Ottoman-Russo 1770 - Taganrog Raid (II)

The Ottoman fleet sailed swiftly under the cover of darkness, their Xebecs cutting through the waves like specters of war. The fires of Taganrog still raged behind them, casting an eerie glow across the distant horizon. Though the raid had been a resounding success, Aydın knew they weren't safe yet.

"Beyim, enemy ships on the horizon!" shouted Mehmet Reis, his sharp eyes catching the movement under the faint moonlight.

Aydın turned his gaze toward the north. Silhouettes of Russian warships emerged—galleys and frigates, moving fast. The Russians had finally reacted, and they weren't about to let the Ottomans escape so easily.

"They're closing in fast," another officer muttered, his knuckles tightening around the ship's railing.

Aydın smirked. "Then let them come."

He turned to his men. "Ready the stern cannons! Keep formation, but do not engage unless I give the order."

The Ottoman fleet maintained its course, their Xebecs outpacing the heavier Russian ships. The Russians, realizing they couldn't catch up with sheer speed, began firing their long-range cannons, hoping to slow down the retreat.

"Incoming fire! Brace yourselves!"

Cannonballs whistled through the air, crashing into the sea, sending towering sprays of water into the sky. A few shots struck the hull of an Ottoman Xebec, causing the ship to lurch but not sink.

"Damage?" Aydın called out.

"Minor, Beyim! We can keep going!"

Aydın exhaled, nodding. "Good. Then let's remind them who rules these waters."

As the Russians gained confidence, they pushed harder, believing the Ottomans to be on the run. That was exactly what Aydın wanted.

"Reşid, are the fire ships ready?"

Reşid Bey, grinned. "Aye, Beyim. They're prepared."

The Ottomans had anticipated pursuit. As part of the retreat plan, two unmanned Xebecs, packed with barrels of oil and gunpowder, had been left behind in the darkness, drifting seemingly abandoned.

"Signal the men. Light the fuses."

Within moments, the fire ships burst into flames, illuminating the sea like floating beacons of destruction. The Russians, too focused on their pursuit, failed to adjust their course in time.

"Impact in three… two…"

"BOOMM!!!"

The fire ships collided into the Russian vanguard, erupting into a chain of explosions that ripped through the enemy formation. One Russian galley was instantly engulfed in flames, while another was thrown off course, veering into a third ship in a desperate attempt to avoid the inferno.

The sudden devastation sent shockwaves through the Russian ranks.

"Now! Full speed ahead!" Aydın roared.

With their pursuers thrown into chaos, the Ottoman fleet seized the moment and vanished into the vast darkness of the Black Sea.

~~

By dawn, the Ottoman fleet docked at a hidden cove along the Crimean coast, safe from Russian patrols. As the men assessed their minor damages and restocked supplies, Aydın stood at the water's edge, watching the sun rise over the horizon.

Mehmet Reis approached. "Beyim, the men are celebrating. We crippled Taganrog, sank several ships, and suffered barely any losses."

Aydın nodded, his gaze steady. "Yes. But this was only the first step."

The Russian fleet had been wounded, but they weren't defeated. Catherine's navy was still growing, and they would retaliate.

Good. Let them.

Aydın smirked, rolling up the now-worn letter bearing Şehzade Selim's seal.

"Let the Russians remember this day well. Because the Ottomans have returned to reclaim the Black Sea."

~~~

Several days had passed, I sat in my private chamber, the warm glow of the oil lamps flickering against the polished wooden walls. The reports from the warfront were beginning to pile up—movements from the Danube, dispatches from the Caucasus, and whispers of unrest from the provinces. But among them, one letter stood out, it was received days later. 

The wax seal was unmistakable—Aydın Burcu's emblem, stamped hastily but intact. He had made it.

Breaking the seal, I unfolded the parchment. His handwriting, quick yet precise, revealed everything I needed to know.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

To Şehzade Selim bin Mustafa,

May this letter find you in good health.

As per your orders, Taganrog has been set ablaze. Their shipyards, storehouses, and supply caches lie in ruin. Russian forces attempted pursuit, but their warships suffered significant losses during the retreat. The Crimean coast now shelters our fleet, though Russian patrols have increased.

We await further orders.

Your loyal servant,

Aydın Burcu

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I exhaled slowly, letting the weight of his words settle. Taganrog had fallen. YESS!!!

I rose from my seat, walking toward the large map, customized by myself, laid out at the table. The Black Sea stretched like an open field before me, its key ports marked with ink. Taganrog had been a thorn in our side, a staging ground for Russian ships to harass our trade and military routes. With it gone, the northern waters were ours—at least for now.

Cemil stood nearby, watching me closely. "So, Aydın succeeded?"

I nodded, handing him the letter. "Not only did he succeed, but he crippled Russian naval operations in the region. For now, they're blind."

Cemil read the report, letting out a low whistle. "That's impressive. But what now? The Russians won't sit idle. They'll retaliate."

I tapped my fingers against the map, my eyes trailing toward Kerch and Sevastopol, key Crimean strongholds. "Aydın and his fleet are in a delicate position. If we order them to return to Istanbul, they risk interception. If they stay idle, the Russians will gather strength and hunt them down."

I turned to Cemil. "We need to turn this victory into something bigger."

Cemil frowned. "What are you thinking?"

I reached for my writing set, dipping the quill into the inkwell. "Aydın won't sit in Crimea and wait. He will continue striking—but on our terms."

I began writing, my words swift and direct.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

To Aydın Burcu,

You have done well. The destruction of Taganrog marks a turning point in our control of the northern waters. However, our task is not yet complete. The Russians will reorganize, and their fleets will come hunting for you.

Do not allow them the time to recover.

From your position in the Crimean coast, you are to launch intermittent raids along the northern shoreline—targeting supply convoys, minor ports, and any Russian naval detachments operating near the Sea of Azov. Avoid prolonged engagements. Use speed and precision. We will not give them the satisfaction of a decisive battle—only bleeding wounds they cannot close.

Additionally, I authorize you to coordinate with the Crimean Khanate. If Qaplan Giray's riders can harass their inland supply lines, it will divide Russian focus. Strike when necessary, retreat when needed. Turn their own waters into a graveyard.

A shipment of supplies and reinforcements will be arranged through our allies. Await further instruction.

May the winds guide your sails.

Şehzade Selim bin Mustafa

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I sealed the letter with my imperial tughra, the wax cooling as Cemil watched with a knowing smirk.

"You're not just letting him retreat," he murmured. "You're turning him into a ghost in their waters."

I looked up, meeting his gaze with a calm smile. "If the Russians wish to rule these seas, let them try. But they will never know peace in their own waters again."

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Crimean Docks of Crimean Khanate,

Aydın Burcu stood at the edge of the pier, the salt air biting at his face. The sea stretched endlessly before him, the waters calm after the storm they had unleashed on Taganrog. He allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction, watching his xebecs bob gently in the harbor. The damage they had inflicted was real — the Russians would feel this for months, if not years.

Before he could lose himself in thought, a voice broke through the sea breeze.

"Aydın-effendim!" A young officer hurried toward him, a sealed scroll clutched tightly in his hands. "A royal letter has arrived — it bears your name."

Aydın turned, wiping the salt from his brow, a grin already forming on his face. "It must be from Şehzade Selim." He extended his hand, and the officer presented the scroll with a respectful bow.

Breaking the wax seal, Aydın's eyes scanned the familiar handwriting — sharp, confident strokes that belonged to none other than the young prince himself. The words were clear: new orders, directly from Selim.

Aydın chuckled. "That boy never lets me rest. Very well." He turned toward the command post. "Summon the Khan's messenger. We have orders to deliver."

Bakhchisarai – Crimean Khanate

The grandeur of the Han Sarayı was not what it once had been, but it still carried the weight of centuries. Marble pillars held up ceilings painted with scenes of horsemen riding across endless steppes. In the heart of the hall, Qaplan II Giray, the Khan of Crimea, sat cross-legged upon a low dais, his sabre resting on his knee.

The usual correspondence had been dull — logistical reports, complaints from minor clans, requests for tax relief. Then came the letter — not from Sultan Mustafa III, as was customary, but from the hand of Aydın Burcu, one of the Ottoman Navy commanders.

Qaplan Giray frowned, raising the scroll. "This comes not from the Sultan?"

The servant bowed deeply. "No, my Khan. It comes from Commander Aydın, written under the seal of Şehzade Selim."

The Khan's brow furrowed deeper. "Şehzade Selim?" His voice carried both curiosity and suspicion. "The boy? What business does he have giving orders directly to me, bypassing the Hünkâr?"

The servant hesitated for a moment. "The letter… explains, my Khan."

Qaplan sliced open the wax seal and unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the words quickly.

"To the Esteemed Khan Qaplan II Giray, Ruler of the Crimean Khanate and Protector of the Steppe,"

"I, Commander Aydın Burcu, write to you under the authority of Şehzade Selim bin Mustafa, with the following orders authorized by His Highness himself."

"On the 4th day of this month, the Ottoman naval detachment under my command conducted a successful raid on the Russian port of Taganrog. The shipyards have been heavily damaged, supply depots set aflame, and several vessels destroyed or captured. This operation was conducted under the direct order of the Şehzade, utilizing funds from his personal treasury."

"His Highness now requests the immediate coordination between your forces and my fleet to harass Russian supply lines along the northern coast. We must strike before they recover."

"I await your response at Sevastopol. May our blades and sails move as one."

Qaplan Giray leaned back, the edges of his mouth curling into a slow, impressed smile. He let out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief.

"A boy ordered this?" The Khan turned the parchment over as if trying to confirm it wasn't some elaborate jest. "He ordered Taganrog raided… and succeeded?"

The room fell silent. Even the advisors lining the sides of the hall exchanged uncertain glances. To bypass the Sultan was audacious. To succeed? Unbelievable.

The Khan laughed — a hearty, open laugh that echoed through the chamber. "I like this prince."

He handed the letter back to the servant. "Draft my reply immediately." He stood, pacing with excitement. "Tell the young lion that the horsemen of Crimea will answer his call. If the Russians think their troubles end at the sea, they are sorely mistaken."

The servant bowed and rushed out to fulfill the command. Qaplan Giray settled back onto his 'dais', fingers tapping against the hilt of his sabre.

"A prince who sees opportunity where others see nothing. It seems Ottoman blood has not run cold after all."

Outside the palace, the sound of hoofbeats already filled the air as Tatar messengers sped toward Sevastopol, carrying with them the Khan's response — and the first promise of a coordinated land and sea assault unlike anything the Russians had expected.