An elderly gentleman of infinite dignity was waiting before high closed doors. The equerry murmured Kydd’s name to him and he was introduced to the lord chamberlain.
A quiet briefing was given: Kydd should bow as he was introduced but a short bow rather than the elaborate affair fashionable in drawing rooms. He should not speak until spoken to and he should remain standing until bidden otherwise. This being an informal audience without others present, full expressions of fealty were not to be expected and, indeed, His Majesty was known for his kindness and interest in meeting his subjects.
With his cocked hat firmly under his arm, stiffly at attention, Kydd took a deep breath and nodded.
The lord chamberlain smiled encouragingly and knocked discreetly. The door was opened wide from the inside and Kydd nervously followed him into the Presence.
Oblivious to the subdued grandeur of the room, Kydd had eyes for one thing only.
George III, by the Grace of God, King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, sat at a table spread with a silver tea service, his queen standing next to him, a lady-in-waiting behind.
“Your Majesty, may I present Captain Thomas Kydd of the Royal Navy?”
Kydd bowed jerkily, his heart in his mouth.
“Thank you, Dartmouth. Well, now, Kydd, and you’ll be relishing a dash of peace and quiet after your mortal perils in Curacoa, hey?”
He became aware of a heavy face but kindly eyes, albeit rheumy and filmed.
“Your Majesty, to return to this realm is a pleasure indeed.”
It would probably not be done to tell a king that his pronunciation of Curacao was somewhat awry.
“As it should be, young man.” The King harrumphed. “It’s our pleasure to take a dish of tea at this hour and we’re not minded to alter our custom. Do join us, will you? Charlotte, my dear …”
Kydd had a moment of panic-should he sweep his coat-tails elegantly behind as he sat or keep his sword from twisting under him? But, of course, unlike those of army officers, a naval sword hung loosely, the better to sit in boats, and he concentrated on a flourish with the tails. The sword obediently conformed and in relief he accepted an elegant, tiny porcelain cup from the Queen, who smiled winningly at him.
“So, Kydd. The Hollanders were all before you and the battle not yet won. What did you say to your men that they followed you into the cannon’s fury? Tell away, young fellow!”
Kydd’s mind froze as he tried desperately to remember exactly what he had shouted in those mad moments as he’d thrown himself and his crew against the forts. Then he realised that exactitude was not what was being asked and he replied gravely, “Sire, I remember it as, ‘Come, my lads, to the fore and the day is ours!’”
“Ah! A true son of the sea speaks! Would that we had more of your ilk, Kydd!”
There was then nothing for it but to deliver a detailed account of the action, the obvious interest and enthusiasm of the King easing his fears.
“Capital! In the best traditions of the Navy, of Nelson himself, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Kydd flushed, overwhelmed at such praise from his sovereign.
“Now you’ll want to be on your way, we fancy,” the King said, rising. Kydd scrambled to his feet.
“But before you go, if we might detain you a little longer …”
On cue a court official entered noiselessly, bearing something on a satin cushion.
The King lifted a glittering object on a white and blue riband from it and turned to Kydd. “Captain, in the name of England we bestow upon you this, in distinction of the valour you displayed upon the field of Curacoa.”
Kydd knelt and bent his head, feeling it pass over his neck, then rose, overcome.
“We wish you good fortune, Captain, and God preserve you until next we meet.”
“I do thank you for the great honour you have done me, Your Majesty,” Kydd managed, with a bow.
Dazed by events, Kydd descended from the carriage at the back of the Admiralty. He had taken tea with the King of England and now wore his honour. He looked down on it yet again: a pure gold medal on a riband as put there by the hands of His Majesty. It nobly bore a representation of Victory placing a wreath upon the head of Britannia, standing proudly on the prow of a ship with her shield and spear.
It was beyond imagining-what more could life bring?
He was met by an unctuous flag-captain, who ushered him into a room where the reception was well under way, the candlelight glittering on gold lace and stars-and dramatic with the splash of colour in sashes and uniform.
“Sir, may I present Captain Kydd of L’Aurore frigate?”
The prime minister smiled with every evidence of delight. “Glad you could make it, old fellow. Wouldn’t be the same without we had all the heroes of Curacao.”
“My honour entirely, sir.”
“We’ll talk presently, I’m sure. Do find yourself some refreshment.”
Kydd turned to see a familiar face beaming at him. It was Captain Brisbane, whom he’d last seen in the Caribbean near hidden in the smoke of guns.
“What ho, Kydd! We’d just about given up on you.”
“Ah, Charles, we were detained by the little matter of relieving the French of yet another island.”
“Stout chap, always knew we’d find you where the action was thickest. My, what a fuss they’re making over us. You’d think we’d sent Boney himself to Hades.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “We never did get to lay those privateers by the tail. Did you hear if … ?”
“We found ’em on Marie Galante and collared the lot,” Kydd answered. “Couldn’t say much about it for fear of scarifying the planters.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. So you’re only just arrived? Not heard the news?”
“Orders to report here without losing a moment, no reason given.”
Brisbane frowned. “That’s not the way to treat a hero of Curacao.” He brightened. “Look, I know what we’ll do-over here.”
They threaded through the throng until they reached the back of the room. Copies of the Gazette were stacked neatly on a small table under a mirror. Brisbane took one. “Nip in there for a minute and read all about why you’re here,” he said, gesturing at a side room.
Kydd did so and soon found a dignified headline announcing the capture of Curacao.
He read avidly-it was a fair account, detailing all the acts of individual courage and dash shown that day. He went pink with pleasure to see his own part lauded in measured, stately prose, his name there in print to be read by any in the kingdom.
He moved on to the last paragraphs, which detailed the honours and rewards of the actions.
A naval gold medal was to be awarded to every captain, His Majesty insistent that he present the honour himself.
Then in a cold wash of shock he saw his name-right there, in a list of those … to be further honoured with a … knighthood. These several captains to be elevated to the style and dignity of a Knight of the Bath. The investiture at St James’s Palace … installation into the Order … Thursday next at Westminster Abbey.
His hand trembled as he gripped the paper and his eyes misted with emotion. He was very soon to be … Sir Thomas Kydd, KB, knight of the realm.
Honours and fame were now indisputably his.
In a trance he entered the main room again, carefully placing the paper back where he had found it.
Brisbane gave a soft smile. “Now you can see how you’ve been cutting it so fine. The accolade-where you get your step to knight from the King-there, your sea gear is more to be expected. But your installation into an order of chivalry, you have to be in the right rig for that or they won’t have you. Clap on all sail-I’ll give you the address of the court costumier fellow.”
Kydd took in some of the others in the room. Over there was Lydiard of Anson, whom he hadn’t seen since the frightful drama of a chase together in the depths of a hurricane; Bolton of Fisgard, out of his depth, stuttering at a half-deaf statesman … He could have hugged them all.