Stockwin Julian - Pasha

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.

The day had changed so drastically-like a weathercock in a storm. The morning, with its dread and worry, to this, this …

With a stab of feeling, his thoughts went to Renzi. He wished he knew what was happening in Guildford.

But he had his duties, and he turned to the chancellor of the exchequer with the wittiest quip he could find.

It had been just four days. In a blaze of honour, pageantry and the ancient rites of chivalry, he’d become a man of unassailable consequence in the world. He would never again fear any social occasion and could expect deference and respect wherever in life he found himself.

Kydd fought down a jet of elation as he looked about him. Here he was, in attendance at the Court of St James by right, at a levee in company with statesmen and dukes, diplomats and ambassadors, admirals and generals as the King moved about the throng on the highest affairs of state.

He’d never forget the actual moment when King George had, in company with his fellow captains in the Throne Room of this very palace, granted the accolade, dubbing him knight with a tap on each shoulder from the Sword of State and bestowing the riband and star he now wore.

And that had not been the end of the pomp and ceremony. The accolade had been a private occasion between his sovereign and himself; the public expression had been the installation. It was all now a blur of images. Richly dressed in the order’s crimson mantle, lined with white and fastened with gold tassels, its great star on his left, sword and spurs, black velvet cap with a plume of white feathers. The knights moving in solemn procession to Westminster Abbey, two by two in their regalia, with awed crowds on either side. Met by Bath King of Arms, with tabard collar and escutcheon, then ushered into the beautiful fan-vaulted splendour of the Henry VII chapel and gravely welcomed by the Great Master of the Order. Passing within, the walls overhung with crests and banners of great antiquity, helms and achievements in stern display. At the bidding of the Gentleman Usher of the Scarlet Rod, taking his place in the knights’ stalls. There before him the stall plates of others who had preceded him: Clive, Rodney, Howe … and Horatio Nelson.

In solemn splendour he had been inducted, from the hands of the King receiving his knightly honours: an enamelled badge of crowns suspended from a glittering gold collar of interlinked crowns and knots.

The hallowed proceedings held the weight of history. In ages past knights would have spent the night before their ennobling in vigil, then were ceremonially bathed and purified, but since the time of the first King George much of the medieval pomp had been discarded; although on the statutes there was still the requirement of a new knight that he provide and support four men-at-arms to serve in Great Britain whenever called upon. Not to be taken too literally, he had been hastily assured.

Kydd had joined the pantheon of heroes who had been honoured thus by their country, their fame assured in perpetuity. He was entitled, as Nelson was, to a coat-of-arms, his crest and heraldic banner, which would be laid up here on his passing and would be blazoned on the side of his carriage to tell all the world that he had been touched by greatness.

Now, at this august levee, he tried not to be too obvious as he snatched another glimpse of the resplendence of his knightly honours as he bowed and greeted in a haze of unreality.

“Well, Sir Thomas, pray tell, how does it move you, your illustrious translation?”

It was the first lord of the Admiralty, Grenville, smiling broadly.

“Why, sir, it is the most wonderful thing,” Kydd said sincerely. “As I do hold to my heart.”

The smile slipped a little. “As you should, of course. You deserve well of your country and may rejoice in your honouring.”

Was that a tinge of envy?

Yes! There was no sash and star, no collar and badge-even the first lord of the Admiralty had not attained the heights of chivalry that Kydd had.