twenty or more miles and then it was the Gallipoli forts. It was now well on into the early hours and sunrise could not be far off. If they didn’t get past while it was still dark the gunners would have them over open sights in full daylight.
“Crack on, Mr Curzon,” he croaked. “Every stitch o’ canvas counts.”
He clutched on to one thing: L’Aurore was now sailing at her best. She was travelling at speeds impossible on land: no word of warning could possibly be passed-no running messenger, not even a horse at full gallop, could sustain the pace.
And Kendall’s painstaking work was paying off.
Quickly picking up the seamarks again, they made good speed but there was a perceptible change now. To starboard the sky was definitely lightening.
It was a race to the finish.
When it came it was almost an anticlimax.
The craggy cliffs loomed to larboard and there was no alarm. Even as the grey chill break-of-day spread there was still no sudden activity on the land.
The sight of an anonymous frigate scudding by in the innocent dawn had taken them completely by surprise. When well past, forlorn shots rang out but it was too late. Now they were free: ahead was open sea-and Constantinople!
Kydd leaned on his elbow in his cot while the surgeon pressed on him an evil-tasting concoction, apparently a sovereign remedy for headache. After a few hours’ sleep he was on the mend although his head still pounded-but he had to face that the critical time lay ahead.
They had achieved a miracle by surprise and daring but it would be all for nothing if he failed at his main task: to force the Turks to deliver up his friend.
In the rush of technical and professional preparation for the passage, he had not had time to give it much thought but now he must.
He groaned and pushed aside Tysoe’s well-meant gruel.
Even supposing he could brazenly arrive under flag of truce and demand to speak with their sultan or whomever, what argument could he bring to bear?
A wave of nausea threatened to undo Peyton’s good work.
“Leave me,” he gasped, but it was too late.
The surgeon wordlessly cleaned it up and left, prescribing more rest.
Kydd lay back in despair.
By the afternoon he could sit up without queasiness but his headache still thumped pitilessly.
They were hours away only …
Incredibly, quite soon, it came to him what he would say.
It would be: the Turks, quite unwittingly, had made a serious blunder.
It had been brought to the ear of the puissant and dread King of England that his cousin the sultan was shamefully detaining the person of the noble and worthy Lord Farndon, closely related to the royal family.
Certainly an oversight-nevertheless, if the wholly innocent aristocrat was not delivered up safely to the captain of the frigate detailed to bring him home, the King would feel it upon his honour to strip the rest of the world of his very own Royal Navy and send it-all 467 battleships-to Constantinople to effect his release.
No doubt the sultan would be pleased to comply once the mistake was known and that would be an end of the matter.
Yes!
“Mr Dillon, the carpenter and the gunner to attend on me,” he ordered firmly.
Shortly, there took place an extraordinary meeting.
The result was perfect: two boards, covered with red baize and bound like a book. On the outside of the “cover” was fastened a gun tompion from the saluting cannon, in the form of a King George crown, suitably gilded, licked with scarlet and green and satisfyingly heavy.
On the inside was a vellum, executed in meticulous script by Dillon and detailing the King’s solemn concerns. It was liberally adorned with seals and ciphers, each of which had a tail of gold lace or tassel sacrificed from Kydd’s own dress uniform.