Quarterdeck (18 page)

Then the fi rst invitations came. The captain disappeared quickly, and Pringle, who had old friends in Halifax, vanished as soon as he was decently able, accompanied by Lieutenant Best.

The others prepared to fi nd their own way ashore.

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“Spit it out, man!” Adams demanded. The note handed in by a messenger was addressed to Renzi, who gravely announced to the wardroom that it seemed both himself and Lieutenant Kydd were invited to the home of the commissioner for lands, Mr Lawrence Greaves.

“Ah, as this eminent gentleman no doubt wishes to honour
Tenacious
in the proper form,” said Adams smoothly, “it would be seemly, therefore, that a more senior offi cer be present. As it happens, gentlemen, I shall be at leisure . . .”

The boat landed them next to the careening wharf where a carriage waited. The stone steps of the landing-place were reasonably dry, but when they moved forward the hems of their boat-cloaks brushed the snow-mush.

On leaving the dockyard area they turned north, away from the town, and had their fi rst glimpses of a new land. Kydd marvelled at the rugged appeal of the snow-patched raw slopes, the countless spruce and jack-pine—and the silence.

At their destination a gravel track led to a mansion, and as they drew up their Falmouth acquaintance came to the door.

“This is most kind in you,” Renzi said, with a bow. “May I present Lieutenant Gervase Adams, sir, who cannot be denied in his desire to learn more of your remarkable realm.”

Greaves acknowledged him with a bow and slight smile. “Calm seas and a prosperous voyage indeed, gentlemen. Your brisk action at the outset of our voyage has been particularly remarked.”

They settled inside by the large fi re. “Calibogus?” Greaves offered. At the puzzled looks he smiled, “A Nova Scotian cure for the wind’s chill—spruce beer stiffened with rum. I believe we will have King’s calibogus, which is taken hot, and is a sovereign remedy.”

Mrs Greaves joined them. “To an English eye, our country

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may appear outlandish, gentlemen, but to us it is an Arcadia indeed,” she said proudly.

“With the fi sheries to bring wealth and substance to your being,” Renzi replied.

“The cod kingdom you will fi nd in the north, in Newfoundland.

Here we glory in trade—you have seen our convoys, hundreds of ships and sailing almost every month . . .”

“Such a crowd of shipping—all from Nova Scotia?” Adams asked, puzzled.

“Ah, no, sir,” Greaves said. “This is the trade of the North American continent—not only Canada but the United States as well. The seas are alive with privateers and other vermin, and without a navy of their own Cousin Jonathan likes to consign his goods here for safe passage across the ocean.”

Renzi rubbed his hands as the generous pinewood fi re blazed, warming and cheering. “This is spring,” he ventured. “I believe in truth it may be said your winter is worse?”

“It can be a sad trial at times,” Greaves replied, “but when the snows come and the great St Lawrence freezes a hundred miles from bank to bank, Halifax with its fi ne harbour is always free for navigation.”

His wife added gravely, “Last winter was dreadful, very severe. Our roads were impossible with ice and snow and we ran uncommonly short of the daily necessaries—the Army could get no beef and the common people were being found frozen in the street! Goodness knows how the maroons survive.”

In his surprise Kydd forgot himself and interjected, “Maroons—

you mean black men fr’m Jamaica?”

“Yes! Can you conceive? They were in rebellion and given settlement here. It quite touches my heart to see their poor dark faces among all the snow and icy winds.” Kydd remembered his times in the West Indies as Master of the King’s Negroes. Could even
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the noble and powerful Juba have survived in this wilderness?

“To be sure, m’ dear!” Greaves said. “Yet in their Maroon Hall you will see some of our best workers, and you remember that when they were offered passage back to Africa, only a few accepted. In my opinion they’re much to be preferred to that homeless riff-raff on the waterfront.”

Adams stirred restlessly and leaned forward. “The Prince.

How do you fi nd having a prince o’ the blood among you all?”

“A fi ne man. He has done much for Halifax, I believe.”

“Did not King George, his father, send him here into exile, and is he not now living in sin with his mistress Julie?”

“We do not speak of such matters,” Greaves said coldly.

“When His Royal Highness arrived, this place was raw and con-temptible. Now it has stature and grace, with buildings worthy of a new civilisation, and is strong enough I fancy to secure all Canada from a descent.”

“Sir, I didn’t mean . . .”

“Do you care to see the town, perhaps? We have time to make a visit and return for dinner.”

“You are very obliging, sir.”

Halifax consisted of one vast rampart, an imposing hill overlooking the harbour. It sloped down to the shoreline, with a massive fortifi cation dominating the crest—the citadel with its enormous fl ag. There, the party stepped out to admire the view.

Greaves had provided fur coats against the chill bluster of the winds, which under lead-coloured skies intermittently drove icy spicules of snow against Kydd’s skin. He shivered at the raw cold.

Around them was broad open ground, cleared to give the cita del a good fi eld of fi re. The vegetation emerging from snow-melt was bleached a drab light-brown and mud splashes showed

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where others had walked before. But the view was impressive: the expanse of harbour below stretched out in the distance, the sea a sombre dark grey. Model-like ships lay at anchor, black and still. And the rugged country, blanketed by the monotonous low black-green of subarctic forest, extended like a dark shadow as far as the eye could see.

Kydd caught Renzi’s eye. His friend was rapt: “This is a land like no other!” he breathed. “One we might say is in perpetual thrall to the kingdom of the north. There is an unknown boreal fastness here that lies for countless miles to the interior, which has its own bleak beauty that dares men . . .”

Greaves smiled as they tramped back to the carriage. “You could not be visiting us at a worse time of the year,” he said,

“after the snow, and before the green-up. You may fi nd it hardly credible, but in no more than a month there will be delicate blooms of wild pear, and trees all along Argyle Street that will surprise you with the green of old England.”

Just below the citadel the fi rst buildings began, substantial, stone structures that would not have been out of place in England. The air was chill and raw but smoky from countless fi res that promised warmth and company. “Now, there’s a sight!” Adams said, with satisfaction, as they reached the town proper. Houses, shops, people, all the evidence of civilised living. The streets were rivers of mud and horse-dung but everywhere there were boardwalks to protect pedestrians’ feet.

After weeks of familiar faces at sea, the variety of passers-by seemed exotic: ladies with cloaks and muffs picking their way delicately, escorted by their gentlemen; a muffi n man shuffl ing along in sharp contrast to a pig-tailed ranger, half-Indian, with cradled long rifl e and bundle. To Kydd’s surprise sedan chairs toiled up the steep slope, a sight he had not seen since his youth.

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“We do tolerably well in the matter of entertainments,”

Greaves murmured. “May I mention the Pontac, a popular coffee-house with quite admirable mutton pies, or Merkel’s, if tea and plum cake is more to your taste?” At Adams’s expression he added drily, “And, of course, there is Manning’s tavern, which is well remarked for its ale and respectability.”

“Sir, there is a service you may do us,” Renzi said. “If you could indicate a chandlery or such that is able to outfi t us in the article of cold-weather clothing . . .”

“That I can certainly do, and close by, at Forman’s—you shall need my advice, I suspect.” The emporium in question was well patronised, and they were met with curious looks from weatherworn men and capable-looking women. An overpowering smell lay on the air.

“Sea gear, if you please,” Greaves told the assistant.

“Goin’ north?” The broad Canadian twang was noticeable against Greaves’s more English tones.

“He means to Newfoundland and the Arctic. Would this be so, do you think?”

“Not in a sail-of-the-line, I believe.”

“Well, Capting, here in Forman’s we has somethin’ fer all hands. Aloft, it’s tarred canvas th’ best, but there’s many prefers their rig less stiff sort o’ thing, uses boiled linseed oil instead.

An’ regular seamen on watch always takes heavy greased home-spun under their gear as well.”

He swung out a set of what seemed to be heavy dark leather gear. “Norsky fi shermen swear by this’n.” Selecting an impossibly sized mitten, he added, “Boiled wool, then felted—you don’t fear fi sh-hooks in the dark wi’ this!”

Watching their faces for a reaction, he chose another garment.

“Er, you gents are goin’ to be more satisfi ed wi’ these, I guess.”

The jacket was of heavy cloth, but much more fl exible. However,

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with every proud fl ourish he made, a rank animal miasma arose, catching at the back of the throat. “See here,” the assistant said, opening the garment and revealing pale, yellowish smears along the seams. “This is guaranteed t’ keep you warm ’n’ dry. Prime bear grease!”

Forewarned by
Lady Jane
schooner, Halifax prepared for the arrival of the North American Squadron from its winter quarters in Bermuda. As if in ironic welcome, the morning’s pale sun withdrew, lowering grey clouds layered the sky with bleak threat and tiny fl akes appeared, whirling about the ship. Kydd shuddered. Obliged to wear outer uniform he had done his best to cram anything he could fi nd beneath it, but the spiteful westerly chilled him to the bone.

Long before the squadron hove in sight, regular thuds from the outer fortresses marked its approach. Six ships in perfect line fi nally emerged around the low hump of George’s Island, indifferent to the weather.

“
Resolution,
seventy-four,” someone said, pointing to the leading ship’s admiral’s fl ag fl oating high on the mast. The rest of the conversation was lost in the concussion and smoke of saluting guns as the two biggest ships present,
Resolution
and
Tenacious,
acknowledged each other’s presence, then deigned to notice the citadel’s grand fl ag.

Just as her fi rst anchor plunged into the sea the fl agship’s launch smacked into the water, and sails on all three masts vanished as one, drawing admiring comments from
Tenacious
’s quarterdeck.

Kydd tensed, aware of a warning glance from Bryant standing next to the captain, but he was ready. In
Resolution,
the white ensign at her mizzen peak descended; simultaneously, in
Tenacious,
the huge red ensign of an independent ship on its
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forty-foot staff aft dipped. In its place, in time with the fl agship, a vast pristine white ensign arose, signifying the formal accession of the 64 to the North American Squadron.

The snow thickened, large fl akes drifting down endlessly and obscuring Kydd’s sight of the fl agship. If he should miss anything . . .

A three-fl ag hoist shot up
Resolution
’s main; Kydd anxiously pulled out his signal book, but Rawson knew without looking.

“ ‘All captains! ’ ” he sang out gleefully, almost cherubic in his many layers of clothing.

Kydd hurried down to the quarterdeck but Houghton had anticipated the summons and was waiting at the entry port, resplendent in full dress and sword. His barge hooked on below the side-steps and, snowfl akes glistening on his boat-cloak, he vanished over the side.

Duty done,
Tenacious
settled back to harbour routine. The snow began to settle. Deck fi tments and spars, brightwork and blacked cannon, all were now topped with a damp white.

As expected, “All offi cers” was signalled at eleven. Boats put off from every English man-o’-war in the harbour to converge on the fl agship; the offi cers were in full dress and sword, with a white ensign to denote their presence.

It was the pomp and majesty of a naval occasion, which Kydd had seen many times before but from the outside. He stood nervously with the others as they were welcomed cordially by the fl ag-lieutenant on the quarterdeck and shown below by a serious-faced midshipman.

The great cabin of
Resolution
extended the whole width of the deck; inside a large, polished table was set for dinner with crystal and silver. Kydd, overawed by the fi nery, took an end chair.

Next to him a lieutenant nodded amiably, and Kydd mumbled

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a polite acknowledgement. The hum of conversation slackened and stopped as Vice Admiral of the White, George Vandeput, commander-in-chief of the North American Squadron, came into the cabin.

The massed scraping of chairs was deafening as the offi cers rose, murmuring a salutation. “D’ye sit, gentlemen,” he called, fi nding the central chair. He whirled the skirts of his frock coat around it as he sank into it, and beamed at the company.

“I’d be obliged at y’r opinion of this Rhenish,” he said affably, as decanters and glasses made their appearance.

Kydd’s glass was fi lled with a golden wine that glittered darkly in the lanthorn light. He tasted it: a harder, mineral fl avour lay beneath the fl owery scent. Unsure, he sipped it again.