Quarterdeck

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.

In the sheltered waters the schooner glided towards a landing stage with a scatter of tidy weatherboard buildings beyond. 'Where y' bound?'

'Owen's yard,' Kydd answered.

The skipper pointed along the foreshore. 'Around th' point,

one o' the oldest on St John's.' He pronounced it 'Sinjuns.'

'Thank ye,' Kydd said, feeling for coins to put into the man's outstretched hand. It had been a quick trip, and sleeping in a borrowed hammock in the tiny saloon was no imposition.

Kydd pushed past the crowd and the buckboard carts that had materialised on the schooner's arrival, hefted his sea-bag and set out.

The road was slush and red mud that the passing inhabitants seemed to ignore. Women wore old-fashioned bonnets and carried large bundles, their skirts long enough for modesty but revealing sturdy boots beneath. Men passed in every kind of dress; utility and warmth took first place over fashion. All looked at Kydd with curiosity—few strangers came to this out-of-the-way place.

The buildings were all of a style, mainly timbered, with high, steeply sloping roofs; the fields were wooden- fenced, not a stone wall in sight. English hamlets had lanes that meandered over the countryside; here there were bold straight lines in everything from settlements to roads.

The shipyard was not big: two slipways and a jetty, a blacksmith's shop and buildings presumably housing the workforce. Kydd tried to keep his hopes in check but he felt a thrill of anticipation as he approached one of the half-built hulls. 'Is this Mr Owen's yard?' he hailed shipwrights at work high up on staging.

'It is,' one called.

'Th' one that built the Flora MacDonald?'

'The very same.'

'Could y' tell me if you've heard of a Mr Kydd—Matthew Kydd?' blurted Kydd.

'Can't say as we heard any o' that name on th' island, friend.'

'I'd like t' meet the ship-carver who worked on her figurehead, if y' please,' Kydd said.

'We don't do carvin' in this yard. Ye'll want Josh Ellis.'

Ellis ran a small business in town. Kydd found the shop and a well-built man of about thirty came to the counter. 'I'd like t' speak with Mr Ellis,' Kydd said.

'That's me.'

He was obviously not old enough to be his uncle; Kydd tried to hide his disappointment. 'Did you work the figurehead o' the Flora MacDonald, Mr Ellis?'

'Flora MacDonald?' he reflected. 'That's right, I remember now, pretty little schooner