Stockwin Julian - Pasha

In a fever of tension and exhilaration, it seemed for ever before there was an excited knock at the door. It was a near-swooning innkeeper who wrung his hands in emotion.

“Y-your carriage is-is here, Captain,” he stammered.

When he reached the door he saw the reason for the man’s excitement-it was the first lord of the Admiralty’s personal carriage: spacious, gleaming black with scarlet and gold trim, his cipher blazoned on the side, built for the express purpose of public display of the occupant. Four white horses and two footmen in blue and gold-and in front matching black steeds of an escort of four of the King’s Troop, with sabre and cuirass, looking stolidly to the front with a further two bringing up the rear.

A liveried footman was standing at attention by the coach steps, the other perched aloof behind.

A crowd quickly gathered, thrilled to be so close to what must be a very important personage, and as Kydd appeared, there was a ripple of excitement and muffled cheers. He doffed his cocked hat to them and couldn’t resist calling loudly to the innkeeper, “I’m off to attend on His Majesty, my man-I shall not be dining tonight.”

It brought gratifying gasps and chatter as he allowed himself to be handed up, to sit in lonely splendour as the resplendent sergeant on the lead horse barked orders to set them smartly on their way.

Fortunately, although the sky was dull and grey, the rain was holding off. The cavalcade had no difficulty with the notorious London traffic and they bowled along westwards at a steady clip, the massed clatter of hoofs drawing admiring attention as people stopped to gape. Kydd kept a stony expression, looking only to the front, ignoring cheers and catcalls from urchins but deigning to lift his hat to gentlemen who troubled to remove theirs as he passed.

The King’s residence, Windsor Castle, hove into view, all stern battlements and round towers, and Kydd’s heart thumped. In a twist of irony he remembered it was not the first time he had been directly addressed by his sovereign. That had been long ago when he was a young seaman in Artemis, a man-of-war the same size as L’Aurore in which he had fought in the first big frigate action of the Revolutionary War. He recalled a kindly face, bemused blue eyes and a comment about Surrey Cross sheep. Would he … ?

In a practised show they swung about to clatter in through the ancient archways, proceeding to the solemn entrance the other side of the vast courtyard. Kydd glimpsed the mast above the great round tower. It did not fly the Union flag of Great Britain: instead the lions and leopards of the Royal Standard of King George III floated there imperiously. The sovereign was at home.

As Kydd rose to alight, he looked around. It was so unreal, so impossible, that this day Tom Kydd of Guildford was about to be received by the monarch that his vision dissolved into a series of dazed impressions.

Here he was, standing in a castle first occupied by William the Conqueror after 1066, and witness to the stately panoply of the centuries since that was England’s past-and which he had first learned about in dame school. If crabby Miss Bowling could only see him now …

An equerry and royal footmen in blue and gold edged with red emerged to greet him. It seemed he was expected, and that His Majesty had expressed a desire that he should be presented at once.

He was ushered inside to a quiet magnificence, passing through majestic rooms hung with vast ancestral portraits, then across a hall of blinding splendour before reaching the state apartments, set about with lordly bewigged footmen.

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.