Julian Stockwin - Victory

Howlett’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you suggesting some sort of charade? As soon as I give my orders it’ll be seen—’

‘Sir, I shall be speaking Italian, as is the way at sea in these parts. The men know what to do and will be instructed not to utter a word of English. This way none on the tekne can testify later to any evidence as to our origin.’

‘You will be speaking Italian? And what do you suppose I speak?’

‘You are the Russian officer in charge, of course. I am merely the humble translator.’

‘I can’t speak Russian, damn it.’

Renzi held himself in check. ‘Then, sir, may I put it to you that any mumbo-jumbo you can contrive will answer.’ If there were any Russian speakers on this Turkish coaster or among the French themselves they would be seen through, of course, in which case there would be no help for it.

‘Very well, we’ll be Russians.’

Renzi relayed this to the boats’ crews, who grinned delightedly at the conceit.

The afternoon passed slowly but as evening began to draw in there were faint shouts from the lookouts on the skyline. At last!

‘Into the boats!’ bellowed Howlett.

Sails taut and straining, they rounded the headland – and there, startlingly close, was a tekne . They quickly took position off its absurdly curved and ornamented stern-quarters and Stirk loosed off their twelve-pounder carronade. The shot sent up a mighty plume ahead of the little vessel, which lost no time in dousing its sails.

Renzi tensed. It was now the testing time. This could be the one – or not. The French might be aboard or the documents sent by hand of an anonymous messenger. The vessel might contain soldiers or even French sailors – there were infinite reasons why they should fail.

‘Lay us alongside,’ growled Howlett, fiddling with his foul-weather coat. ‘Silence in the boat!’ he snapped.

‘In Russian, if you please, sir,’ Renzi murmured.

As they neared the low gunwale of the tekne , the midshipman stood and roared at the bowman, ‘Wagga boo-boo ratty tails!’

‘Ahrr, moonie blah blah,’ the man replied, knuckling his forehead and obediently hooking on.

Red-faced, Howlett clambered over the gunwale and was confronted by a small group of men. One stepped forward and snarled some words angrily. Renzi felt a huge wash of relief. It was in French. And obviously these were not military men.

‘ Mi dispiace, Signore, non capisco ,’ he said mournfully, spreading his hands wide in the Italian gesture of incomprehension.

‘The cretin doesn’t know French,’ the first man said openly in that language to the older standing next to him, then beckoned irritably to the florid Turkish master. ‘Tell him to explain why he’s stopped us – we’re on urgent business.’

The message was passed. Renzi bowed politely and turned to Howlett. ‘Moo-juice blitter foo-bah sing-song . . .’ He fought down exultation – apparently there were no Russian-speakers at hand.

Howlett looked at the deck and mumbled, his very evident held-in anger perfectly suited to the performance. Blank-faced, Renzi replied in Italian to the cowed Turk, ‘My officer has been advised of the activities of pirates in this area and wishes to know what is this matter that is so urgent.’

‘Tell him it’s none of his business.’

Renzi came back: ‘He says your appearance is not the usual to be found in a Turkish trader. This close to Russian territory, my officer believes you to be spies, sir. Have you any evidence to the contrary?’

The Frenchman pulled back in dismay, saying to the other, ‘The idiot Ivan thinks we’re spies, Claude. What’s to be done?’

The older muttered, ‘Bluff it out . . .’

The first turned back and blustered, ‘This is outrageous! We’re on a mission to Count Mocenigo himself.’

The indignation faded as Stirk, summoned by Renzi’s quick wink, came across with five men fingering cutlasses.

‘My officer regrets that in the absence of such evidence you are to be arrested for questioning.’

Stirk tested the edge of his weapon with a horny thumb and gave an evil grin. ‘Watchee gundiguts barso!’

‘Think of something, Claude,’ the first muttered, ‘We could be choking for years in some stinking prison.’

Howlett leaned across to Renzi. ‘What the devil’s going on?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I demand to know.’

‘Fidgety fee t’ blarney,’ Renzi answered gravely, and passed on, ‘My officer says further that this vessel apparently without cargo is most suspicious and is to be confiscated as well.’

‘It’s intolerable, Claude!’

The older snapped, ‘I’ll show these péquenades something that’ll set ’em by the ears!’ He wheeled about and stormed off below, returning minutes later bearing an ornamented red box set about with golden tassels and an elaborate central cypher.

‘You recognise this?’ It was relayed on. ‘It’s from the Sublime Porte, Sultan Selim himself, who would take it personally should you further delay his friends.’

Howlett could hardly believe his eyes and spluttered with excitement.

Renzi bowed. ‘The officer admits he is mistaken and asks to be forgiven. Further, he wishes to make amends by conveying your box under our guard to Count Mocenigo himself.’ He firmly took the box from the dumbfounded Frenchman and handed it to Howlett with another bow. ‘Leave instantly!’ he whispered, and led the way over the side.

Back aboard L’Aurore the atmosphere changed markedly for the better after the success ashore and they continued their Adriatic duties with renewed purpose.

The gunroom became deferential to Renzi after it was gleefully told how in heathen Italian he had had Johnny Crapaud well a-tremble before telling one of them to duck below and bring him up the required document to hand over. Renzi felt that it might be better, perhaps, to leave it to a later time to explain how the French themselves had simply produced it for effect. The French rights were useless to the British, of course, but at the least it meant the playing field was now level again.

For Kydd, there was immense satisfaction on his return to La Maddalena. Invited to a dinner of captains in Victory , he sat in the glow of warm laughter and congratulations following his recounting of the adventure, receiving an approving nod from Nelson himself.

L’Aurore gave her place in the Adriatic to Phoebe and resumed her watch with Active outside Toulon, a ceaseless beat across the wide bay overlooked by craggy mountains that ensured their every movement was known, regardless of how far offshore they sailed. However, the commander-in-chief’s policy of open blockade – keeping the battle-fleet out of sight many leagues away to entice the French out – required the watching frigates to close with the port past Cape Cepet and its guns to look directly into the enfolding roads, which they did by turns.

On a fine day it was exhilarating but in the more usual cold bluster it was miserable work – and dangerous. In the past one frigate had heaved to for repairs and been taken in the night by a daring French sally. And there was no relaxing the watch as the winds chased the compass before the sudden rush of the mistral and prudent mariners sought the open sea.

In the deep abyssal waters off Toulon there was no anchoring as with Cadiz: ships on blockade here were continually under sail and therefore had no rest in any weather. And always there was the chill. The Mediterranean in winter was capable of a frigidity that put the dire winters of the north of England to shame. It was a mind-sapping almost liquid cold that penetrated until the body retreated to a last core of precious warmth and frozen hands fumbled the knots to be tied far aloft, out on a bucking yard.