Loud conversation died away altogether. Murmuring took its place. Lord Fitzwilliam had gone across to Whitbread, who immediately turned to him and repeated his story. Whitbread’s face, pale when he entered the salon, was now flushed – and not, it seemed, altogether with the heat. The Duchess of Gordon, concerned lest her soirée should be still more put out of joint, turned to ask a question of the burly, blustering Lord Kensington, who had been laying heavy bets on the outcome at Brooks’s. Kensington laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
‘They’re out!’ he said in a loud voice. ‘By God, they’re out!’
His bellow seemed to relieve the tension; more people crowded round Whitbread to hear his tale. Whitbread angrily shook his head and made to leave. Whatever else he had come to this soirée for, it was not to satisfy the gossips.
Presently Robert Plumer Ward detached himself from the group around Northumberland and strolled towards Canning. Plumer Ward was an easy-going fellow, on friendly terms with everyone, a man who greatly enjoyed being in the know.
‘Well?’ said Canning testily, as he came up. ‘What did that mean? What is surprising about it? Perceval must know his fate by now.’
‘They’re out, George,’ drawled Plumer Ward. ‘They’re out. Can you believe it? After all this fuss. According to the story – and it comes direct so there can be little chance of mistake – according to Northumberland, he and Grey and Grenville and Whitbread and the rest were deep in conclave in Park Street when who should come to call on them but William Adam, with a message, he said. Lords Grey and Grenville, in that godly-minded way they have, sent out to Adam that they could not at present see him. Adam replied that the message he brought was from the Prince of Wales. Lords Grey and Grenville replied that they still could not be disturbed for it was for the Prince of Wales they laboured, forming the new Government which was to be the first government of his Regency. Adam thereupon sent in word that they should spare themselves all the trouble, for the Prince had decided that no new administration was to be formed and that he had decided to continue with his father’s ministers! What d’you think of that, eh? What d’you think of that?’
There was silence.
Ross said: ‘Does that mean…’
‘It must be false!’ whispered Canning. ‘It is a lie spread about to deceive us!’
‘For what purpose? Who would benefit?’
‘But the Prince has been an ardent and committed Whig for thirty years…’
Plumer Ward said: ‘The Prince is no fool, for all his excesses. He must have been having private thoughts these last few weeks. Who knows what he has been thinking? Is it perhaps – has he come to the conclusion that there is a vast difference between being virtually on the throne and being the discontented eldest son?’
‘I shall not believe it,’ said Canning, ‘unless – until…’
Plumer Ward said: ‘I’m told Grey and Grenville have now gone to seek an audience. But if Prinny has made up his mind it will not avail.’
‘That means…’ said Ross again; and got no further.
‘It means,’ said Canning, ‘it may mean that our cause is not altogether lost.’
IV
Lady Harriet Carter said: ‘There is a white lion in the Tower, brought back by Sir Edward Pellew. I wonder if he feels at all out of place in a building which has housed half the about-to-be-beheaded lions of England. I suppose it is a symbol of progress that neither Lord Grenville nor Mr Perceval run any risk of languishing there while the other is First Lord of the Treasury…’
‘Yes,’ said George, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his hands.
‘Are you quite well? You have gone pale.’
‘Yes, I am quite well. It is very hot in here.’
‘If this story is true,’ Harriet said: ‘if what they say is true it will blight more than one high hope of office. Did you have any?’
‘What? What was that?’
‘Any hope of office? You’re a Whig more than anything, ain’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said George.
‘And did you?’
‘No. I expected no office.’
‘Then you have little to lose or gain. For my part I should not relish any occupation which would keep me in this rowdy metropolis when there are so many broad and unspoiled acres to enjoy in the shires. Cornwall depresses me; it is so harsh and grey and windswept; but my aunt makes great play of the fact that there are several fine days a year.’
‘Lady Harriet,’ said George, and swallowed.
She looked at him with her great dark eyes. ‘Don’t say it, Sir George … yet.’
‘What I have to say, Lady Harriet, is something quite different from what I had intended. Unexpectedly I find it will be necessary to leave London almost immediately. Indeed, I think, if you will excuse me, I will go now.’
‘Go? Where?’
‘Business matters.’
‘So important?’
‘Unfortunately for me there are other considerations besides politics involved in the Prince’s decision. I – I fear I must attend to them.’
They looked at each other for a long moment.
‘Then,’ she said coldly, ‘I must return to my sister-inlaw in the other room unescorted, must I not. Good night, Sir George.’
‘Good night, Lady Harriet. Perhaps…’
She smiled. He bent over her hand. His own hand was hot and unsteady, but it was not love of woman that shook him.
He turned and pushed his way unceremoniously towards the door.
Book Two
Chapter One
I
Jeremy Poldark was an amiable young man who had grown up in the comfort and stability of a family home where casual manners hid deeper affections and where quarrels almost always ended in laughter. As a consequence, whatever powerful emotions might slumber within him, they had had no inducement yet to stir. Although conceived when his father was waiting to stand trial for his life and born at a time when his parents’ financial stringency was at its most acute, he seemed to have none of Ross’s dark, radical pessimism and little of Demelza’s brilliant impulsive vitality. Perhaps more than any other of his family he had a true Celtic sense of laissez-faire.
One thing moved him to anger: cruelty to or neglect of animals; and one thing, apart from a talent for sketching, interested him deeply.
This interest dated back to a day when he was just ten and a half years old. It was the morning of the 28th December, 1801, and he had ridden on his new Christmas pony with his father to see Lord de Dunstanville at Tehidy. His father was a partner in the Cornish Bank of which Lord de Dunstanville was the principal shareholder, and Mr Stackhouse was there and Mr Harris Pascoe and a Mr Davies Giddy.
It was the first time Jeremy had ever ridden such a distance with his father and he was very proud of himself. He had worn a brown corduroy riding suit, new also for Christmas, and a tricorn hat secured by a cord under the chin to preserve its position in the gusty wind. It was a fine open day, with north-westerly clouds beating up from the horizon and hurrying off over the land towards France. The sun, like a handicapped painter, splashed colour on the landscape when and where it could. After the men had gone into the drawing-room to talk, little Lady de Dunstanville, with her daughter Frances and Mr Giddy, who was not here on banking business, had walked out with him onto the terrace, talking and laughing and looking expectantly down the long drive towards the gates. Frances Basset, a plain but pleasant girl of nineteen, had explained to her young guest what they were waiting for.
A young engineer attached to one of the Camborne mines, Trevithick by name and a leading man in the development of some strange contraption called a ‘high pressure’ engine, had taken one of his machines, which were designed primarily to pump water out of the mines, and put it on wheels and claimed that it would move.
There was much scepticism. People knew only a means of propulsion derived from a living animal with four legs whose hooves planted at irregular intervals on the ground as it
moved created traction. Most argued therefore that, even if such a clumsy device as Trevithick proposed could ever be employed to move the wheels, the wheels themselves would not have sufficient grip upon the road to move the vehicle. The wheels would of course spin round. In any event, it was doubted that they would ever even be got to spin.
In this elevated company in which young Jeremy now found himself there was a somewhat greater faith than generally obtained; for Mr Giddy had been one of the chief encouragers of the young engineer and Lady de Dunstanville had actually been present, and had worked the bellows, when one of the models had been persuaded to run round a room.
They all, therefore, waited on the terrace, for Mr Trevithick had said he would that day fire his machine and drive it the three miles from Camborne Church Town to Tehidy, where Mr Giddy and Lord and Lady de Dunstanville would be waiting to receive it with all proper acclaim.
As time passed and no engine appeared, they all agreed rather sadly that between a model eighteen inches high and an actual vehicle of the road over ten feet tall a wide gap of trial and error existed. When Lord de Dunstanville and Captain Poldark and the rest came out of their meeting and there was still no sign, it was concluded that the attempt, for what it was worth, had been a failure. Captain Poldark was invited to stay to dinner, but he excused himself saying that his wife was expecting them home. Smiling he tapped Jeremy on the shoulder and presently, after a glass of canary, they mounted and rode away down the drive.
Jeremy’s pony was frisky after his rest, and though he tried to talk to his father, telling him what he had been told, most of the time they were separated by a few prancing steps; and they had been on their way from the gates for almost a mile when they beheld a sight which Jeremy was not to forget.
Something was crawling towards them over the rough uneven track. It was like a grasshopper on wheels with a tall proboscis held high in the front and sending out puffs of intermittent smoke. The wheels by which it moved were four in number, but many other wheels, some cogged, some plain, turned as well in the body of the monster. It cranked and rattled and coughed, and from every joint apart from the proboscis emitted more smoke and steam both white and black. And perhaps the most extraordinary thing of all was that, clinging to the machine, careless of heat and danger, were about twelve dirty men shouting at the top of their voices, while a couple of dozen more followed hallooing in the wake.
The noise was so great that Ross had to dismount and hold the heads of the horse and pony while the procession passed. Many waved to them, including the tall bulky figure of the inventor, and his companion Andrew Vivian. Jeremy sat his pony awestruck. He had never imagined anything like it in his life. It was opening the door to a new world.
The Poldarks had not long since passed an inn, and when Ross remounted they sat there watching the chattering clanking steaming monster recede. Presently the inn was reached, the engine came to a lumbering stop, and everybody slid and tumbled off it and went inside. After a few minutes they had all gone, and there beside the inn the strange machine was left smoking and simmering to itself.
Ross turned his horse’s head. ‘So they have done it. A great achievement. Let’s be on our way.’
‘But, Papa, if we could go back and look—’
‘We shall see it again. If this is a success, have no fear.’
So they rode home as a few more clouds gathered to mark the turn of the winter’s day. But they did not see it again, for, it seemed, there was an admirable roast goose at the inn as well as excellent ale, and the roistering company stayed for a meal before going on to Tehidy. In the meantime, nobody had remembered to put out the fire under the boiler of the engine, so the water evaporated and the boiler grew red hot and set fire to the wooden frame of the engine. Then a man came hammering at the door of the inn and the company streamed out to see the brilliant new machine collapsing in a great bonfire which left in the end only twisted metal, a few wheels aslant and a heap of smouldering coal.
II
One reason why Ross had not wished to stop was that there was some slight feeling between Trevithick and himself. Trevithick and a young man called Bull had put up the engine for Wheal Grace when Trevithick was only twenty-one, but over the years he had failed to come over to maintain it, and when the two engineers had themselves parted company Ross had chosen to continue to do business with the more reliable one. Trevithick had disliked this and had said so in no uncertain manner. Since Bull’s death Ross had managed with the help of Henshawe and other local men. Ross bore Trevithick no ill will for his remarks, but, as they had not met since, he found himself a little embarrassed in the matter of jumping down from his horse and congratulating him on his new achievement.
Not so Jeremy, who thought of nothing else for days. To him that strange machine he had seen was not just an assembly of nuts and bolts and cylinders and pistons and cog-wheels; it was alive; as much alive as a horse or a man; it had a personality, a dramatic character of its own, deserved an individual and honourable name. To start it, he learned, you had to light a fire in its belly and put in coal; then presently it began to simmer and hiss, and all the intricate joints became animated: the miracle of its life began. The very way it moved, seeming to sway a little from side to side as if endeavouring to walk; the steam that issued from everywhere, like sweat, like a dragon’s breath; moving, making its own way across the countryside.
All this was breathtaking: he had seen a vision.
Thereafter he kept anxious watch in The Sherborne Mercury for any mention of his hero; but by now Trevithick was more out of Cornwall than in it, and news that he had put his new toy to practical ends came from Wales, where he had constructed a loco-motive which ran on a tramroad. The great engineer, James Watt, now in his late sixties, predicted disaster; for he himself still used engines with boiler pressures of little more than two or three lbs per square inch above that of the atmosphere; Trevithick was making boilers to work at 60 lbs, and talking of 100 lbs! An explosion, Watt predicted, must come sooner or later, with severe loss of life. One only had to experiment by soldering up the lid of a pan of water and putting it on the fire. Safety-valves were not enough.
It was not until seven years later, on his first visit to London with his father and mother, that Jeremy met the engineer. At that time Trevithick, not content with having driven one of his fire-engines clanging and chuffing through the streets of London in 1803, had now with some of his friends taken a field in north London between Upper Gower Street and the Bedford Nurseries, had palisaded it off and put down a circular railroad, and there advertised an engine (called Catch-Me-Who-Can) and was charging 1s. for admission to all who were curious enough to come and see – with a free ride included for those hardy spirits who dared to travel in the shaky carriage attached. It was a deliberate show – an attempt to gain the attention and the interest of the public.
Ross at that time was much preoccupied because he was going to – or hoping to – make one of his excessively rare speeches in Parliament – on the reform of the House of Commons; but Jeremy was so persistent that he agreed they should view the spectacle. Demelza, always fascinated by anything new, was almost as eager, and they had spent a morning there, and had all ridden on it at a speed of almost twelve miles an hour. Trevithick happened to be in attendance, and he greeted them like dear friends – as indeed they were, so far from home. Forgetful of any past resentments, he took endless trouble explaining to the boy of seventeen how his engine operated.
By now, however, there had been fatal accidents, just as Watt had said there would be; one engine had blown itself to pieces in Greenwich, killing four people and injuring others. On the morning they visited the site there were only a dozen people in the compound, and only two others would venture to take a ride. Ross said as they left: ‘It is a wondrous novelty, but I would not like a son or brother of mine to be involved at this experimental stage.’
Jeremy said: ‘Mr Trevithick tells me all the boilers are fitted now with two safety
-valves instead of one.’
‘I don’t know whether I wish it will come to something or not,’ said Demelza. ‘I suppose I have galloped faster than that but it does not feel so fast. With a horse you don’t fear its wheel will come off!’
Jeremy said: ‘Mr Trevithick says there is a shortage of horses because of the war. He feels there is a big future for the steam carriage.’
Ross said: ‘That may be. But I don’t think the time is ripe for it. I don’t think people will want it.’
Jeremy sighed. Even his father, who was such a clever and infallible man, could not understand the magnetic potentialities of this new invention. Once again, though now so much older, Jeremy felt the strange conviction that there was a life – a sort of magic life – in the heart of this steaming, smoking monster. It was not just a machine devised by man. Man was breeding something new, a creature to serve him but a creature of whim, of individuality. No two could ever be alike.
He wondered even if Mr Trevithick saw it as he did, felt the fascination in quite the same way. In any event, in the succeeding years his father turned out to be right. Whatever the ultimate potential of this invention no one, for the time being, was the least bit interested in developing it further.’ And so everything had lapsed. The last Jeremy had heard of Mr Trevithick – in 1810, that was, shortly before he picked up Stephen Carrington from the sea – the inventor was ill and in debt and thinking of returning to live in Cornwall.
The Stranger from the Sea: A Novel of Cornwall, 1810-1811 Page 14
