"My uncle—I'm tryin' to find him."
Mr Cox pulled his ear as if trying to recall something. "Er, there was a gentleman by that name, I think—recollect he was in corn and flour on Sackville Street. Fine-looking fellow."
"That's him," said Kydd.
A look of embarrassment flashed over Cox's face. "Ah." He gave a warning glance to his wife, whose hand flew to her mouth.
"Then I'm truly sorry to tell you . . . he is no more," Cox said quietly.
Kydd swallowed.
"Yes. In about the year 'ninety—or was it 'ninety-one?—he went to Chignecto with his partner looking out prospects, but unhappily was mortally injured by a bear."
"I remember. It was in the newspaper—such a dreadful thing," Mrs Cox added. "It never does to disturb them in their sleep, the brutes."
Cox drew himself up. "I'm grieved that your search has led you to this, sir. I do hope that the remainder of your time in Halifax will be more felicitous. Good day to you, Lieutenant."
As was usual for officers in harbour, Kydd's duties were light and he felt he owed it to his father to gather the circumstances of his brother's demise. Possibly he had family, a widow. He would get the details from the newspaper and pass them on.
The Halifax Journal office was on Barrington Street, not far from Grand Parade, and the man inside was most obliging. "Yes, indeed, I remember the story well. A fine man, come to such a fate. Uncle, you say. I'll find the issue presently. If you would be so good . . ."
On a table near the compositing desk Kydd learned the sad details of his uncle's death. He had gone to Chignecto, on the other side of Nova Scotia, exploring prospects in muskrat and beaver. His business partner, an Edward Gilman, had accompanied him, but of the two who had set out, only one returned: Gilman. He had buried his friend and partner at the edge of the wilderness by the sea, then brought back the news.
Judging by the upset expressed in the newspaper, Matthew Kydd had been a man of some substance and standing and was sorely missed. Kydd leafed idly through the rest of the paper.
Out in the street he determined that before he wrote to his father he would find Gilman, ask what kind of man his uncle was, find out something about his end.
Sackville Street was just round the corner, steep and colourful with timber dwellings and shops; some were worn and weathered, others painted brown and yellow or red and white. He found a corn factor with a faded sign telling him that this was Gilman's establishment. There was no mention of "Kydd."
He went into the dusty office, where he was met by a suspicious-looking clerk. "May I speak with Mr Gilman?" Kydd asked.
"Concernin' what?"
"That's my business," Kydd said.
The man hesitated, clearly baffled by Kydd's naval uniform. "Mr Gilman," he called. "Gennelman wants t' see you."
Kydd had the feeling of eyes on him. Eventually a hard-looking man appeared, his face showing distrust. "I'm Gilman. Yes?"
"I think y' knew Matthew Kydd?"
Gilman tensed but said nothing.
"You were with him when he was killed by a bear?"
"You're English," Gilman said slowly.
"He was m' uncle, came t' Canada in 'seventy-eight."
Gilman's expression altered slightly. "I weren't with him. That was my pap."
The man must have lost his youth early in this hard country, Kydd reflected. "I'd be much obliged if he could talk with me a little about m' uncle," he said.
"He can't." At Kydd's sharp look he added, "He's bin buried. In the Ol' Burying Ground."
"Do you remember Matthew Kydd?"
"No." It was flat and final.
Pybus was unsympathetic. "Chasing after long-lost relatives is seldom a profitable exercise. Now you have the task before you of communicating grief and loss where before there was harmless wondering. Well done, my boy."
Kydd sharpened his pen and addressed himself to the task. How to inform his father that his brother was no more, and had met his end in such a hideous way? The plain facts—simply a notification? Or should he spare his father by implying that his death was from natural causes? Kydd had never been one for letters and found the task heavy-going.
He decided to wait for Renzi's return. There was no urgency, and Renzi could readily find words for him, fine, elegant words that would meet the occasion. He put aside his paper and went up on deck.
The master had a telescope trained down the harbour. "D'ye see that schooner, sir? Country-built an' every bit as good as our own Devon craft."
Kydd took the telescope. "Aye, not as full in th' bow, an' has sweet lines on her."
He kept the glass on the vessel as Hambly added, "An' that's because of the ice up the St Lawrence, o' course. They'll ship a bowgrace in two or three weeks, when the ice really breaks up. Nasty t' take one o' them floes on the bow full tilt, like."
The approaching vessel stayed prettily and shortened sail preparatory to anchoring, Kydd watching her. She was a new vessel, judging by the colour of her sails and running rigging. He shifted the view to her trim forefoot, pausing to admire her figurehead—a Scottish lass holding what appeared to be a fistful of heather, a striking figure in a streaming cloak with a pair of birds at her feet.
Birds? He steadied the telescope and, holding his breath, peered hard. He kept his glass on the schooner as she glided past. There was no mistake, they were Cornish choughs.
"I'll be damned!" Kydd said softly. Then he swung on Hambly. "Tell me," he said urgently, "do y' know which yard it was built this'n?"
"Can't say as I does." Hambly seemed surprised at Kydd's sudden energy. "There's scores o' shipyards up 'n' down the coast, most quite able t' build seagoin' craft o' this size."
It might be a coincidence—but Kydd felt in his heart it was not. "The yawl ahoy," he hailed over the side to Tenacious's boat's crew, then turned back to Hambly. "I'm going t' see that schooner, Mr Hambly."
The master of the Flora MacDonald did not want to pass the time of day with a lieutenant, Royal Navy. His cargo was to be landed as soon as convenient, and although an impress warrant was not current, who could trust the Navy? However, he did allow that the schooner was new and from St John's Island in the great Gulf of St Lawrence, specifically, the yard of Arthur Owen in New London.
Was it conceivable that his uncle had survived and was now working as a ship-carver on an island somewhere on the other side of Nova Scotia? It made no sense to Kydd. Why hadn't his uncle returned to take up his business? It was coincidence, it had to be.
But he knew he would regret it if he did not follow up this tantalising sign. A quick glance at a chart showed St John's Island no more than a couple of days' sail with a fair wind and if Canso strait was free of ice.
Although Tenacious was required in port by the absence of the admiral and his flagship, activity aboard was light, and there was no difficulty with his request for a week's leave.
It was probably only someone continuing his uncle's particular carving signature, but the expedition would be a welcome change and would give him a chance to see something of Canada. He asked Adams if he wished to come, and was not surprised at his regrets—his diary was full for weeks ahead. Kydd was going to adventure alone.
Vessels were making the run to the newly ice-free St John's Island with supplies after the winter and Kydd quickly found a berth, in a coastal schooner, the Ethel May. Wearing comfortable, plain clothes, he swung in his small sea-bag.
The beat up the coast was chill and wet, but the schooner's fore and aft rig allowed her to lie close to the north-easterly and she made good time; Cape Breton Island, the hilly passage of Canso strait, then the calmer waters in the gulf, and early in the morning of the second day they closed with St John's Island.
It was a flat, barely undulating coastline with red cliffs and contrasting pale beaches. The dark carpet of forest was blotched in places with clearings, and even before they gybed and passed the long narrow sandspit into New London Bay Kydd had seen signs of shipbuilding—gaunt ribs on slipways, timber stands, distant smoke from pitch fires.