Quarterdeck

from Arthur Owen. Do ye wish one for y'self?'

'Fine work,' Kydd answered carefully. 'Did ye carve the birds an' all?' 'I did.'

'What sort o' birds are they, then?'

'Well, I guess any ol' bird, nothin' special.'

'Nobody told you how t' carve them?'

'What is it y' wants? Not a carving, I figure,' Ellis said, defensive.

'I'm sorry if I offended—y' see, those birds are special, Cornish choughs. You only find 'em in England an' they're rare.'

Ellis said nothing, watching Kydd.

'An' they remind me of m' uncle. You find 'em on the coat-of-arms of our earl, in Guildford.' There was still no response. 'I came here because I thought I'd find out somethin' of him— Kydd, Matthew Kydd.'

'No one b' that name on the island, I c'n tell y' now.' He folded his arms across his chest.

Kydd saw there was no point in continuing. The whole thing looked like coincidence, and if there was anything more he could not think why. 'Well, it was only a fancy. I'll wish ye good day, sir.'

He decided to head back to his ship. The landing-stage was close, but there were no vessels alongside and it was deserted. He hesitated, then made for the small general store in the main street to enquire about a passage back to Halifax.

'None I knows of t'day.' The shopkeeper stroked his jaw. 'Could be one's goin' t'morrow or the next—we don't have a reg'lar-goin' packet, only traders.'

Kydd lumped his bag on the counter. 'Seems I'm stranded . . . ye have an inn, b' chance?'

'No, sir,' he said with amusement, 'but y' might try Mrs Beckwith. Her husband were a seagoin' gentleman.'

'Yes indeed,' said Mrs Beckwith. 'I have a room fit fer a adm'ral, bless ye. Stow yer dunnage an' tonight I'll bring alongside as fine a line o' vittles as'll stick t' yer ribs.'

Kydd decided to walk off his expectations; the letter was waiting to be written when he returned to Tenacious and he was in no rush to begin it. Besides, the tranquillity of this strange land was appealing: tiny shoots of green were now appearing at the sunny edges of fields, even flowers peeping up through winter-bleached grass. The silence stretched away into the distance. It could not have been more remote from war and the striving of nations.

'So far fr'm the Old Country,' Mrs Beckwith said, as the dinner was brought in by a well-built young man. 'Oh— this is Mr Cunnable, he boards wi' me too.'

'Er, yes. That is, it's a long way t' England.'

'Mr Kydd, help y'self. This is our salt cod, an' we got a pile more o' them potatoes. Now, would ye mind tellin' me, how do th' ladies in London Town have their hair this year? Heard tell, high style well powdered 'n' greased over y'r pads is quite past.'

'Thank you, Mrs Beckwith, salt cod will be fine with me.

Er, the ladies o' quality I think now are windin' it up and fixin' it to the top of their heads. This is damn fine fish even if I do say so. But these leaves, I can't recollect we have any of them in England.'

'Sour dock an' sheep sorrel. Gives winter vittles a mort more flavour. So you're a Navy officer! Then y' must've been to some o' them great balls an' banquets with our Prince Edward! They do say they're goin' to change the name o' this island after him.'

'We've only been here a short while, an' our admiral is away in Newfoundland, but I'm sure we'll be invited soon.' Kydd lifted his glass; in it was a golden brown liquid, which he tasted gingerly. It was a species of ale, with an elusive tang of malt and spice.

'Seed-wheat wine—made it m'self. Tell me, Mr Kydd, in England do they . . .' She paused, frowning, at a knock on the door. ''Scuse me.'

Kydd nibbled at what appeared to be a peppery-flavoured dried seaweed and listened to Mrs Beckwith's shrill voice rising, scolding, and another, quieter. She returned eventually, flushed and irritable. 'It's very wrong t' disturb ye, Mr Kydd, but there's a woman here wants t' see you an' won't go away.'

Kydd got up. 'She's Irish,' warned Mrs Beckwith. 'If y' like, shall I ask Mr Cunnable t' set the dog on her?'

'No, no. I'll come.'

A woman in a shawl hung back in the darkness and spoke quietly: 'Good evenin' to yez, sorr—an' you're the gennelman just come ter the island an' asking after his uncle?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Then I'm t' tell ye, if tomorrow at noon y' comes with me, you'll meet someone as knows what happened t' him.'

The next day, dressed economically, she was waiting motionless down the road. Kydd saw that, despite her lined face, she held herself proudly. Without a word she turned and walked away from the town.

Where the river shoreline came close she turned down a path. It led to the river and a birchbark canoe with an Indian standing silently by it. The woman muttered some words and the Indian turned his black eyes on Kydd and grunted.

The canoe was much bigger than he had imagined, twenty feet long at least, and made of birchbark strips. There were cedar ribs as a crude framework and seams sewn with a black root. It had half a dozen narrow thwarts and Kydd was surprised to see it quite dry.

In the middle part, a good five feet across, there was a mound of baggage. 'If ye'd kindly get in like this, sorr,'