Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

CHAPTER 7

"DAMN! THAT CURSED TAILOR will hound me to my grave," groaned Pringle. The mail-boat had arrived back from the dockyard and the wardroom sat about the table opening letters and savouring news from home.

Adams, clutching six, retired to his cabin but Bampton slipped his into a pocket and sipped his brandy, balefully watching the animation of the others.

Kydd was trying to make sense of his borrowed Essays on Politesse Among Nations, despairing of the turgid phraseology; his restraint in matters social, and sudden access of interest in literature, was generally held to be owing to some obscure improving impulse, and he was mostly left to it.

"You don't care for letters, Mr Kydd," Pybus said, with acerbity. He had received none himself, but was still scratching away lazily with his quill.

Kydd looked up and saw that there was indeed one letter left on the table. "For me?" He picked it up. "From m' sister, Doctor," he said. She wrote closely, and as usual had turned the page and written again at right-angles through the first to be frugal in the postage.

"Well?" demanded Pybus.

But Kydd was not listening.

Dear- Thomas—or should 1 say Nicholas as w-ed? 1 do hopeyou are keeping well, my dears, and wrapping up warm.. The willows are budding ear-y- along the Wey here in- Guil^rdand . . .

The words rushed on, and Kydd smiled to picture Cecilia at her task. Her evident concern for them both warmed him but her admiration for him as an officer in the King's Navy sparked melancholy.

A hurried paragraph concluded the letter:

. . . and Father-.says that- it- would befservice to-him/sshouhdyou enquire after- his brother- .Matthew-. You- remember- they came to- some sort of a misunderstanding an- age ago, and his brother- sailed to- Phdadephia? Papa- says that was in 1763. 'Since then- we have heard nothing of him, except that in the Warfor Independence he was a- loyalist and went north with the others to- Hahfam in- about 1782. Thomas, it would so-please Papa- to- know- that he is alive and well——do- seejfyou can-find him/

Of course, his uncle: an adventurer in this wilderness land, carving a future for himself—or perhaps he was a successful trader, even a shipowner in the profitable Atlantic trade routes. "News?" Pybus said drily.

"Oh, aye. Seems it could be m' uncle is here, Doctor, in Halifax. Who would credit it?" A Kydd ashore, possibly one who had achieved eminence in society and was highly thought of in the community. For the first time in a long while he felt a rush of excitement. "I do believe I'm t' visit him today."

"Kydd—Mr Matthew Kydd." It was strange uttering the words. There were not so many Kydds in the world that it felt anything other than his own name.

The man he had stopped considered for a moment. "Can't say as I've heard of the gentleman, sir," he said finally. "You may wish to try Linnard's the tailors. You'll understand they know all the gentry hereabouts." But Kydd was tiring of the chase. It was becoming clear that his uncle was far from being a notable in Halifax. It had been foolish of him to imagine that one of modest origins could have pretences at high office—but this did not mean that he had not secured a lesser, well-respected place in society.

He toiled up the street, a curious mix of fine stone edifices and shoddy clapboard buildings, but it was not practical to think of entering and asking at random: there had to be a more efficient way. An idea came to him. He would contact Mr Greaves, the commissioner for lands. If his uncle was in any form a landowner he would know him. Kydd brightened as he savoured the effect on his uncle of receiving a card out of the blue from a Lieutenant Kydd shortly about to call.

The land registry was a stiff walk well to the south, and Kydd set out along Barrington Street, past the elegance of St Paul's Church. A line of soldiers was marching up and down on the large open area to his right, and when Kydd approached, the young officer in command halted his men and brought them to attention, then wheeled about and saluted. Kydd lifted his hat to him, which seemed to satisfy. With a further flourish of orders the soldiers resumed their marching.

Then an unwelcome thought struck. Supposing his uncle had fallen on hard times or was still a humble tradesman? It would make no difference to him—but if Greaves thought he was of lowly origins it might prove embarrassing . . . He would move cautiously and find out first.

"To be sure, a Kydd," murmured the clerk, at the desk of the weathered timber structure near the old burying ground. "There was one such, resident of Sackville Street, I seem to recall, but that was some years ago. Let me see . . ." He polished his spectacles and opened a register. "Ah—we have here one Matthew Kydd, bachelor, established as trader and landowner in the year 1782, property on Sackville Street . . . Hmmm—here we have a contribution to the Sambro light, er, the usual taxation receipts . . ."

It was certainly his uncle. At last! How would he greet him? He had never met the man: he had sailed from England well before Kydd had been born. Should it be "Uncle Matthew" or perhaps a more formal salutation?

". . . which means, sir, we have nothing later than the year 1791."

Kydd's face dropped. "So—"

"We find no evidence at all for his continued existence after then. I'm sorry."

"None?"

"No, sir. You may wish to consult the parish books of St Paul's for record of his decease—there was fever here at the time, you understand."

"Thank ye, sir." Kydd made to leave, but another clerk was hovering nearby.

"Sir, you may be interested in this . . ." They moved to the other end of the office. "My wife admired Mr Kydd's work," he said, "which is why she bought this for me." It was a handsomely carved horn of plenty, taking bold advantage of the twisted grain of the wood, and supported at the base by a pair of birds. "You will understand that time is on our hands in the winter. Mr Kydd used to occupy his in carving, which I think you will agree is in the highest possible taste . . ."

Kydd stroked the polished wood, something his own near relative had created: it felt alive.

"Yes, those birds," the clerk mused. "I confess I have no knowledge of them at all—they're not to be seen in this part of Canada. But Mr Kydd always includes them in his work. It's a custom here, a species of signature for claiming fine work as your own."

"But I recognise it well enough," Kydd said. "This is y'r Cornish chough, sir. And it's the bird you find in the coat-of-arms of our own Earl Onslow of Clandon and Guildford."

The man looked back at him with a bemused kindliness, but there was nothing more to learn here. Kydd emerged into the day: he was not yet due back aboard so his hunt would continue.

But at St Paul's there was no entry for Matthew Kydd, in births, deaths or marriages. A whole hour of searching in the gloom of the old church sacristy yielded only two entries in the tithe-book, and a smudged but tantalising reference to banns being called.

A mystery: at one time he had existed, now he did not. It was time to face the most unsatisfactory result of all: his uncle was not in Halifax but somewhere else in Canada—or, for that matter, he could be anywhere. And it explained why no one seemed to know of a Kydd in Halifax. He would regretfully conclude his search and write to his father accordingly.

"If you'd be so good, Tom . . ." Adams seemed anxious, but it did not take much imagination to grasp why he would want to absent himself from church that Sunday morning.

"I trust she's so charming you hold it of no account that you put your immortal soul to hazard?" Kydd said. The captain had made it plain that he wanted an officer from Tenacious at the morning service on Sundays, and it was Adams's turn.