Mrs Greaves joined them. ‘To an English eye, our country may appear outlandish, gentlemen, but to us it is an Arcadia indeed,’ she said proudly.
‘With the fisheries to bring wealth and substance to your being,’ Renzi replied.
‘The cod kingdom you will find 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 fire 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 fine 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 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 find having a prince o’ the blood among you all?’
‘A fine 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 contemptible. 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 fortification dominating the crest – the citadel with its enormous flag. 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 citadel a good field of fire. The vegetation emerging from snow-melt was bleached a drab light-brown and mud splashes showed 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 find 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 first 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 fires 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 muffin man shuffling along in sharp contrast to a pig-tailed ranger, half-Indian, with cradled long rifle and bundle. To Kydd’s surprise sedan chairs toiled up the steep slope, a sight he had not seen since his youth.
‘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 outfit 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 weather-worn 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 homespun under their gear as well.’
He swung out a set of what seemed to be heavy dark leather gear. ‘Norsky fishermen swear by this’n.’ Selecting an impossibly sized mitten, he added, ‘Boiled wool, then felted – you don’t fear fish-hooks in the dark wi’ this!’
Watching their faces for a reaction, he chose another garment. ‘Er, you gents are goin’ to be more satisfied wi’ these, I guess.’ The jacket was of heavy cloth, but much more flexible. However, with every proud flourish 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 flakes appeared, whirling about the ship. Kydd shuddered. Obliged to wear outer uniform he had done his best to cram anything he could find 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 finally emerged around the low hump of George’s Island, indifferent to the weather.
&nbs
p; ‘Resolution, seventy-four,’ someone said, pointing to the leading ship’s admiral’s flag floating 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 flag.
Just as her first anchor plunged into the sea the flagship’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 forty-foot staff aft dipped. In its place, in time with the flagship, a vast pristine white ensign arose, signifying the formal accession of the 64 to the North American Squadron.
The snow thickened, large flakes drifting down endlessly and obscuring Kydd’s sight of the flagship. If he should miss anything . . .
A three-flag 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, snowflakes glistening on his boat-cloak, he vanished over the side.
Duty done, Tenacious settled back to harbour routine. The snow began to settle. Deck fitments and spars, brightwork and blacked cannon, all were now topped with a damp white.
As expected, ‘All officers’ was signalled at eleven. Boats put off from every English man-o’-war in the harbour to converge on the flagship; the officers 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 flag-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 finery, took an end chair.
Next to him a lieutenant nodded amiably, and Kydd mumbled 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 officers rose, murmuring a salutation. ‘D’ye sit, gentlemen,’ he called, finding 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 filled with a golden wine that glittered darkly in the lanthorn light. He tasted it: a harder, mineral flavour lay beneath the flowery scent. Unsure, he sipped it again.
Vandeput looked down the table but most officers remained prudently noncommittal. Renzi sat three places along, holding his glass up to the light and sniffing appreciatively. ‘A fine workmanlike Rheingau,’ he said, ‘or possibly a Palatinate, though not as who should say a Spätlese.’
The cabin fell quiet as several commanders and a dozen senior lieutenants held their breath at a junior lieutenant offering an opinion on his admiral’s taste in wine, but Vandeput merely grunted. ‘Ah, yes. I feel inclined t’ agree – a trocken it is not, but you’ll excuse me in th’ matter of taste. Its origin is a Danish prize whose owner seemed not t’ value the more southerly whites.’
Renzi nodded and the admiral shot him an intent look, then steepled his fingers. ‘Gentlemen, f’r those newly arrived for the season, a welcome.’ He held attention while he gazed around the cabin, recognising some, politely acknowledging others. ‘We have some fresh blood here following our famous victory at Camperdown so I’m taking the opportunity t’ meet you all. The North American Squadron – often overlooked these days, but of crucial importance, I declare. The convoy of our mast-ships alone justifies our being. Where would the sea service be without its masts and spars? An’ half the world’s trade flows through this port, including the West Indies, of course.’
Kydd was transfixed by the glitter of the admiral’s jewelled star, the gold facings of his coat, the crimson sash, which were grand and intimidating, but Vandeput’s pleasant manner and avuncular shock of white hair set him almost at his ease.
‘Therefore our chief interest is in the protection of this trade. I rather fancy we won’t be troubled overmuch by French men-o’-war – rather, it’s these damn privateers that try my patience. Yet I would not have you lose sight of the fact that we are a fleet – to this end I require that every ship under my command acts together as one, concentrating our force when ordered, and for so doing you signal lieutenants shall be my very nerves.’
A rustle of amusement passed around the table: the flagship’s smartness was well marked and life would not be easy for these junior officers.
‘We shall be exercising at sea in company as opportunities arise. I commend my signal instructions to you, with particular attention to be given to the signification of manoeuvres. My flag-lieutenant will be happy to attend to any questions later.
‘I wish you well of your appointment to the North American Squadron, gentlemen, and ask that you enjoy the entertainment.’
A buzz of talk began as the doors swung wide and dishes of food were brought in. Kydd was about to help himself to the potted shrimps when the stout officer next to him half stood over the biggest salver as its cover was removed. ‘Aha! The roast cod. This is worth any man’s hungering. Shall you try it, sir?’
The fish was splendid – buttery collops of tender white, and Kydd forgot his duty until the officer introduced himself: ‘Robertson, second of the Acorn. Damn fine cook our admiral has, don’t y’ know?’
‘Kydd, fifth o’ Tenacious.’ He hesitated, but Robertson was more concerned with his fish, which was vanishing fast. ‘Acorn – the nine-pounder lying alongside?’
‘Is her,’ Robertson agreed. ‘I suggest only the chicken pie afore the main, by the way. Ol’ Georgie always serves caribou, an’ I mean to show my appreciation in spades.’
‘May I?’ Kydd had noticed the disappearing fish and was pleased to have remembered his manners so far as to help him to a handsome-sized slice of cold chicken pie. The Rheingau was perfectly attuned to the cold food and his reserve melted a little. ‘Nine-pounder frigate – hard livin’ indeed.’
‘Aye,’ Robertson said, his mouth full, ‘but better’n a ship-of-the-line.’
‘And how so?’
‘Prize money, o’ course. Ol’ Georgie’s no fool – sends us out all the days God gives after anything that floats, French, Spanish, Scowegian – even American, if we can prove she has a cargo bound for the enemy. If it’s condemned in court, cargo ’n’ all, then shares all round.’
The rumours of caribou were correct, and to the accompaniment of a good Margaux, the dark flesh was tender with an extraordinary sweet wild meat flavour. Kydd sat back, satiated. Renzi was toying with a breast of spruce partridge while deep in serious talk with an older, lean-faced officer.
Kydd stole a look at the admiral: he was genially in conversation with a hard-looking officer to his left. Kydd wondered at the simple fact that he himself was sharing a meal with such august company.
‘Wine with you, sir!’ It was the officer opposite, who had not said much before.
Kydd held his glass forward. ‘Prize money b’ the bucketful!’ he toasted.
The other seemed restless. ‘That would be fine, sir, but while we’re topping it the sybarite, others are fighting. And by that I mean winning the glory. There’s no promotion to be gained by lying comfortably at two
anchors in some quiet harbour – only in a right bloody battle.’ He held up his wine to the light and studied it gloomily. ‘To think it – we’ve been thrown out of the Med since last year, there’ve been descents on Ireland, and at home I hear Pitt has admitted the collapse and destruction of the coalition and none else in sight. We stand quite alone. Can things be much worse? I doubt it.’
Kydd said stoutly, ‘I’m come fr’m the Caribbee and I can tell you, we’ve been takin’ the French islands one b’ one, and now the Spanish Main is ours. And who c’n doubt? The Mongseers have reached their limits, baled up in Europe tight as a drum. To the Royal Navy, gaol-keeper! And may she lose the keys!’ But the officer remained grave and quiet. Kydd frowned. ‘Do ye doubt it, sir?’ The wine was bringing a flush, but he didn’t care; he seemed to be holding his own in this particular conversation.
With a weary smile the officer put down his glass. ‘I cannot conceive where you have been this last half-year that you have not in the least understood the motions of the French Directory – intrigues at the highest, or at the point of a bayonet, they have now secured the subjugation or acquiescence of the whole of the civilised world.
‘They are arrogant, they care not who they antagonise, for in every battle they triumph, whole nations kneel at their bidding, and for what purpose? While these lie beaten, they have a mighty general, Buonaparte, who is ready to venture forth on the world! Mark my words, before this year’s end there will be such a bursting forth by the French as will make the world stare!’
He leaned back in his chair and resumed his wine, looking reprovingly at Kydd. Deliberately, Kydd turned back to Robertson, who was now engrossed with the task of picking at a pretty corner dish. ‘Sweetbreads?’ he mumbled, and offered the dish.
Kydd took one and tried to think of an intelligent remark to make. ‘The Americans’ll be amused at our troubles wi’ the French,’ he said hopefully.
Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure Page 13