Quarterdeck (23 page)

groaned Pringle. The mail-boat had arrived back from the dockyard and the wardroom sat about the table opening letters and savouring news from home.

Adams, clutching six, retired to his cabin but Bampton slipped his into a pocket and sipped his brandy, balefully watching the animation of the others.

Kydd was trying to make sense of his borrowed
Essays on
Politesse Among Nations,
despairing of the turgid phraseology; his restraint in matters social, and sudden access of interest in lit-erature, was generally held to be owing to some obscure improving impulse, and he was mostly left to it.

“You don’t care for letters, Mr Kydd,” Pybus said, with acerbity. He had received none himself, but was still scratching away lazily with his quill.

Kydd looked up and saw that there was indeed one letter left on the table. “For me?” He picked it up. “From m’ sister, Doctor,” he said. She wrote closely, and as usual had turned the page and written again at right-angles through the fi rst to be frugal in the postage.

“Well?” demanded Pybus.

But Kydd was not listening.

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Dear Thomas—or should I say Nicholas as well? I do hope you are keeping well, my dears, and wrapping up warm. The willows are budding early along the Wey here in Guildford and . . .

The words rushed on, and Kydd smiled to picture Cecilia at her task. Her evident concern for them both warmed him but her admiration for him as an offi cer in the King’s Navy sparked melancholy.

A hurried paragraph concluded the letter:

. . . and Father says that it would be of service to him should you enquire after his brother Matthew. You remember they came to some sort of a misunderstanding an age ago, and his brother sailed to Philadelphia?

Papa says that was in 1763. Since then we have heard nothing of him, except that in the War for Independence he was a loyalist and went north with the others to Halifax in about 1782. Thomas, it would so please Papa to know that he is alive and well—do see if you can fi nd him!

Of course, his uncle: an adventurer in this wilderness land, carving a future for himself—or perhaps he was a successful trader, even a shipowner in the profi table Atlantic trade routes.

“News?” Pybus said drily.

“Oh, aye. Seems it could be m’ uncle is here, Doctor, in Halifax. Who would credit it?” A Kydd ashore, possibly one who had achieved eminence in society and was highly thought of in the community. For the fi rst time in a long while he felt a rush of excitement. “I do believe I’m t’ visit him today.”

“Kydd—Mr Matthew Kydd.” It was strange uttering the words.

There were not so many Kydds in the world that it felt anything other than his own name.

The man he had stopped considered for a moment. “Can’t say as I’ve heard of the gentleman, sir,” he said fi nally. “You may wish to try Linnard’s the tailors. You’ll understand they know
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all the gentry hereabouts.” But Kydd was tiring of the chase. It was becoming clear that his uncle was far from being a notable in Halifax. It had been foolish of him to imagine that one of modest origins could have pretences at high offi ce—but this did not mean that he had not secured a lesser, well-respected place in society.

He toiled up the street, a curious mix of fi ne stone edifi ces and shoddy clapboard buildings, but it was not practical to think of entering and asking at random: there had to be a more effi -

cient way. An idea came to him. He would contact Mr Greaves, the commissioner for lands. If his uncle was in any form a landowner he would know him. Kydd brightened as he savoured the effect on his uncle of receiving a card out of the blue from a Lieutenant Kydd shortly about to call.

The land registry was a stiff walk well to the south, and Kydd set out along Barrington Street, past the elegance of St Paul’s Church. A line of soldiers was marching up and down on the large open area to his right, and when Kydd approached, the young offi cer in command halted his men and brought them to attention, then wheeled about and saluted. Kydd lifted his hat to him, which seemed to satisfy. With a further fl ourish of orders the soldiers resumed their marching.

Then an unwelcome thought struck. Supposing his uncle had fallen on hard times or was still a humble tradesman? It would make no difference to him—but if Greaves thought he was of lowly origins it might prove embarrassing . . . He would move cautiously and fi nd out fi rst.

“To be sure, a Kydd,” murmured the clerk, at the desk of the weathered timber structure near the old burying ground. “There was one such, resident of Sackville Street, I seem to recall, but that was some years ago. Let me see . . .” He polished his spectacles and opened a register. “Ah—we have here one Matthew Kydd, bachelor, established as trader and landowner in the year 1782,

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property on Sackville Street . . . Hmmm—here we have a contribution to the Sambro light, er, the usual taxation receipts . . .”

It was certainly his uncle. At last! How would he greet him?

He had never met the man: he had sailed from England well before Kydd had been born. Should it be “Uncle Matthew” or perhaps a more formal salutation?

“. . . which means, sir, we have nothing later than the year 1791.”

Kydd’s face dropped. “So—”

“We fi nd no evidence at all for his continued existence after then. I’m sorry.”

“None?”

“No, sir. You may wish to consult the parish books of St Paul’s for record of his decease—there was fever here at the time, you understand.”

“Thank ye, sir.” Kydd made to leave, but another clerk was hovering nearby.

“Sir, you may be interested in this . . .” They moved to the other end of the offi ce. “My wife admired Mr Kydd’s work,” he said, “which is why she bought this for me.” It was a handsomely carved horn of plenty, taking bold advantage of the twisted grain of the wood, and supported at the base by a pair of birds. “You will understand that time is on our hands in the winter. Mr Kydd used to occupy his in carving, which I think you will agree is in the highest possible taste . . .”

Kydd stroked the polished wood, something his own near relative had created: it felt alive.

“Yes, those birds,” the clerk mused. “I confess I have no knowledge of them at all—they’re not to be seen in this part of Canada. But Mr Kydd always includes them in his work. It’s a custom here, a species of signature for claiming fi ne work as your own.”

“But I recognise it well enough,” Kydd said. “This is y’r
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Cornish chough, sir. And it’s the bird you fi nd in the coat-of-arms of our own Earl Onslow of Clandon and Guildford.”

The man looked back at him with a bemused kindliness, but there was nothing more to learn here. Kydd emerged into the day: he was not yet due back aboard so his hunt would continue.

But at St Paul’s there was no entry for Matthew Kydd, in births, deaths or marriages. A whole hour of searching in the gloom of the old church sacristy yielded only two entries in the tithe-book, and a smudged but tantalising reference to banns being called.

A mystery: at one time he had existed, now he did not. It was time to face the most unsatisfactory result of all: his uncle was not in Halifax but somewhere else in Canada—or, for that matter, he could be anywhere. And it explained why no one seemed to know of a Kydd in Halifax. He would regretfully conclude his search and write to his father accordingly.

“If you’d be so good, Tom . . .” Adams seemed anxious, but it did not take much imagination to grasp why he would want to absent himself from church that Sunday morning.

“I trust she’s so charming you hold it of no account that you put your immortal soul to hazard?” Kydd said. The captain had made it plain that he wanted an offi cer from
Tenacious
at the morning service on Sundays, and it was Adams’s turn.

Kydd had no strong feelings about religion, although he enjoyed the hearty singing of the grand old hymns. With his Methodist upbringing he was inured to sitting inactive for long periods.

Army offi cers with ladies on their arms swept into the church.

Other ranks waited respectfully outside and would crowd in later. Kydd took off his hat and made his way inside, settling for an outside seat in a pew towards the front, nodding to the one or two other naval offi cers scattered about.

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A pleasant-faced woman sat down next to him and fl ashed him an impish smile. “There, my dear,” said the stern, stiffl y dressed man by her, settling a rug about her knees.

“Thank you,” she said, and as soon as it was seemly to do so, turned to Kydd and whispered, “I don’t think I’ve seen you here, sir.”

“Lieutenant Kydd of the
Tenacious,
” he whispered back, unsure of the etiquette of the occasion.

“Mrs Cox. Your fi rst visit to Halifax, Lieutenant?”

The church was fi lling fast but the front pew was still deco-rously empty.

“Yes, Mrs Cox. Er, a fi ne place f’r trade.”

“Indeed. But when I was a little girl it was a horrid place, believe me, Lieutenant.” She smiled again.

There was a damp, penetrating cold in the cavernous interior of the church, barely relieved by two fat-bellied stoves smoking in corners. Kydd shivered and wished he had brought a watch-coat.

Mrs Cox fumbled in her muff. “Here you are, Lieutenant,”

she said, proffering a silver fl ask. “Get some inside and you won’t feel the cold.” It was prime West Indian rum. At his ill-concealed astonishment she pressed it on him. “Go on—we all have to.” Aghast at the thought of drinking in church, Kydd hesitated, then, red-faced, took a pull, but as he lowered the fl ask he saw an august personage and his lady sweeping up the aisle.

Crimson with embarrassment, Kydd froze. With a gracious inclination of her head, the woman smiled and continued. Kydd handed back the fl ask and settled for the service, trying not to notice the distracting stream of servants bringing hot bricks for the feet of the quality in the front row.

Outside, after the service, when they passed pleasantries, Kydd remembered that Mrs Cox had been born in Halifax.

Impulsively he asked, “I wonder, Mrs Cox, can you remember
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less’n ten years ago, a gentleman by the name of Kydd, Matthew Kydd?”

She considered at length. “I can’t say that I do, Lieutenant. A relation?”

“My uncle—I’m tryin’ to fi nd him.”

Mr Cox pulled his ear as if trying to recall something. “Er, there was a gentleman by that name, I think—recollect he was in corn and fl our on Sackville Street. Fine-looking fellow.”

“That’s him,” said Kydd.

A look of embarrassment fl ashed over Cox’s face. “Ah.” He gave a warning glance to his wife, whose hand fl ew to her mouth.

“Then I’m truly sorry to tell you . . . he is no more,” Cox said quietly.

Kydd swallowed.

“Yes. In about the year ’ninety—or was it ’ninety-one?—he went to Chignecto with his partner looking out prospects, but unhappily was mortally injured by a bear.”

“I remember. It was in the newspaper—such a dreadful thing,”

Mrs Cox added. “It never does to disturb them in their sleep, the brutes.”

Cox drew himself up. “I’m grieved that your search has led you to this, sir. I do hope that the remainder of your time in Halifax will be more felicitous. Good day to you, Lieutenant.”

As was usual for offi cers in harbour, Kydd’s duties were light and he felt he owed it to his father to gather the circumstances of his brother’s demise. Possibly he had family, a widow. He would get the details from the newspaper and pass them on.

The
Halifax Journal
offi ce was on Barrington Street, not far from Grand Parade, and the man inside was most obliging. “Yes, indeed, I remember the story well. A fi ne man, come to such a fate. Uncle, you say. I’ll fi nd the issue presently. If you would be so good . . .”

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177

On a table near the compositing desk Kydd learned the sad details of his uncle’s death. He had gone to Chignecto, on the other side of Nova Scotia, exploring prospects in muskrat and beaver.

His business partner, an Edward Gilman, had accompanied him, but of the two who had set out, only one returned: Gilman. He had buried his friend and partner at the edge of the wilderness by the sea, then brought back the news.

Judging by the upset expressed in the newspaper, Matthew Kydd had been a man of some substance and standing and was sorely missed. Kydd leafed idly through the rest of the paper.

Out in the street he determined that before he wrote to his father he would fi nd Gilman, ask what kind of man his uncle was, fi nd out something about his end.

Sackville Street was just round the corner, steep and colourful with timber dwellings and shops; some were worn and weathered, others painted brown and yellow or red and white. He found a corn factor with a faded sign telling him that this was Gilman’s establishment. There was no mention of “Kydd.”

He went into the dusty offi ce, where he was met by a suspicious-looking clerk. “May I speak with Mr Gilman?” Kydd asked.

“Concernin’ what?”

“That’s my business,” Kydd said.

The man hesitated, clearly baffl ed by Kydd’s naval uniform.

“Mr Gilman,” he called. “Gennelman wants t’ see you.”

Kydd had the feeling of eyes on him. Eventually a hard- looking man appeared, his face showing distrust. “I’m Gilman. Yes?”

“I think y’ knew Matthew Kydd?”

Gilman tensed but said nothing.

“You were with him when he was killed by a bear?”

“You’re English,” Gilman said slowly.

“He was m’ uncle, came t’ Canada in ’seventy-eight.”

Gilman’s expression altered slightly. “I weren’t with him. That was my pap.”