Quarterdeck (24 page)

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Julian Stockwin

The man must have lost his youth early in this hard country, Kydd refl ected. “I’d be much obliged if he could talk with me a little about m’ uncle,” he said.

“He can’t.” At Kydd’s sharp look he added, “He’s bin buried.

In the Ol’ Burying Ground.”

“Do you remember Matthew Kydd?”

“No.” It was fl at and fi nal.

Pybus was unsympathetic. “Chasing after long-lost relatives is seldom a profi table exercise. Now you have the task before you of communicating grief and loss where before there was harmless wondering. Well done, my boy.”

Kydd sharpened his pen and addressed himself to the task.

How to inform his father that his brother was no more, and had met his end in such a hideous way? The plain facts—simply a notifi cation? Or should he spare his father by implying that his death was from natural causes? Kydd had never been one for letters and found the task heavy-going.

He decided to wait for Renzi’s return. There was no urgency, and Renzi could readily fi nd words for him, fi ne, elegant words that would meet the occasion. He put aside his paper and went up on deck.

The master had a telescope trained down the harbour. “D’ye see that schooner, sir? Country-built an’ every bit as good as our own Devon craft.”

Kydd took the telescope. “Aye, not as full in th’ bow, an’ has sweet lines on her.”

He kept the glass on the vessel as Hambly added, “An’ that’s because of the ice up the St Lawrence, o’ course. They’ll ship a bowgrace in two or three weeks, when the ice really breaks up.

Nasty t’ take one o’ them fl oes on the bow full tilt, like.”

The approaching vessel stayed prettily and shortened sail

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prepar atory to anchoring, Kydd watching her. She was a new vessel, judging by the colour of her sails and running rigging. He shifted the view to her trim forefoot, pausing to admire her fi gurehead—a Scottish lass holding what appeared to be a fi stful of heather, a striking fi gure in a streaming cloak with a pair of birds at her feet.

Birds? He steadied the telescope and, holding his breath, peered hard. He kept his glass on the schooner as she glided past. There was no mistake, they were Cornish choughs.

“I’ll be damned!” Kydd said softly. Then he swung on Hambly.

“Tell me,” he said urgently, “do y’ know which yard it was built this’n?”

“Can’t say as I does.” Hambly seemed surprised at Kydd’s sudden energy. “There’s scores o’ shipyards up ’n’ down the coast, most quite able t’ build seagoin’ craft o’ this size.”

It might be a coincidence—but Kydd felt in his heart it was not.

“The yawl ahoy,” he hailed over the side to
Tenacious
’s boat’s crew, then turned back to Hambly. “I’m going t’ see that schooner, Mr Hambly.”

The master of the
Flora MacDonald
did not want to pass the time of day with a lieutenant, Royal Navy. His cargo was to be landed as soon as convenient, and although an impress warrant was not current, who could trust the Navy? However, he did allow that the schooner was new and from St John’s Island in the great Gulf of St Lawrence, specifi cally, the yard of Arthur Owen in New London.

Was it conceivable that his uncle had survived and was now working as a ship-carver on an island somewhere on the other side of Nova Scotia? It made no sense to Kydd. Why hadn’t his uncle returned to take up his business? It was coincidence, it had to be.

But he knew he would regret it if he did not follow up this tantalising sign. A quick glance at a chart showed St John’s Island no
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more than a couple of days’ sail with a fair wind and if Canso strait was free of ice.

Although
Tenacious
was required in port by the absence of the admiral and his fl agship, activity aboard was light, and there was no diffi culty with his request for a week’s leave.

It was probably only someone continuing his uncle’s particular carving signature, but the expedition would be a welcome change and would give him a chance to see something of Canada. He asked Adams if he wished to come, and was not surprised at his regrets—his diary was full for weeks ahead.

Kydd was going to adventure alone.

Vessels were making the run to the newly ice-free St John’s Island with supplies after the winter and Kydd quickly found a berth, in a coastal schooner, the
Ethel May.
Wearing comfortable, plain clothes, he swung in his small sea-bag.

The beat up the coast was chill and wet, but the schooner’s fore and aft rig allowed her to lie close to the north-easterly and she made good time; Cape Breton Island, the hilly passage of Canso strait, then the calmer waters in the gulf, and early in the morning of the second day they closed with St John’s Island.

It was a fl at, barely undulating coastline with red cliffs and contrasting pale beaches. The dark carpet of forest was blotched in places with clearings, and even before they gybed and passed the long narrow sandspit into New London Bay Kydd had seen signs of shipbuilding—gaunt ribs on slipways, timber stands, distant smoke from pitch fi res.

In the sheltered waters the schooner glided towards a landing stage with a scatter of tidy weatherboard buildings beyond.

“Where y’ bound?”

“Owen’s yard,” Kydd answered.

The skipper pointed along the foreshore. “Around th’ point,

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one o’ the oldest on St John’s.” He pronounced it “Sinjuns.”

“Thank ye,” Kydd said, feeling for coins to put into the man’s outstretched hand. It had been a quick trip, and sleeping in a borrowed hammock in the tiny saloon was no imposition.

Kydd pushed past the crowd and the buckboard carts that had materialised on the schooner’s arrival, hefted his sea-bag and set out.

The road was slush and red mud that the passing inhabitants seemed to ignore. Women wore old-fashioned bonnets and carried large bundles, their skirts long enough for modesty but revealing sturdy boots beneath. Men passed in every kind of dress; utility and warmth took fi rst place over fashion. All looked at Kydd with curiosity—few strangers came to this out-of-the-way place.

The buildings were all of a style, mainly timbered, with high, steeply sloping roofs; the fi elds were wooden-fenced, not a stone wall in sight. English hamlets had lanes that meandered over the countryside; here there were bold straight lines in everything from settlements to roads.

The shipyard was not big: two slipways and a jetty, a black-smith’s shop and buildings presumably housing the workforce.

Kydd tried to keep his hopes in check but he felt a thrill of anticipation as he approached one of the half-built hulls. “Is this Mr Owen’s yard?” he hailed shipwrights at work high up on staging.

“It is,” one called.

“Th’ one that built the
Flora MacDonald?
”

“The very same.”

“Could y’ tell me if you’ve heard of a Mr Kydd—Matthew Kydd?” blurted Kydd.

“Can’t say as we heard any o’ that name on th’ island, friend.”

“I’d like t’ meet the ship-carver who worked on her fi gure head, if y’ please,” Kydd said.

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“We don’t do carvin’ in this yard. Ye’ll want Josh Ellis.”

Ellis ran a small business in town. Kydd found the shop and a well-built man of about thirty came to the counter. “I’d like t’

speak with Mr Ellis,” Kydd said.

“That’s me.”

He was obviously not old enough to be his uncle; Kydd tried to hide his disappointment. “Did you work the fi gurehead o’ the
Flora MacDonald,
Mr Ellis?”

“Flora MacDonald?”
he refl ected. “That’s right, I remember now, pretty little schooner from Arthur Owen. Do ye wish one for y’self?”

“Fine work,” Kydd answered carefully. “Did ye carve the birds an’ all?”

“I did.”

“What sort o’ birds are they, then?”

“Well, I guess any ol’ bird, nothin’ special.”

“Nobody told you how t’ carve them?”

“What is it y’ wants? Not a carving, I fi gure,” Ellis said, defensive.

“I’m sorry if I offended—y’ see, those birds are special, Cornish choughs. You only fi nd ’em in England an’ they’re rare.”

Ellis said nothing, watching Kydd.

“An’ they remind me of m’ uncle. You fi nd ’em on the coat-of-arms of our earl, in Guildford.” There was still no response.

“I came here because I thought I’d fi nd out somethin’ of him—

Kydd, Matthew Kydd.”

“No one b’ that name on the island, I c’n tell y’ now.” He folded his arms across his chest.

Kydd saw there was no point in continuing. The whole thing looked like coincidence, and if there was anything more he could not think why. “Well, it was only a fancy. I’ll wish ye good day, sir.”

• • •

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He decided to head back to his ship. The landing-stage was close, but there were no vessels alongside and it was deserted. He hesitated, then made for the small general store in the main street to enquire about a passage back to Halifax.

“None I knows of t’day.” The shopkeeper stroked his jaw.

“Could be one’s goin’ t’morrow or the next—we don’t have a reg’lar-goin’ packet, only traders.”

Kydd lumped his bag on the counter. “Seems I’m stranded . . .

ye have an inn, b’ chance?”

“No, sir,” he said with amusement, “but y’ might try Mrs Beckwith. Her husband were a seagoin’ gentleman.”

“Yes indeed,” said Mrs Beckwith. “I have a room fi t fer a adm’ral, bless ye. Stow yer dunnage an’ tonight I’ll bring alongside as fi ne a line o’ vittles as’ll stick t’ yer ribs.”

Kydd decided to walk off his expectations; the letter was waiting to be written when he returned to
Tenacious
and he was in no rush to begin it. Besides, the tranquillity of this strange land was appealing: tiny shoots of green were now appearing at the sunny edges of fi elds, even fl owers peeping up through winter-bleached grass. The silence stretched away into the distance. It could not have been more remote from war and the striving of nations.

“So far fr’m the Old Country,” Mrs Beckwith said, as the dinner was brought in by a well-built young man. “Oh—this is Mr Cunnable, he boards wi’ me too.”

“Er, yes. That is, it’s a long way t’ England.”

“Mr Kydd, help y’self. This is our salt cod, an’ we got a pile more o’ them potatoes. Now, would ye mind tellin’ me, how do th’ ladies in London Town have their hair this year? Heard tell, high style well powdered ’n’ greased over y’r pads is quite past.”

“Thank you, Mrs Beckwith, salt cod will be fi ne with me.

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Er, the ladies o’ quality I think now are windin’ it up and fi xin’

it to the top of their heads. This is damn fi ne fi sh even if I do say so. But these leaves, I can’t recollect we have any of them in England.”

“Sour dock an’ sheep sorrel. Gives winter vittles a mort more fl avour. So you’re a Navy offi cer! Then y’ must’ve been to some o’

them great balls an’ banquets with our Prince Edward! They do say they’re goin’ to change the name o’ this island after him.”

“We’ve only been here a short while, an’ our admiral is away in Newfoundland, but I’m sure we’ll be invited soon.” Kydd lifted his glass; in it was a golden brown liquid, which he tasted gingerly. It was a species of ale, with an elusive tang of malt and spice.

“Seed-wheat wine—made it m’self. Tell me, Mr Kydd, in England do they . . .” She paused, frowning, at a knock on the door. “’Scuse me.”

Kydd nibbled at what appeared to be a peppery-fl avoured dried seaweed and listened to Mrs Beckwith’s shrill voice rising, scolding, and another, quieter. She returned eventually, fl ushed and irritable. “It’s very wrong t’ disturb ye, Mr Kydd, but there’s a woman here wants t’ see you an’ won’t go away.”

Kydd got up. “She’s Irish,” warned Mrs Beckwith. “If y’ like, shall I ask Mr Cunnable t’ set the dog on her?”

“No, no. I’ll come.”

A woman in a shawl hung back in the darkness and spoke quietly: “Good evenin’ to yez, sorr—an’ you’re the gennelman just come ter the island an’ asking after his uncle?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Then I’m t’ tell ye, if tomorrow at noon y’ comes with me, you’ll meet someone as knows what happened t’ him.”

The next day, dressed economically, she was waiting motionless

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down the road. Kydd saw that, despite her lined face, she held herself proudly. Without a word she turned and walked away from the town.

Where the river shoreline came close she turned down a path.

It led to the river and a birchbark canoe with an Indian standing silently by it. The woman muttered some words and the Indian turned his black eyes on Kydd and grunted.

The canoe was much bigger than he had imagined, twenty feet long at least, and made of birchbark strips. There were cedar ribs as a crude framework and seams sewn with a black root. It had half a dozen narrow thwarts and Kydd was surprised to see it quite dry.

In the middle part, a good fi ve feet across, there was a mound of baggage. “If ye’d kindly get in like this, sorr,” the woman said.

She leaned across the canoe until she held both sides, then, transferring her weight, stepped in neatly and sat. “Be sure t’ stand in th’ very middle,” she added.

Kydd did as he was told, sitting behind her in the front part.

The Indian shoved off, swung in, and began to ply his paddle in a powerful rhythm that quickly had them out in the river and gliding along rapidly. He worked silently, his face set like stone, and the woman did not offer any conversation.

They left cleared land behind, dark green anonymous forest stretching away endlessly on both sides. Eventually the Indian ceased paddling, then spun the canoe round and grounded it at the forest’s edge.