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.
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 Spatlese."
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."