Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"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 weatherworn 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.

"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.