Quarterdeck (25 page)

“Nearly there,” the woman said. They left the Indian to follow with the baggage and took a footpath into the trees. Kydd felt as if the forest was closing in; with its hard green conifers uniformly shaped to shed snow, unknown cries and sudden snapping in the undergrowth, it was utterly different from the soft deciduous woodland of England. Kydd thought of his uncle,
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killed by a bear that had burst from the trees, and was afraid.

Why had he agreed to this madness?

Suddenly he glimpsed the dark blue of water, and a grey spiral of smoke. “Here!” the woman said happily, as they came upon a cluster of log cabins in a patch of land leading down to the sea.

She called, and a man appeared. He stood on the porch of one of the largest cabins, a big man, long-haired and with a deep chest; he wore moose-hide worked with porcupine quills.

“My husband Joseph Bourne, sorr.”

The man shook hands with Kydd, looking at him keenly. Kydd felt the strength and hardness in his clasp. “I hear you knew my uncle, Matthew Kydd, Mr Bourne,” Kydd said.

“Very close t’ me, he were,” Bourne said at length, in a deep Canadian burr. “Come inside, sit y’self down.”

The cabin was snug and warm with a steeply sloping cedar-shingle roof; the logs chinked smoothly on the inside. Skins and two bear hams hung from the high beams. Woven Indian matting decorated the walls and a pair of long guns was crossed above the fi re. It smelt pungently of smoke and human living.

Two rocking chairs faced the fi re, and the men sat together.

“M’ wife got t’ hear of you in town,” he said, in a voice both soft and slow. “Thought I could help.”

Kydd murmured something, conscious of the man’s look.

“You’re fr’m the Old Country,” Bourne said. “Fr’m what part do ye hail?”

“Guildford, which is in Surrey.”

“Very pretty, I heard.”

“Mr Bourne, ye said you’d tell me of m’ uncle Matthew,” said Kydd.

“All in God’s good time, friend,” Bourne said, and leaned round his chair. “Colleen, c’n you fetch us a jug o’ beer, darlin’, and some moose jerky? Our guest’s come a long way t’ be here.

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Now, y’r uncle Matthew.” He collected a long pipe and tobacco pouch from the chimneypiece above the fi re. “Need t’ think,” he said, as he stuffed the bowl and got a light from the fi re. When he had it going to satisfaction, he started: “He came t’ Nova Scotia fr’m the Colonies in ’seventy-eight—wanted no truck wi’ revolutions an’ that. Set himself up in business, an’ did well for hisself.

Then got destroyed by a bear in Chignecto country.”

Kydd tried to hide his irritation—that much he already knew, and if the man simply wanted company . . . “Sir, it would oblige me greatly, should you—”

“His wife died in Halifax o’ the fever. Had three bairns, all taken. That was in ’eighty-four.” He drew long on his pipe, staring into the fi re. “After that, well, I guess he took a diff’rent slant on life. Got inta business, corn tradin’ an’ such. Did well, laid out silver in the right place an’ got him a gov’ment contract f’r the Army, set up in Sackville Street, noticed by th’ governor . . .

but never remarried.”

“What kind o’ man d’ye think he was?”

Bourne poured from a stone jug into colourful pottery tankards and offered one. From the woodsy taste, Kydd recognised it as spruce beer—it had a compelling bitterness and he decided it was an acquired taste.

“A straight arrow, I reckon. Hard worker but . . .”

“Mr Bourne?”

“But I’m thinkin’ he weren’t so happy, really.” He lapsed again into an introspective silence.

Kydd coughed meaningfully and asked, “I have t’ ask if you know anything about his bein’ taken by the bear. Was it . . .

quick?” His father would want details.

Bourne puffed once more, then said quietly, “Who wants t’

know?”

“Why, he had an elder brother who’s my papa. They parted
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years afore I was born, some sort o’ misunderstanding. M’

father’s gettin’ frail an’ hoped t’ be reconciled. Now I have to write t’ him, you understand.”

Bourne got to his feet, crossed to the fi re and knocked out his pipe on a log. He turned, but did not resume his chair, looking at Kydd with an unsettling intensity.

Then his gaze shifted; his wife was standing rigid behind Kydd, staring at her husband. His eyes returned to Kydd. “You’re a smart lad. What d’ they call ye?”

“I’m Thomas—Tom Kydd.” He looked steadily at the older man. “An’ do I call ye Uncle?” he added softly.

In the stillness the hardwood fi re snapped and spat, sending up fountains of red sparks. For a long time Bourne held his silence, until Kydd thought he had not heard. Then he spoke. “I guess you do that,” he said.

“Come, lass, sit by we,” Kydd’s uncle said, after composure had been regained and whiskey had been downed. She moved over and sat on the fl oor, close.

“I’m goin’ t’ tell ye the whole nine yards, Thomas—Tom. It’s a long ways fr’m here to Guildford, so don’t go makin’ judgements before you’ve heard me out. I told ye no lie. About seven, eight year ago I weren’t happy. Ye might say I was miserable. I got t’

thinkin’ about life ’n’ all, and knew I was a-wastin’ the years God gave me. So I did somethin’ about it. Simple, really. I did a deal with m’ partner—Ned Gilman, right true sort he were. I spelled out t’ him that if he said I was took by a bear, an’ let me start a new life, I’d let him have the business. We shook on it, an’

I guess that’s it—here I am.”

“Just—gave him th’ business?”

“I did. But he suffered for it!” His face wrinkled in amusement. “Folk said th’ bear tale was all a story—that really he’d

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murthered me an’ left me t’ rot, while he came back alone ’n’

claimed th’ business.”

Kydd remembered the hostility his enquiries had met and now understood. “Will ye leave y’r bones here, d’ye think?” It was a far, far place, England, where ancient churches and the old ways comforted, with graveyards, ceremony and mourning at life’s end. What was there of that in this raw land?

“Tom, you don’t know this land, y’ never lived here. It’s hard, break-y’r-heart bad at times, but it’s beautiful—
because
it’s so hard.”

He stood up suddenly. “Come wi’ me.” He strode to the door and out into the gathering dusk. The sun was going down in a display of soft lilac and grey; a mist hung over the still waters and the peace was only broken by the secret sounds of nature.

“See there? It’s a land so big we don’t know how far it is t’ the other side. It’s new an’ raw, open to all—the west an’ the north is all waiting, mile on mile o’ country without it’s seen a man. But that’s what I want, t’ be at peace. M’ heart is here, Tom, where I c’n live like God means me to.”

Kydd saw his face light up as he spoke. “How d’ ye live? Y’r carving?”

Turning to him the older man spoke quietly but fi rmly. “T’

you, I’m a poor man. I ask ye to think of what I have here—all m’

time is my own, all of it. This place is mine, I built it m’self as I want it. And yes, I carve—in winter y’ has a lot o’ time, an’ what better than t’ create with y’r own hands?”

He chuckled. “Y’ saw the choughs. I didn’t think t’ see anyone fr’m old Guildford here. But it keeps me in coin enough t’

meet m’ needs.” He threw open a door to a side cabin. In the gloom Kydd could see huge fi gures: griffi ns, mermaids, solemn aldermen and long, decorative side panels. The odour of fresh-carved timber chips was resinous and powerful. “The yards’re
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startin’ for th’ year. They’ll be wantin’ the winter’s work now.”

They trudged back to the main cabin. A train-oil lamp was burning inside, intensifying the shadows, while the smell of beef pie and potatoes eddied about.

“Now, m’ lad, how’s about you tell me about Guildford an’ y’r folks?”

Kydd talked of the Old Country, of the stirring changes that had resulted from this fi nal great war with the French, the school they had bravely started, the appearance of various little ones in the family. At one point Kydd stopped, letting the stillness hang, then asked carefully, “We were told there was a misunderstanding with my papa, Uncle. Was it s’ bad you remember it t’ this day?”

His uncle guffawed loudly. “Was at fi rst, but then I hears after, she married someone else anyhow. Didn’t seem right t’ start up writin’ again so . . .”

The evening was a great success. Colleen brought out a hoarded jar of blueberry wine and, in its glow, stories of old times and old places were exchanged long into the dark night.

“So you’ve never regretted it?”

“Never!” His hand crept out to take hers. “In Halifax they’d never let an Irish woman in t’ their society. I’d always be tryin’.

Here we live content the same as man ’n’ wife, an’ here we stay.”

The fi re fl ared and crackled, the hours passed and the fi re settled to embers. Eventually Kydd yawned. “Have t’ return to m’

ship tomorrow,” he said, with real regret.

His uncle said nothing, staring into the fi re. Then he took a deep breath. “Seems y’ have a teaser on y’r hands, m’ boy.”

“A problem?”

“Yes, sir. Now, consider—you’ve seen me, alive ’n’ well. You have t’ decide now what ye say to y’r father. The world knows I was killed by a bear. Are you goin’ to preserve m’ secret an’ let it stand, or will ye ease his human feelings ’n’ say I’m here?”

“I—I have t’ think on it,” was all Kydd could fi nd to say.

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His uncle gave a slow smile. “I’m sure ye’ll know what t’ do.”

His gaze on Kydd was long—and fond.

“Wait here,” he said, and went outside.

While he was gone, Kydd’s thoughts turned to his father.

Where was the mercy in telling him that, according to the world, his brother was no more? Or, on the other hand, that his brother was alive and well but had turned his back on society, preferring a pariah woman and a vast wilderness?

There was just one course he could take that would be both merciful and truthful. He would say that, according to the records, his uncle Matthew had lived in Halifax doing well until 1791 but had then moved somewhere else in the immense country of Canada. In this way at least his father would remain in hope.

The door creaked open and his uncle returned with an object wrapped in old sacking. “You’re goin’ to be the last Kydd I ever sees,” he said thickly, “an’ I’m glad it were you. See here—” He passed across the sacking. It contained something heavy, a single, undistinguished black rock. But, breaking through it in several places, Kydd saw a dull metallic gleam. Gold. Astonished, Kydd took it, feeling its weight.

“Fell down a ravine years ago, goin’ after a animal, an’ there it was. But it’s no use t’ me—I bring that t’ town an’ in a brace o’

shakes it’ll be crawlin’ with folks grubbin’ up th’ land an’ fi ghtin’.

Never bin back, leave th’ rest in the good earth where it belongs.

But you take it—an’ use it to get somethin’ special, something that’ll always remind ye of y’r uncle Matthew in Canada.”

Chapter 8

Seamen were hoisting in heavy stone bottles of spruce-beer essence. Admiral Vandeput considered the drink essential to the health of his squadron.

“I’ll sweat the salt fr’m your rascally bones—sink me if I don’t.” The squeaky voice of a midshipman was unconvincing: he had a lot to learn about the handling of men, Kydd thought, and turned away irritably. He put his head inside the lobby. Adams had promised to relieve him, but was nowhere to be found. Kydd returned impatiently to the quarterdeck. The seamen had fi nished their work and all of the wicker- covered jars were below at last.

The last man of the work party was still on deck, slowly coiling down the yardarm tackle fall. There was something disquieting about this thick-set seaman: Kydd had seen him come aboard with the new men and several times he’d noticed the man looking his way with a signifi cant cast.

Kydd paced forward. The man glanced over his shoulder at him and turned his back, busying himself with his task. When Kydd drew near he straightened and turned, touching his fore-lock. “Mr Kydd, sir,” he said, his voice not much more than a low rasp.

Surprised, Kydd stopped.

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“Sir, ye remembers me?”

There was an edge of slyness to his manner that Kydd did not like. Was he a sea-lawyer perhaps? But the man was only a little shorter than Kydd himself, powerfully built, with hard, muscular arms and a deep tattooed chest: he had no need of cozening ways on the mess-deck.

The man gave a cold smile. “Dobbie, petty offi cer o’ the afterguard,” he added, still in a low tone.

Kydd could not recall anyone by that name. The midshipman popped up out of the main-hatchway but saw them together and disappeared below again. “No, can’t say as I do,” Kydd replied.

Unless the seaman had something of value to say to an offi cer he was sailing closer to the wind than a common sailor should. “I don’t remember you, Dobbie—now be about y’r duties.”

He turned to go, but Dobbie said quietly, “In
Sandwich.
”

Kydd stopped and turned. Dobbie stared back, his gaze holding Kydd’s with a hard intensity. “Aye—when you was there.
I
remembers ye well . . . sir.”

It had been less than a year ago but the
Sandwich
was a name Kydd had hoped never to hear again. She had been the mutineers’ fl agship and at the centre of the whirlwind of insur-rection and violence at the Nore. It had climaxed in failure for the mutiny and an end to the high-minded attempt to complete the work begun at Spithead. Many sailors had paid with their lives. Kydd had joined the mutiny in good faith but had been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level he should have shared their fate.