The War For Tripoli

THE WAR FOR TRIPOLI Marcus Baxter Naval Thriller Series Book Three Tim Chant Table of Contents A NOTE ON NAMES CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO A NOTE TO THE READER ALSO BY TIM CHANT A NOTE ON NAMES Place names have a habit of changing, or rather being changed as the places are conquered or otherwise change hands. Quite often, the same city or town will be known by different names at the same time. This can pose a bit of a challenge to historians and historical novelists. I have taken the approach of referring to places as they would have been known at the time. Most obviously, this means the city of Istanbul as we now know it is referred to as Constantinople, and was the capital city of the Ottoman Empire. I have referred to the main contested province as Tripolitania (modern-day Libya) to avoid confusion with the city of Tripoli, though some debate remains as to when the former term came into use. Similarly, some of the historical vessels referred to are listed with different names. For consistency of both names and particulars, I have stuck with Conway’s All the World’s Fighting Ships 1905–1921, a magnificent tome. Finally, it is worth noting that many citizens of the Ottoman Empire did not have surnames as we would understand them, and would not be required to until 1923 — I have tried to reflect that in the text. CHAPTER ONE Istanbul, August 1911 Someone nearby had a fire going, despite the late summer heat. The clean, sweet scent of burning cypress pine mingled with the greasy smoke from grilling meat and fish, the smells of meze being prepared in the meyhane’s kitchen. Marcus Baxter leant on the balcony’s balustrade and stared down across the rooftops of Galata towards the shipping-crowded waters of the Golden Horn. Every ship and boat common to the Mediterranean could be seen in that pleasant and sheltered expanse of water and in the narrow, vitally important Bosphorus that lay beyond. “If it was not for the ever more present steamships, this view would be much … that is, unchanged from my youth and for years before that,” Petros, the owner of the establishment, commented as he joined Baxter. He was speaking English, as Baxter’s attempts at Greek apparently caused his ears to bleed. “The march of progress,” he replied. In truth, he wasn’t much in the mood for conversation. He’d had a frustrating day down on the docks, trying and failing to find work. But he liked Petros, a cheerful man who enjoyed both his homemade raki and his food, both of which ensured his establishment was never quiet. Given he was also very forgiving of Baxter’s often impecunious state and allowed him to rent a small room above the meyhane, it paid to keep on his good side. “It’s the same in every port and roadstead the world over.” “I do envy you, Mr Baxter, sometimes. To have seen so much of the world at such a young age; to have sailed all seven of the seas.” There was a twinkle in Petros’s dark eyes. “I expect you have many stories that would offend the ears of my wife.” Baxter grinned. “Well, if I did, obviously I wouldn’t dare tell them anywhere near here,” he said. He didn’t add that there had been a price to pay for the life he’d lived. “But you have a fine life here, Petros. A fine wife, strong sons and lovely daughters; a positive pillar of the community.” Petros acknowledged this with a slight bow. “Oh, I do, and I praise God for the gifts he has given me every day. Except for those days when my darling Korina is angry with me. But you are a young man yet, Mr Baxter, and you have time to find such blessings if that is what you desire.” Petros ushered him to the interior of meyhane as he spoke. It was a pleasant space, high-ceilinged with whitewashed walls. The large single room was filled with low wooden tables, around which sat both local worthies and people who had come from further afield to enjoy the meze. It was a microcosm of the neighbourhood: Turks, Greeks and sundry others sitting shoulder to shoulder; Christians of all stripes and Muslims. There were local merchants and market traders, and finely dressed men who could only have come up from the nearby Bankalar Caddesi, the financial heart of the Ottoman Empire. “Your usual, Mr Baxter?” Petros asked, seating him at one of the smaller tables towards the balcony. Baxter was acutely conscious of the very small number of lira in his pocket. He’d had some lucrative work in recent years — one of the benefits of his itinerant life — but whatever he earned just seemed to leak from his pocket one way or another. “How much do I owe you already, Petros?” he asked bluntly. His landlord made a shushing gesture with both hands. “Oh, not much, Mr Baxter. One or perhaps two months’ rent, and sundry meals. I know, of course, that you, ah … I believe ‘good for it’ is the expression?” Baxter hated being in this position. “I am good for it, yes,” he said. “The current situation is making merchant skippers nervous, though. Nobody’s putting to sea until they know what’s happening.” “Of course, of course. War makes sensible men cautious, even the threat of it. If you are looking for work, for a berth, though…” Petros seemed oddly reticent, almost embarrassed to be mentioning this. That was unusual — for the half year Baxter had been rooming here, his