The Four Swans

by Winston Graham

  It was more as if Sam’s body rather than his conscious brain reacted to a situation it found itself in and took sharp and appropriate action that it had learned in these contests years ago. A sudden change of position under the grasping hands, a twist of body, two arms behind Harry’s neck, one clasping the other wrist for strength, and down he went, Sam on top, just avoiding the deliberately upturned knee as they fell. A flurry of dust and heather, and Harry was pinned as neatly as if someone had run him through with a sword.

  Roars of delight from the crowd. As the whistle blew Sam rose quickly and stepped back while Tom Harry spat blood that had come from somewhere and got to his feet too. The second fall, Tholly announced, had been gained by Sam Carne. The final and deciding one would now begin.

  As he spoke the fog drifted back over the sun and all the shadows evaporated. The ground was chill and grey, and it seemed likely that as the sun was sinking it would not be seen again.

  Both men were badly bruised, for it was not at all a gentlemanly contest and both had taken heavy falls on ground which had been baked by the long dry summer. Sam had twice only just avoided serious injury by protecting himself against Harry’s knee. (If by ‘accident’ you fell on your opponent with your knee up you probably put him out of the wrestling ring for life. Of course you would be disqualified if the sticklers saw.) Because both men wanted to avoid another such fall the next catch was a long time in coming, and when it came it was a body-to-body hug rather than an attempt to throw. It was a not unusual end to a match in which skills were nearly equal, and one much to the crowd’s liking. Cornish wrestling was sometimes known as Hug-wrestling.

  Ross, watching from under scowling brows, saw the two men straining against each other and had a sudden memory of that fight he had had with Demelza’s father so many years ago. Thus after some preliminary fighting they had so locked in much the same hold; he, the taller and younger, being bent back from the waist, his hands on the other’s chin, almost kneeling on the other’s thighs on tiptoes, bending and resisting with all the strength of his back muscles and backbone. Now he felt a sudden identification with old Carne’s son, who was fighting, as he had fought, against the same shape and build of man, and almost it seemed for the same things – found himself muttering aloud, half-shouting useless advice. For if Tom Harry won this trial of strength and Sam did not accept defeat he might neither wrestle nor dig again.

  Will Nanfan shouted at Tholly and Tholly caught Harry by the shoulder. But neither wrestler took any notice. Tholly blew the whistle. But the crowd was shouting to him to get out of their sights and to let the fight go on. For now it was a fight and the rules of pure wrestling could go hang. Sam’s back, having bent so far, was bending no farther, and instead Harry’s neck was moving back in its turn. George put away his snuffbox. Ossie dusted some pollen off his coat and day-dreamed of beating Rowella with a stick. Emma took off her hat and plucked out pieces of straw. Demelza sat like a stone.

  Then like two old elms crashing they went to the ground, struggled for mastery, and Sam came up on top. Everybody was screaming. Harry was done and it looked like a ‘back’. The extra weight only had to be applied to push his other shoulder down to achieve the three-pin fall necessary for victory. Tholly raised his hand and put his whistle to his mouth; and then Sam seemed to relax at the wrong moment. Tom Harry, within an inch of defeat, forced himself a fraction upwards; with a last effort jack-knifed himself away from the compelling hold Sam had had, and in three seconds had somehow come out on top. Then it was Sam who was underneath, who was almost but not completely down, who was struggling to avoid the pressures he had himself just been applying; Sam who was now crushed beneath the weight of the heavier man and in three seconds more finally succumbed.

  Tholly blew the whistle. Tom Harry had won.

  Chapter Six

  I

  Tom Harry had won, but it was a cause for instant dispute and constant discussion and argument in every home and kiddley in the days to come. Even the sticklers disagreed. Tholly and Will Nanfan gave the victory to Tom Harry, though in Nanfan’s view Harry had lost points earlier in the contest for foul play. Paul Daniel said the contest should be declared void because the rules of wrestling had been totally abandoned in the last round and they had rolled over fighting on the ground like two drunken tinkers. But in the general view, there had been two fair ‘backs’, one each way, and in the third round both men had fought the same sort of fight and who was on top at the end? It was not a popular view, not one the majority wanted to take, but that they took it was the more significant.

  Fortunately there was no need for Ross to see George. He sent his draft to Basset and asked Basset if he would be so kind as to let George know he had paid. Crossing with this was a letter from Tankard, ‘on behalf of Mr Warleggan’, reminding Ross of his debt. Ross mixed this with the pig feed.

  After his defeat Sam was off work for more than a week and frequently brought up blood, but this condition mended. He did not see Emma after the contest and she made no attempt to see him. He went about the duties of his Connexion with quiet obedience to the word of God. He would discuss the fight with no one. He prayed a lot, noticing some falling off in the enthusiasm of his flock. It was as if their understanding of the Bible derived more from the Old Testament, where virtue had its material reward, than from the New, where the rewards of virtue were solely spiritual and material things went down to defeat. Sam often thought of what he would have gained by winning – and what he would have lost.

  He also read a lot, and he received another visit from Mr Champion, in the course of which Mr Champion expressed his pleasure at the general reports he had had from the parish. It seemed that the unfortunate association with the light woman had been dutifully broken and all was well. He still however had criticism to offer of the way in which Sam tended to keep all the affairs of the Connexion in his own hands, especially the monetary side. Sam said he would mend his ways.

  Dwight went to see Hugh Armitage twice more but said his condition was no worse. Hugh wrote to Demelza once, but kept to the polite generalities of correspondence. It was so suitable for Ross to see that Demelza showed it him. Ross said:

  ‘I suppose he’ll stay in Cornwall until the election is over and then hope to go to Westminster. It should occupy him.’

  ‘Yes, Ross. If he gets in.’

  ‘I hope he does, not merely for his own sake but because it would unseat George.’

  ‘Would it? I hadn’t quite thought of that.’

  ‘Well, the corporation could put in one Basset and one Boscawen candidate, but it’s improbable. Normally two MPs are elected of the same complexion, since a voter who votes for one of them is like to choose the other also. If George remains it is probable Gower will lose his seat and Trengrouse will be returned. If Hugh gets in Gower will remain with him.’

  Demelza said: ‘If George was to lose his seat there, Lord de Dunstanville would find him another.’

  ‘He could not do so immediately, for the elections would be over.’

  ‘D’you think that would upset him?’

  ‘Who? George? Yes, very much so.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Demelza. ‘Yes, I had not thought of that.’

  Germane to this conversation was a note Caroline sent over to Demelza a few days later.

  My dear,

  We had our dinner party yesterday! Both the lions and myself and Dwight, who, angel though he is, was quite out of his element in such a matter. Just the four of us! Odds heart, imagine it! Men are very deceitful, for do you know they each pretended that they did not know the other was to be there! And tried to take offence at it, and had to be cozened into staying! Half through the dinner I thought, what a fool I am to be acting in such a way, for, God help me, who am I assisting? Not myself, not Dwight, not the brat that I carry. Possibly it may help Hugh a little, but that is the most of it.

  And what a pair of little lions they are, the Viscount and the Baron! Neither of ’em above sixty-four inche
s high and both of them carrying enough self-importance to sink a three-decker! Mind, I have not seen it in such evidence before. George Boscawen in ordinary conversation is an agreeable fellow, short on wit perhaps but amiable and of a good nature. My uncle liked him well. Indeed I perceive similarities of temperament between them! And Francis Basset – how pleasant he can be and simple and easy in the cosy bosom of his family. But put them together, bring ’em into the same house together and set ’em down at either end of a not very long table, and Lud’s my life, they bristle and ruffle up, not so much like lions as little bantams preparing to dispute over a hen.

  At the end of our dinner they both were waiting for me to depart but, taking pity on Dwight who so detested the whole thing, and brazen as the fattest whore in Houndsditch, I informed them that as the party was so small and as I was the only woman, I did not purpose to split it further, nor did I intend to take myself off into solitary confinement while they drank all the brandy.

  They did not like it – they did not at all like it – indeed only the exquisite manners to which they had been born prevented them from ringing for one of my own servants to have me escorted out! But – I had been saving a rare bottle of Uncle Ray’s brandy, of which only three bottles are left. He did not buy it through the Trade but brought it with him from London when he first carried me to Cornwall as a brat of eight. I and the brandy arrived together, and unlike me, the latter has been improving every year. So I thought this an occasion on which one of the last three bottles should be broached, and believe me, my dear friend, it worked wonders.

  Not of course that either gentleman got tipsy the way real gentlemen do. It is against their strict upbringing – or their dislike of ever feeling not totally in command of their judgement lest they should be cheated by someone else. But they were softened by it. It acted like the sun upon reluctant dandelions. They slowly settled deeper into their chairs. They stretched their little legs out. They spoke in more expansive tones. And presently someone – I cannot imagine who – happened to mention the dispute, the rivalry that had existed between them for so many years. And Francis spoke first, in a very conciliatory manner. And George spoke second, responding to the opening remarks by equally emollient answers.

  Of course it was not all as easy as that in the end. Two horse dealers at a fair were not more cautious, more argumentative, more anxious that the deal should not fail to favour themselves, than these two distinguished peers of the realm, one tracing his ancestry back to an Irish gentleman who settled in St Buryan in the eleventh century, the other quartering his arms with the Plantagenets (yes, my dear, both claims were made at my dinner table!). But in the end I believe that something of a bargain was struck. And the outcome of it is that rivalry at election time between the two shall cease. The descendant of the Irish gentleman has agreed to withdraw his claims upon the borough of Tregony if the Plantagenet gentleman will withdraw from Truro. There are other agreements over a number of other constituencies, but so far as we are concerned these are the important ones. So hurrah for the hustings and may our sick cavalier win the seat he so deserves!

  I, personally, am in very rude health and have vomited not at all for the last week. Dwight continues fair but notably thoughtful about the plight of England. I believe I did not marry the most sanguine of men.

  Warmest love to Ross and a kiss for the children. (I must say if anything would convert me to the idea of raising a family it is the sight of those two.)

  Caroline.

  II

  On the last day of August the Reverend Mr Osborne Whitworth, walking down Princes Street, chanced to see Mrs Rowena Solway coming out of the library with a bundle of books under her arm. Her brown shabby frock hung about her like a cassock as she walked. Her white straw hat shaded her face from the sun. Her shoes made a scuffing sound on the cobbles. She looked pale and thoughtful and unkempt. She raised her eyes briefly to her brother-in-law in startled fashion and hurried on.

  Mr Whitworth had been to take a number of letters in for collection by Lobb the Sherborner, who would pick them up and deliver them in the parish of Sawle-with-Grambler when he took the weekly newspaper round. They were letters addressed to such people as Sir John Trevaunance, Captain Ross Poldark, Dr Dwight Enys, Horace Treneglos Esquire, and they pointed out the defects the new vicar had found in the church and in the churchyard, defects which should be made good but which would cost a considerable outlay of money. The letters set forth, in what Mr Whitworth flattered himself was a fair but forthright way, that it was the duty of wealthy parishioners to play their part in maintaining the fabric of this ancient and beautiful church in a manner which would reflect credit upon the generosity and Christian responsibility of the persons involved. It was not so being maintained at the moment, and a total reassessment was necessary.

  Sight of Mrs Solway angered and upset the vicar afresh. Last evening he had had a most distressing experience. Coming away from one of the tumbledown cottages by the quay – whither he had been driven by his physical needs and his wife’s criminal obduracy – after dark had long fallen but when a full moon rode over the stinking mud of the river, a man had thrust a lantern in his face. He was not certain but he thought the man was a pot-boy from the Seven Stars Tavern, a man who lived in his parish and whose second child he had buried a few weeks ago. If so, there was a danger of his having been recognized, and if he had been so recognized, the man might drop a word to the churchwardens. Of course nothing could be proven, but respectable men did not usually venture upon the quay after dark, and it might take some explaining away.

  It was abominable that he should be placed in such a position and the fault – the fault that he had to go to the quay at all – rested upon that thin shapeless streak of a girl picking her way among the broken cobbles to the other side of the street, on her way home, to her home that his money, through her trickery, had bought. To her home and her thin snivelling husband. The thought was an abomination to Osborne and he felt sick at the sight of her.

  For some reason he felt sick on seeing her anyway. He frequently had fantasies now at the thought of beating her with a hard stick.

  On the same day Demelza went blackberrying in the Long Field with Jeremy and Clowance. On the side of the Long Field dividing it from the broken outcroppings of rock and moorland turf sloping down to Nampara Cove was a thick Cornish wall much overgrown with gorse and brambles, and this was an area tacitly reserved for the Poldark family. Anywhere else on their land the village people were welcome to their pickings.

  It was going to be a good year – unlike last, when the moisture in the air had turned the blackberries mildewed as they ripened – and they had already picked one crop. They went up with three baskets, one each for Demelza and Jeremy, and a smaller one for Clowance who anyhow had a wayward fancy and was likely to mix her blackberries with daisies and dandelions.

  By the sea it was a sullen afternoon; not fog but a lofty corrugated cloud which Truro, a few miles away, was escaping, and they had been there picking peacefully for ten minutes or so – a peace only punctuated by a cry from Jeremy now and then as he found a good cluster or scratched his finger – when Demelza heard a cough behind her. She turned and saw the tall girl wearing her usual long red cloak over what looked like a uniform, black stockings, black boots, light summer hat put on anyhow over gleaming hair.

  ‘Beg pardon, mistress. Excuse me for coming ’pon you like this. You – you know me?’

  Demelza straightened, pushed her hair back from her face with a forearm, lowered her basket.

  ‘Yes . . . of course, Emma.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I thought to call ’pon ee but did not have the brock. Then when I seen ee up here I thought t’ask for a word. I hope tis not presuming.’ She was a little out of breath.

  ‘I don’t know, Emma. It depend what you want to say.’

  Emma made a gesture. ‘Well . . . I expect you know what tis. Everyone must know what tis. I come out this af’noon – tis not my day and I risk a s
hine, but Doctor be visiting and Mistress have gone Mrs Teague’s to tea – so I come out, meaning . . . meaning to call ’pon Sam. But then I – from the top of the combe I seen you just leaving the house and I thought to trouble you with my troubles, like, as you – as Sam is your brother, like. D’you follow what I d’mean, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I follow what you mean.’

  Emma swallowed and stared out over the sea. A swell was coming in, and every now and then the top of a wave would break and the swell would go on its way leaving fantails evaporating below the surface.

  ‘I not seen Sam since the wrestling, ma’am. Not sight nor sound. Has he said ought to ee ’bout that?’

  ‘No, Emma. He will not speak of it. I think he better prefers not to speak of it to anyone.’

  ‘Why did he leave Tom Harry win? He did, didn’ he? Deliberate. He left him to roll over ’pon him and win.’

  ‘I don’t rightly know. You must ask Sam. Maybe he’ll tell you.’

  ‘You d’know I’d promised go with his Connexion for three months if he won? Twas as if he bested to lose!’

  Though not small herself, Demelza was still slight, and Emma looked twice her size. The hearty laugh was not in evidence today. Demelza recognized that she had a prejudice against the girl, not because of her behaviour but because she was Tholly Tregirls’s daughter – which was manifestly unfair.

  ‘D’you love Sam?’ she asked.

  The brilliant eyes came up, were sharply lowered again. ‘I b’lieve so.’

  ‘And Tom Harry?’

  ‘Oh . . . nothing.’

  ‘D’you think Sam loves you?’

  ‘I b’lieve so too . . . But . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know . . .’

  Demelza picked a few more blackberries and offered them to Clowance, who clutched them in a chubby fist and threw a handful of daisies away.

  ‘You see, mistress, he say he want to reform me, to change me out of my sin, to – to “make me over again”, that’s what he call it, “to make me over again”. He seem think I shall be – be happier if I’m sad . . .’