Quarterdeck

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘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 flask. ‘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 flask 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 flask 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 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 find 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 flour on Sackville Street. Fine-looking fellow.’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Kydd.

  A look of embarrassment flashed over Cox’s face. ‘Ah.’ He gave a warning glance to his wife, whose hand flew 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 officers 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 office was on Barrington Street, not far from Grand Parade, and the man inside was most obliging. ‘Yes, indeed, I remember the story well. A fine man, come to such a fate. Uncle, you say. I’ll find the issue presently. If you would be so good . . .’

  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 find Gilman, ask what kind of man his uncle was, find 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 office, 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 baffled 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.’

  The man must have lost his youth early in this hard country, Kydd reflected. ‘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 flat and final.

  Pybus was unsympathetic. ‘Chasing after long-lost relatives is seldom a profitable 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 notification? 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 find words for him, fine, 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 floes on the bow full tilt, like.’

  The approaching vessel stayed prettily and shortened sail preparatory 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 figurehead – a Scottish lass holding what appeared to be a fistful of heather, a striking figure 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 barque 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, specifically, 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 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 flagship, activity aboard was light, and there was no difficulty 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 flat, 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 fires.

  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, 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 first 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 fields 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 blacksmith’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 figurehead, if y’ please,’ Kydd said.

  ‘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 figurehead o’ the Flora MacDonald, Mr Ellis?’

  ‘Flora MacDonald?’ he reflected. ‘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 figure,’ Ellis said, defensive.

  ‘I’m sorry if I offended – y’ see, those birds are special, Cornish choughs. You only find ’em in England an’ they’re rare.’

  Ellis said nothing, watching Kydd.

  ‘An’ they remind me of m’ uncle. You find ’em on the coat-of-arms of our earl, in Guildford.’ There was still no response. ‘I came here because I thought I’d find 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.’

  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. D’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 fit fer a adm’ral, bless ye. Stow yer dunnage an’ tonight I’ll bring alongside as fine 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 fields, even flowers 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 fine with me. Er, the ladies o’ quality I think now are windin’ it up and fixin’ it to the top of their heads. This is damn fine fish 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 flavour. So you’re a Navy officer! 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 m
e.’

  Kydd nibbled at what appeared to be a peppery-flavoured dried seaweed and listened to Mrs Beckwith’s shrill voice rising, scolding, and another, quieter. She returned eventually, flushed 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 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 birch bark 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 five 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.