Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"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 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 firmly. "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 figures: griffins, mermaids, solemn aldermen and long, decorative side panels. The odour of fresh-carved timber chips was resinous and powerful. "The yards're 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 final 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 first, 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 fire flared and crackled, the hours passed and the fire 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 fire. 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 find to say.

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' fightin'. 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 finished 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 significant 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 forelock. "Mr Kydd, sir," he said, his voice not much more than a low rasp.

Surprised, Kydd stopped.

"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 officer 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 officer he was sailing closer to the wind than a common sailor should. "I don't remember you, Dobbie—now be about y'r duties."