Quarterdeck

'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,