Stockwin Julian - Pasha

Thinking furiously, he realised he must go immediately to John Murray to ensure his identity was kept secret.

Yes! It was what he must do-but he knew nothing of authors and royalties. Supposing the amount was a pittance only?

Standing about would solve nothing. Only action!

“Oh, Mrs Kydd?”

She came in, hurriedly wiping her hands on a cloth. “Mr Renzi?”

“I’m devastated to find I forgot to attend to an urgent matter. I must deal with it-I pray you tell Cecilia that I called and that I will return. A day or two at the most.”

“Mr Renzi!” Mrs Kydd said, shocked. “You’re not going out in all that rain again? It’s cold and-”

“I must, dear lady. I’ll take my leave now, if I may.”

The rain continued relentlessly as the coach ground and clattered over the cobbles towards the London road at the top of the hill. Kydd hunkered down, glowering under the press of dark thoughts that crowded in. As each rose in his consciousness, he met it with a savage riposte: there was nothing he could do about it now so he must let events take their course. A logic that would undoubtedly have met with Renzi’s approval-if he had still been by his side.

Renzi, a friend of times past. Those long-ago years tugged at him with their elemental simplicity, their careless vitality. Now his bosom friend was to be wed, settle down, have his being on the land, no more to wander. They would meet again, of course: he would be married to Kydd’s sister and she would keep in touch. But at this point their lives had irrevocably diverged.

In a pall of depression and aching from the ride, Kydd morosely sat through the final miles into the capital, grey and bleak in rain-swept gloom. He directed the driver to his accustomed lodgings at the White Hart in Charles Street and answered the vacuous civilities of the innkeeper with monosyllables. Tomorrow he would learn his fate.

Kydd hadn’t slept well. He dressed slowly, defiantly hanging on to the fact that to the world he was still Captain Kydd, commander of His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore, and dared any to say otherwise.

His orders had been to present himself immediately at the Admiralty and it would only tell against him if he did not, so at nine precisely he was deposited outside the grim facade of the home of their lordships. He knew the way: the Captains’ Room was in its accustomed crowded squalor; the usual supplicants for a ship, petitioners and those summoned to explain themselves.

He handed his card to the clerk. “To see the first lord per orders,” he muttered, and found a seat among the others. Curious at a new face, several tried to start a conversation but were discouraged by Kydd’s expression.

The minutes turned to an hour. It was here in this very room that he’d found out he’d been made post. That was in the days of the granite-faced sailor Earl St Vincent. Now the office of first lord of the Admiralty was occupied by a civilian, Grenville, younger brother of the prime minister. It had been he who had summoned him so peremptorily.

Then why was he waiting? He hailed the clerk. “Captain Kydd. As I told you, I’ve orders from the first lord that demand my immediate presenting in person. Why have you not acted?”

He knew the reason: it was the custom to grease the palm of the man to ensure an early appointment. But this was different: he was not a supplicant. He had been ordered to attend, and woe betide a lowly clerk who thought to delay him.

“Orders? From Mr Grenville?”

“Yes,” Kydd said heavily.

“Very well,” he responded, with a sniff. “I’ll inform him of your presence.”

“Thank you,” Kydd replied, trying to keep back the sarcasm.

He settled in his chair in a black mood. If he was not ushered into the presence within the hour he’d make damn sure that-

At the top of the steps a genial aristocratic-faced man burst into view. “Ah! Captain Kydd! So pleased you could come.” It was the first lord himself.

Naval officers shot to their feet, confused and deferential. Several bowed low.

He hurried down the steps and came to greet Kydd with outstretched hand. “We’ve been expecting you this age. So good of you to, ahem, ‘clap on all canvas’ to be with us.”

Shaking Kydd’s hand vigorously, he ushered him up the steps in the shocked silence.

In the hallowed office Grenville threw at his assistant, “Not to be disturbed,” and sat Kydd down.

“Now, what can I offer in refreshment? Sherry? No, too early, of course. So sorry to keep you waiting-that villainous clerk will hear from me, you can be assured of it.”

“Sir-you wished me here at the earliest … ?” Kydd began.

If this was the preamble to disciplinary proceedings he was at a loss to know where it was leading.

“Yes, yes! You’re the last of the Curacao captains come to town. And now we’re all complete. My, I’ve never known the public to be in such a taking! Raving about your gallantry and so forth. It’s done the government no end of good, coming as it does in these dog days after Trafalgar.”

Kydd smiled tightly. So the whims of popular opinion had decided they were heroes not of the ordinary sort. If they only knew it had been an attempt to uncover a deeper plot against British interests in the Caribbean that had, in fact, failed in its object.

“Pardon me, sir. Am I to understand that this is why I’ve been recalled?”

Grenville blinked. “Why, if I had not, the people would have howled for my head.”

“Ah. Sir, I had thought it was possibly in connection with the forthcoming court-martial of Commodore Popham,” he said carefully, shifting in his seat.

“Oh, that. Not at all, dear fellow. I can’t see it happening for a good while yet. In any case, as I read it, the merchantry love him because he opened up the river Plate trade to our goods as can’t find a market after Boney’s decree, and would never stand to see him pilloried. And it’s nothing to do with you, a Curacao idol.”

As it sank in, the tension slowly drained from Kydd.

“The Curacao captains-there’s to be a public procession or some such?” If there was, this was an odd reason to recall a valuable frigate and her crew from across the ocean.

“Naturally. And-well, you’re going to have to move speedily, I’m persuaded. The occasion is set for very soon-we didn’t know when you’d arrive.”

“Move speedily, sir?”

“Yes. Know that your recall was never my doing. My dear Kydd, it came from the palace-His Majesty wishes in person cordially to felicitate the principals in the affair. By his royal command I’m to direct you to attend on him the instant you land.”

“The King!” Kydd stuttered.

“Indeed. In view of the imminence of arrangements I would have thought it not too precipitate to seek an audience this very afternoon. Does this suit?”

He gulped. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Very well, I’ll set it in train. His Nibs’s business will be concluded by three, so shall we say four? I’ll send my carriage-to Windsor is tiresome in this weather.”

“That’s very kind in you, sir.”

“Oh, and you’ll find it more convenient should you choose to return here afterwards, you still in full fig and such. There’s a reception to be hosted by the prime minister for the heroes of the hour but it shouldn’t go on too long, he having pressing business in the Commons.”

It had happened! It was every naval officer’s ardent desire to gain distinction, to rise above the common herd-to gain notice from on high. And there was no greater such in the land than the King of England. He had arrived-it was breathtaking! It was marvellous!

Kydd took extreme care with his full dress uniform, the snowy neck-cloth and fine linen shirt that he had thought would last be worn before a hostile Board of Admiralty. His sword was in impeccable order, the scabbard rubbed with horn and blacking to a lustrous gleam by his loyal valet, Tysoe, his gold lace glittering after careful application of potato juice, and his court shoes in a discreet shimmer of polish and gold buckle.