Curzon arrived and announced, “The coast o’ Turkey, nor’-west eight miles.”
It was a question, of course.
“Stand off and on until after dark, if you please. We want to arrive before dawn.”
There was little danger of being sighted. The blockade was biting and there was no point in anything being at sea when they had nowhere to go, and with their navy otherwise engaged …
After midnight they approached the peninsula. It slumbered in darkness but at its end city lights pointed the way.
Ghosting along under staysails and jib, the frigate would be near invisible from the shore; the moon hung low in the east. It didn’t take long to reach the tip-Seraglio Point. It was a great relief to see the anchorage deserted for it confirmed that all Turkish ships were away and they could flaunt their impudence without interference.
Instead of anchoring in the long outer stretch of water they came to at the series of buoys reserved for the Ottoman Navy and picked up moorings on the first. The inboard part of the mooring cable was not belayed, but seized together with light line. If there was the slightest trouble, the boatswain at the ready could, in a slice of his knife, set them free.
At first light there was the astonishing sight for the beleaguered city of a Royal Navy frigate calmly at a buoy, the largest ensign of the King’s Navy at her mizzen and a white flag firmly at the fore-masthead.
Kydd smiled grimly at the thought of what must be happening ashore.
They should be opening fire with everything they had-but it would pass belief that this bold frigate, appearing from nowhere to take up rest, was challenging their defences. Why was it here? It must have a purpose, and better for all if they find out before anything happened that they might regret later.
Sure enough, the galley of Kaptan Pasha left for L’Aurore without delay.
As soon as he had clambered aboard, Kydd detected the man’s consternation.
The dragoman bowed hastily. “Kaptan, he want to know, why you here?”
It seemed there were to be no subtle preliminaries so without a word Kydd pressed on with the main act.
He clapped his hands imperiously. From the main-hatch a pair of seamen bore a sea-chest draped with a Union flag. Everyone on deck snapped to attention.
They brought it forward and placed it by the main-mast.
Curzon stepped up, ceremoniously opened it, drew out the contents and held them aloft for all to see.
Kydd roared a command and at once everyone bowed deeply to it.
“Kaptan Pasha. This is from the King of England himself and it is to be placed in the hands of the sultan instantly.”
“My master, he say, what it contain?”
Kydd stared at him in apparent disbelief.
“This is a communication from one great sovereign to another and he asks what it says? I’m shocked that such a high official of the Sublime Porte is so ignorant of the ways of the immortals. Do convey it to the sultan without delay, at peril of his displeasure.”
CHAPTER 14
“AND … THERE! In check, mon ami. Another three moves, I think?”
His opponent played to his image, Lord Farndon was bored with it all-with himself, the four blank and noisome walls of his cell and Sebastiani, who was taking their chess game far too seriously.
They had squares of paper with inked pictures of the pieces on them and a scrawled board on the filthy little table. Sebastiani seemed to take a ferocious pleasure in marshalling his forces in detail to crowd in on Renzi before bringing about an elaborate and inevitable defeat.
And when it became too dim to see, there was nothing for it but to lie back on the rank-smelling beds and exchange life experiences.
At least it was entertainment of a sort: Renzi took satisfaction in conjuring up a pampered world of society balls, tricky situations at Court, errant footmen and charming foolishness for Sebastiani, who, to his surprise, was always naively agog for more.
In return, the French general brought out wearisome campaign anecdotes, interspersed with hesitations as he reviewed what he was going to say, that it did not offer intelligence of use to an Englishman.
Nevertheless Renzi was keenly interested, for Sebastiani’s service included Egypt where he himself had been on the opposing and winning side. His cellmate had been at the Court of the Holy Roman Empire in its last days, being wounded and promoted at the battle of Austerlitz.
Then it was the unutterable tedium of the night, broken only in the morning by the clanking arrival of the guard, when another day would begin.
This day they had set up their “board” early for the general seemed to have a fierce need to break his record of six straight victories.
Another three moves? The noble lord could see it, but who cared?
“Merde!” Sebastiani swore, for the sound of the guard approaching and opening the door was always followed by a gusting of the paper pieces everywhere, game over.
The door rattled, but instead of the amiable old guard there was Grand Vizier Kose Musa and a phalanx of officials-and, incredibly, Zorlu, whose blank expression was an immediate warning.
Was this to be an entreaty for the noble captive to recant before trial and execution? What else could have brought the highest servant of the sultan here? Or could it be …
Renzi bowed politely in the English manner and was rewarded with an Oriental bow from Musa. Sebastiani was completely ignored.
A lordly statement was made; Zorlu politely relayed the platitudes.
Then came the real reason for the visit.
“We are here witness to the carrying out of the sentence handed down by Sultan Mustafa IV on the Englishman known as Fahn’ton Pasha.”
A chill of fear flooded Renzi.
Was this to be hauled out into the dingy quadrangle, there to be decapitated? His plan had failed and-
“His Greatness decrees that the said Fahn’ton Pasha be banished from his realm for ever.”
Zorlu’s control was nearly perfect but Renzi saw through it.
“Wherein an English ship has been summoned to carry out the sentence forthwith.”
“The Lord Farndon accepts his fate with sorrow, but will comply.”
There was visible relief.
“Providing his household and all his servants accompany him into exile.”
“Of course.”
He turned to Sebastiani to explain his departure, but the general, staring at him with wild eyes, blurted, “Take me with you-it was our bargain!”
So the villain had perfect English to overhear everything that had been said.
“I do remember,” Renzi replied. “As I do our agreement that the succoured should assume the status of internee to the other. Very well. Do you wish to be gone from this place?”
“I do,” the Frenchman said, with a fierce sincerity.
“Then consider yourself a guest of the British Crown, sir.”
To Zorlu, he said, “Tell the vizier I shall ask General Sebastiani to leave with me.”
This caused confusion and dismay.
“That is not possible. The general has yet to answer before a state trial why, when given all trust and resources, he failed to defend Constantinople against the Russians.”
For all the vainglory and boasting of the French, they had yet again been brought to their knees by the sea, the element Bonaparte would never understand.
“I’m sorry, General, so truly sorry,” Renzi said, shaking his head in compassion.
“You must help me! Please-help me, m’ lord,” he whispered hoarsely.
Renzi hesitated. He owed the man nothing, but the vision of his fine mind brought to a squalid conclusion under a Turkish scimitar troubled him-and, besides, was not his mission to achieve the ejecting of the French from the Porte? Then he would ensure that very article.
“Tell the vizier I’m desolated to hear that my wishes in the matter are ignored. Do not the Turks wish all infidels gone from their door? I desire the same thing, surely.”