The Angry Tide

by Winston Graham

  ‘It’s on a sound footing, yes. We’re all pleased with the way it has developed. And it has an assured future.’

  She took a breath. ‘Then will you buy his interest in it and pay me the money?’

  His glass tinkled as he put it down, and he took out a handkerchief to dab a spot on the table.

  ‘My dear Mrs Poldark . . .’

  It was a very peaceful scene. You could not hear the wind in this sheltered valley; the only sound was the crackling of the wood fire.

  ‘That is out of the question.’

  ‘. . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘You do not have the authority. Nor could I possibly, under any conditions, take this as his considered decision without his signature.’

  ‘At present he is likely to be at sea – on his way home. His signature cannot help Mr Pascoe if it comes in a week’s time.’

  He laughed, though more in embarrassment than amusement. ‘Well, it’s out of the question. I am more than sorry.’ He stared at her. The last man ever to be influenced by a pretty face, he could still observe the appearance of this young woman with appreciation. And the directness of her mind. She made no bones . . .

  ‘How much do you need to meet your wages?’

  ‘Two thousand pounds.’

  He blinked. ‘A moment ago, ma’am, I was admiring you for your candour. That remark, alas, disillusions me.’

  ‘Well . . . a thousand at least.’

  He smiled. ‘How many men do you employ in total?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘I would guess that seven hundred pounds would more than cover all your possible needs.’

  ‘I have a hundred at home,’ Demelza said. ‘With that, perhaps another eight hundred would do.’

  He got up and took a turn about the room. She watched his slow pacing out of the corner of her eye.

  He said: ‘What I could do – the most I could do – would be to advance you seven hundred and fifty pounds. This would be writ off against Captain Poldark’s share of the future profits in the furnaces – and I would warn you that that would more than absorb anything he could hope to draw in the next twelve months. Even this I could do only by breaking my legal obligation to him. If he challenges me as to why I have done this, I shall have no excuse.’

  ‘He won’t, Mr Daniell.’

  ‘So you say. And so I believe, or I would not do it. But I know his quixotic temperament, and his wife’s, it seems, matches it. Pascoe is lucky in his friends.’

  ‘Some of them, Mr Daniell.’

  ‘Yes . . . There has been a good deal of malice in Truro over the last years. It is too much in so small a town. Happily I have kept out of it.’

  ‘I don’t think it is of Mr Pascoe’s seeking.’

  ‘No . . . It wants barely an hour to dinner now. Will you stay? I know my wife would much like it.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t. You see . . . if you are to give me a draft . . . I must have time.’

  ‘Of course. I quite understand. Will you wait here? . . .’

  He was gone five minutes. She admired the Reynolds portrait of Ralph-Allen Daniell’s forebear, Ralph Allen, the son of an innkeeper, who had revolutionized the postal system of England and made half a million pounds for himself thereby, later to become one of the great philanthropists of his time. She stared at the fluted ceiling of the room, the Adam mantelshelf, the Zoffany paintings. This was what money brought, just as it had brought them their beautiful new library at Nampara. Money could bring beauty and elegance and taste, just as it could bring – or the lack of it or the fear of losing it could bring – the ugly scenes that were developing in Truro as she left.

  He returned with a piece of paper. ‘Here is a draft on Basset’s Bank for eight hundred pounds. It is the most I can do for you.’

  ‘I’m that grateful, Mr Daniell. I know Ross will be.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Having parted with the draft, he eyed it uneasily as she put it into her purse, as if there were second thoughts hovering. ‘My dear . . . may I call you that? . . . you’re so young . . .’

  ‘Of course . . .’

  ‘A last word of advice. This is money for you and for your mine. It is not to try to support a shaky bank in Truro. And if you have quixotic thoughts in that direction may I point out that eight hundred pounds will neither sink nor save it. If it is going to crash – which I doubt – not eight hundred pounds nor the two thousand you first asked for is likely to be a sufficient raft for it to cling to to keep its head above water; and if it survives – as I believe it will – then it will survive without your having to deprive any of your miners of their monthly wage. Draw this money, take it home, keep it safe. There is a surplus here over and above your immediate needs – I am not deceived – so that will be useful to you both if by any mischance the rest of your deposit in Pascoe’s Bank should be lost or temporarily frozen. I admire your loyalty, Mrs Poldark. And your generosity. But I do not suppose you deficient in common sense, and I would remind you not to allow your emotions to blind you.’

  Demelza smiled at him and then dropped her eyes. ‘Thank you, Mr Daniell. I do appreciate your kindness and consideration to me.’

  He went to the door with her. ‘Are you unaccompanied? Is that wise?’

  ‘No. I have the mine manager waiting by the gates.’

  ‘I’m relieved,’ said Mr Daniell, and she thought he meant it in a double sense.

  IV

  Not only the mine manager, but her other two companions were waiting for her, one smoking, another sitting in the grass chewing a leaf of chucky-cheese he had picked from the hedge. In this sheltered part the blighting effect of the cold spring were not so plain.

  As soon as they saw her they scrambled on to their ponies. They looked at her expectantly.

  She said: ‘I have a draft for eight hundred pounds. It is not as much as I hoped but it is better than I feared.’

  ‘It d’seem a mint of money to me,’ said Zacky Martin.

  The horses were snorting and trying to get their heads together, so that conversation was not easy.

  ‘And now?’ said Henshawe, watching her very closely.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘you and I, Captain Henshawe, will go into Basset’s and change this draft – and as little of it for notes and as much of it for coins as we can persuade them to give us. Perhaps all coin. I do not think they can refuse us if we demand it all in gold and silver.’

  Henshawe gave his horse an admonitory flick. ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we go into a back room of the Red Lion and divide the money into – roughly into three parts. One part you will take, Will Nanfan, one you, Zacky, and one you, Will Henshawe. And then, one at a time, with a suitable interval in between, you will go, each one of you, back to Pascoe’s Bank, push your way through those noisy, sweating, ugly folk, and fight your way to the counter and then empty your bags on the counter and pay the money into the Poldark account. Make as much noise as you can. Clatter the coins. Let everyone see and know that you are paying the money in.’

  There was no sound then but the snorting of the horses and the occasional creak of leather.

  ‘All the money?’ asked Zacky.

  ‘All,’ said Demelza.

  Chapter Ten

  I

  It was two weeks more before Ross got home. He was furious. They had left the Pool of London on Easter Monday without incident or delay, sailing on a full tide. But they had called at Chatham and there been embayed eight days with the wind dead in the port and no hope of stirring. When they finally left it had been the wildest voyage of his considerable experience. They had lost a mast off the Goodwins and nearly gone aground. With a jury rig they had been blown down Channel and put in to the Solent for repair. Out again, they had encountered high seas and contrary winds, and finally limped into Fowey as battered and exhausted as if they had been attempting Cape Horn.

  So April was well advanced and spring was imposing itself on the countryside in spite of all discouragement. An
xious to be back, and not savouring the thought of another chance encounter with Osborne Whitworth or some other sturdy citizen in the flea-infested stage coach, he bought a young mare in Fowey and rode her straight home. It was late, and light was fleeing from the sky as he reached his own land. He looped his reins over the old lilac tree and opened his own front door. There was a light in the parlour but it was empty.

  Jane Gimlett came up behind him and uttered a little squeak. ‘Cap’n Ross! Oh, sur! At last! We was all expecting of ee – we all thought t’expect ee last week. Well, sur! I’ll go get John!’

  ‘No hurry. But when you go, tell him I’ve a new mare and she’s gone a thought lame. I think it is nothing but an ill-fitting shoe.’ (God, did life never tire of repeating itself? Darkie had been so affected fifteen years ago.) ‘Where’s your mistress?’

  ‘Out visiting, I b’lave, sur.’

  ‘Visiting?’

  ‘Her brothers, sur. That’s where I d’think she be.’

  ‘Which brother? They are widely separated.’

  ‘No, sur. Not just now, sur. They’m both over to Reath Cottage.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ross, and waited for an explanation, but none came. ‘How are the children?’

  ‘Brave an’ well. Both asleep. God’s little messengers. Shall I wake ’em?’

  ‘No, no. Let them sleep for a while. I’d like some food, Jane. What do you have?’

  ‘There’s half a leg o’ pork, just fresh—’

  ‘Not Ebb or Flow slaughtered yet?’

  ‘No, sur. And there’s part of a capon. And . . . But tes all cold . . .’

  ‘No matter. Just bring anything you think I’ll fancy . . .’

  The fire was low and his hands were cold. He threw his gauntlet gloves on a chair and tipped some more coal on, then struggled with his boots.

  ‘Let me do that, sur!’Jane said, returning.

  ‘No, I’ve managed. Thank you.’

  ‘Will ee eat here, sur, or in the dining-room? I b’lave the fire have gone out in there . . .’

  ‘Here, then. Is all well with your mistress?’

  ‘Oh, yes, brave and fine, sur.’

  ‘And the rest of you?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Betsy Maria have had a carbuncle but he have gone down now and be nearly mended. What wine shall I bring?’

  ‘What has your mistress been drinking?’

  ‘Just ale with meals. And port for after.’

  ‘Ah, port,’ said Ross. ‘Yes, port . . . Well, ale will suit me very well.’

  He wandered round the room for a minute or two, remembering old things, recognizing new, while the food was brought. A few letters for him, but he opened only three, first two of which were begging letters, the second being from Clarence Odgers asking if he would use his influence to obtain for him at last the living of Sawle. What the devil did that mean? The third invited him to a ceremony in Truro at which Baron de Dunstanville of Tehidy would open the new Cornwall General Infirmary which had been built on the outskirts of the town. This would be followed by a service in St Mary’s church and a dinner at the Red Lion Inn, to which all governors and principal subscribers were invited. The date for this was still two weeks hence.

  He had almost finished his meal when Demelza came in. The collar of her cloak was up and her hair was blown by the wind. She looked young and doubtful and startled and almost sulky – a word he would never in his life have chosen to describe her before.

  ‘Ross!’

  ‘My dear.’ He got up and kissed her on her cold sweet-smelling cheek. (Had she slightly turned her mouth away?) ‘They say a bad penny always returns.’

  ‘Not before its time,’ she said, one hand on each of his arms. ‘We have been that worried.’

  ‘For me? I wrote you from Chatham.’

  ‘But that was two weeks ago! I pictured you captured by the French!’

  ‘Oh, in wild weather there is small risk of that.’

  ‘You could have been blown into one of their ports! You could have been – drowned!’

  ‘But am not. As you see. Only glad to be home. But I shall think twice before travelling by the sea route again.’

  She looked at him. ‘You – smell different. You’re thinner.’

  He laughed. ‘Different may be the genteel term. I came straight from the brig as soon as we docked. If I smell like an old tarpaulin that can be corrected. And as for thinness; you’ve interrupted me in my first attempts to redress the balance.’

  ‘Please, you must go on! What has Jane got for you? Oh, we could have cooked something quickly!’ She continued in this way for a moment or two, and then he said:

  ‘No. It was a joke. I’ve really finished; really. The edge has gone and the rest can wait till tomorrow. Let me look at you. Sit down. This coal is not burning well. Sit and tell me all your news.’

  Talking lightly between themselves, exchanging casual superficial information that kept the silences away, they took seats on either side of the fire. She had dropped her cloak, straightened her blouse, flipping up the lace at throat and breast, found slippers for them both, joking that it was a wonder his were not mildewed, run fingers about her hair so that it surprisingly fell into the half-ordered density of curl and spring and turn that he liked best, jabbed at the fire with a skilful vigour that he lacked so that flame leapt up the chimney, brought a glass of port for herself and a brandy for him; and in the course of it all the turn of her mouth had changed to a shape he better recognized, and her eyes come to have a light that sparked a light in him.

  He told her of London and work there and his visits to Caroline and a further meeting with Geoffrey Charles, and the frequent frustrations and occasional pleasures of the House, and that Caroline, he thought, was returning to Cornwall next month to rejoin Dwight for the summer, and of his commission to help train raw militia in Kent throughout the month of August, and of his landlady’s expectation that at the next session in the autumn he would bring his wife with him, and of the progress and successes and failures of the war.

  To all this she listened without any straying interest, and put numerous questions; but after he had been talking for a quarter of an hour he stopped and said:

  ‘And what has gone wrong here?’

  ‘Why do you suppose something has gone wrong?’

  ‘Because I have never before seen you look the way you did when you came in just now. I think something is gravely wrong, and that you feel I am in some measure responsible.’

  ‘Did I look like that? You misread me! Something is wrong, much has gone wrong in the last few weeks, but I hold no one responsible. How could I? I wished – I have wished that much that you could have been here. But that is not the same as – as what you said.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘From the beginning? It will take a long time.’

  ‘From the beginning.’

  So she told him first of Osborne Whitworth’s strange death, of Rosina’s broken marriage, of Drake’s disappearance and return, of the burning of Pally’s Shop.

  ‘My God,’ he said. ‘Is it a total loss?’

  ‘The walls are blackened but sound enough. The roof has gone – and the floors – and the furniture.’

  ‘And no one is responsible, eh? No one saw anyone at all.’

  ‘No one saw anyone at all. Or will not say.’

  ‘I must see Jacka. It’s the sort of evil-tempered thing he might essay. And yet . . . and yet . . . Now Drake is with Sam?’

  ‘Yes. We can’t persuade him to go back and try to begin a repair.’

  ‘And Morwenna Whitworth? What does he say about her?’

  ‘Nothing. Not a word. He will not utter. But clearly she does not want him.’

  Ross grunted. ‘What a wry, ugly mess! It could hardly have been worse for them all. And Rosina?’

  ‘Is amazing. So strong in her quiet way. And it is the second time she has been let down.’

  ‘Do you think she would take him now?’

  ‘Who, Drake? Oh
, Ross, I don’t know – or if he would take her. I can’t do any more. Already I feel part to blame.’

  ‘Well, I can understand how it has upset you. I’ll go over in the morning and see what can be done about the house. We could help with the cost of the repair.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Ross took his pipe from the shelf and then changed his mind, put it back. ‘There is more? Something wrong at the mine?’

  ‘No . . . Not at the mine. Did you not come through Truro, Ross?’

  ‘No. Direct. Through St Stephen’s and St Michael. Why?’

  ‘Pascoe’s Bank has closed its doors.’

  ‘What!’

  She blinked at his tone. ‘It has gone bankrupt and failed to meet its creditors. And with it have gone our savings. ‘And Drake’s savings. So perhaps we shall not have any money yet awhile to build his new roof.’

  Ross was staring at her as if he totally failed to understand what she said. ‘You’re telling me that – that – Pascoe’s Bank . . . It’s – impossible! Since you last wrote . . . In – in three weeks? Pascoe?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ she said, ‘how it happened, how I first heard of it.’

  So she began the harder part of her tale: her visit to Truro, her decision to see Ralph-Allen Daniell, her return to Truro – putting the money in.

  ‘It was – horrible,’ she said. ‘I – didn’t go right into the bank again; but folk were six deep, clamouring for their money. Of course the two clerks were taking their time, paying out as slow as they could. But some of the folk were noisy, getting rough. I thought they might climb the counter. Our three went in, at intervals – made a great show of paying the money in – it was a big pile each time on the counter – and each time they went in it – it quieted the crowd. Some of them jeered when they saw money being paid in, but it quieted them – they were more orderly, more willing to wait. After all, some of them only had thirty or forty pounds to draw – some just a few notes to change. When they saw the money it – helped to restore their confidence.’

  ‘But not enough.’

  ‘Not enough. It was the big depositors who broke him. A few stood firm – like us – like Henry Prynne Andrew – like Mr Buller – like Mr Hitchens. But the others – did not.’