The Black Moon

by Winston Graham

  ‘What use would it be? If the Admiralty does not know, who can know? Only the French. In the case of officers it is usual – it has been usual – to exchange them quite quickly. Certainly their names should soon come through. But the revolution is now so out of hand . . .’

  ‘The Mercury says that Danton is dead.’

  ‘Oh, yes, a month or more ago. He at least was a great man. Now we are left with the rats.’

  ‘It says Saint-Just and Robespierre are supreme.’

  ‘No one is supreme for more than a day. The fault it seems in any revolution is that it must always run downhill. Victory is always for the extremists. There is always someone to say that the party in power is not ardent enough.’

  ‘There must be an end somewhere.’

  ‘It must end in some form of oligarchy, but these people are not strong enough. Who controls the army will ultimately control France.’

  He stood staring out of the window at the bright day, his eyes concentrated on things that were not seen. The way his hair grew now you could hardly see the old scar. She watched him quietly. She sometimes thought she had more understanding, more fellow feeling towards him than towards Dwight, whom she consumedly loved. Ross was obstinate, like herself, the non-conformer, the near-rebel, the believer in his own judgment even when his judgment went against the observed facts, a man who always kicked out at and resented the malignant irrelevances of fate.

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘In the meantime the guillotine works day and night.

  Last week a Duke and two Marshals of France, all over eighty; Malesherbes the lawyer, together with his wife, his brother, his children and his grandchildren; an establishment of nuns, tied together and heaped in carts; the King’s sister, Elizabeth; girls for singing an impudent song; boys for being the sons of their fathers. They’re killing more women and children now because there are not enough men left.’

  Caroline got up, went to the sideboard, poured herself a glass of brandy. ‘And you tell me to hope for Dwight’s survival. What chance would there be for him among such a rabble even if he reached the shore?’

  ‘Oh, there is all the difference. An enemy – even an Englishman – would never be half so bitterly hated as one of their own kind with aristocratic blood or a different view of government. And these – these revolutionary excesses chiefly affect Paris and the larger cities of France. I would not think the treatment of an English officer shipwrecked on the Brittany coast would differ materially from that accorded a French officer shipwrecked in Cornwall.’

  She sipped her drink and looked at him over the rim of her glass. ‘Oh, don’t think I am taking to the bottle. If I choose a solvent for my present anxiety, it will not be in the lees of liquor.’

  ‘I was not thinking that.’

  ‘You still believe the war will be long?’

  ‘Well . . . one tends to underestimate the effect on a French general of knowing that retreat for him means the guillotine.’

  ‘You know more than I can glean from reading the papers, Ross.’

  His eyes were lidded; then he looked up and smiled. ‘As you know – to your cost – I have contacts with gentlemen in the Trade. Now that prosperity has come I no longer take any part in it myself – surprising how respectable one grows with money in the purse – but my old colleagues are still about. I talk with them sometimes. They bring back news . . .’

  ‘Might they have news before anyone else of this shipwreck?’

  The question surprised him; stupidly it had not occurred to him where her thoughts were leading.

  ‘Roscoff and the other Brittany ports are some way from where this – the Travail went ashore. I have no idea of distances there, but I will ask. Two or three of the men I know speak serviceable French. If there is a hope of finding out anything of value I will go myself.’

  She put her drink down, moistened her lips. The spirit was bringing colour to her face. ‘There is no need to put yourself at risk, but I thought—’

  ‘Little enough risk. But first I will find out when the next run is due and ask someone to make inquiries. There is no need to wait for a St Ann’s boat if one is not going soon. I have friends at Looe also.’

  Try both,’ said Caroline.

  Ross was to spend the night at the Pascoes’ and was to dine with Harris Pascoe at three. He found his old friend in very good spirits. Passing through the bank with its two clerks busy with customers, they went into the dining-room behind and ate alone.

  Harris said: ‘You will be delighted with the war news, Ross. Perhaps you have already heard it in town?’

  ‘No, I have only seen Barbary, who was much concerned for the safety of one of his ships which is overdue with timber, and perhaps he was too worried to take heed of it.’

  ‘He should not be, for it will directly concern him. Howe has won a f-famous victory off Ushant. He caught the French fleet under Admiral – I do not recollect his name – the French fleet being the larger, and in a daylong battle has cut it to pieces! Seven French ships of the line destroyed or captured and of the rest many seriously damaged and all put to flight! It is one of the greatest victories in history and should bring this detestable regime to its knees! The blockade will now be complete!’

  They drank to the victory, and ate hashed mutton and a roasted goose followed by strawberries with a good French wine and a crusted port. Ross asked if Harris’s daughter was away.

  ‘Not away, but staying with her aunt for a day or two. You have heard that happy news also?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘She is engaged to be married – to your c-cousin St John Peter. I wonder you have not heard; though in fact the engagement was only made public at the beginning of this month. We plan an October wedding. It is a very happy time for Joan – and for me also, although I shall greatly miss her. But it is time I had grandsons, and, although my sons are hardly yet fledged, Joan is twenty-nine.’ Harris chewed reflectively and took a small bone out of his mouth. ‘I had thought, I had feared . . . You remember her attachment for young Dr Enys. It came to nothing – I believe he is n-now at sea – but I feared that having committed herself, as it were, to him, she might miss marriage altogether. She does not easily change allegiances. Of course she has known St John – as I have known him – for many years; but it never occurred to me, as perhaps it did not occur to her, that any attachment might develop. I am happy also that through this marriage the Pascoes and the Poldarks will be brought a little nearer together. It’s a very favourable outcome.’

  Ross murmured his congratulations. Perhaps Harris Pascoe detected some reservation in his guest’s good wishes, for he said: ‘Oh, I know St John Peter has not been the most industrious or studious of young men. But it is not an uncommon pattern when one inherits a small estate quite young . . .’ The banker stopped, for he perceived that he might be on delicate ground.

  ‘It is a very familiar pattern,’ Ross said. ‘One inherits the traditions of a gentleman, the pride of a squire, a dislike of work and a contempt for trade; all of which might be tolerable if the estate were not too small to live off and already heavily mortgaged by one’s father.’

  ‘I was not attempting to draw a p-parallel, Ross. In any case you made no bones about abandoning such a tradition and the outcome happily is now in no doubt. I have hopes, with Joan’s steadying influence and the ambition which may come of fathering a family, that St John will find a new incentive in life. He is only twenty-seven.’

  That made him at least two years younger than his bride, even if one did not suspect her of having forgotten a year or two.

  ‘Oh, I think St John has much to commend him. He is a cheerful, gay fellow and very good company. We have never been close, but of course the cousinship is somewhat removed – I do not quite know how to estimate these relationships. I believe that although his estate is much reduced the young man has a couple of sinecures which help him to remain both solvent and a gentleman.’ Ross caught Harris Pascoe’s eye and laughed
. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Harris. I did not intend to sound so sour. I am very happy both for you and Joan. And, in so far as our ties may be strengthened by this marriage, I am happy for that also.’

  They talked of other things. Banking business was booming, for the war had created a mood of expansion which at times was feverish. Although the mining world and Cornish industries were still depressed, money over the country as a whole had become cheap and had led to new enterprises springing up which hoped to profit from war conditions.

  Ross said: ‘With whom does St John Peter bank?’ Knowing already.

  ‘Warleggan’s. He is very friendly with them. George has helped him in a number of ways; and of course I do not take exception to that. The community should not be expected to divide itself up into camps. It would be the worst thing.’

  ‘I agree. But willy nilly, Harris, you I suspect are in mine.’

  ‘Yes. I do not admire the Warleggans or their business methods. Honesty is not a set of rules, it is a standard of ethics. By the first criterion they are honest, by the second not. But – they exist. And I suspect – I fear – that as men like them prosper, more and more such will come to the top. Well, we can’t alter the world, we can only adapt ourselves to it. As for my future son-in-law, it should not matter that he banks elsewhere, th-though I shall hope that when he marries he will move. I am settling a substantial sum on Joan.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘This of course is between ourselves. It would be – unhelpful if it got out.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, you know, the stability of a bank depends on the good standing of its partners. Since it is not a joint stock company, no one is really certain of the depths of its purse. When my father died there was a startling increase in the business we did, because men reasoned that the son of a man who left so substantial a fortune must be rich enough to be safe!’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Similarly if men knew I had settled any substantial part of my fortune on Joan, it would leave them feeling less secure of the amount I had left to meet all the contingencies of trade.’

  Ross shook his head. ‘Harris, it is not really for me to suggest; but I wonder if there might be something to be said for offering St John Peter a modest interest in your bank – in some form of junior partnership? It would be a way of safeguarding Joan’s future and his.’

  Harris refilled both glasses. ‘It did occur to me. Indeed, I came halfway round to the matter when St John was dining with us last week. I gather from what he said that he would be only too happy to accept such an interest if he were to take no active part. Like Spry, for instance. But he gave me the impression that he would not wish to be concerned in any way with the day-by-day running of the bank or in fact to have his name prominently associated with banking and usury.’

  Ross shifted uneasily in his chair. He wondered if this dichotomy of attitude was likely to prove the basis for a happy marriage. ‘I always find,’ he said, ‘that the lesser the gentry the greater the pretensions. No doubt the years will bring him wisdom.’

  ‘. . . Th-these are our first strawberries. With this cold spring they have been slow to ripen. And your own affairs? All is still prospering?’

  ‘We shall have a fine show of tin at the next Coinage. I have been wondering how this new money coming in might be put to use; a man who depends on a single venture is more vulnerable to cold winds than one who spreads his interests.’

  ‘I would certainly not advise investment in another mine. This time you have triumphed against all odds . . . You have heard of course the rumour about the other mine you started?’

  ‘What? Wheal Leisure? No.’

  ‘It is said that the champion lode, that of red copper, is no longer answering well. It is running thin and threatening to die.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard that. And since it is almost on my doorstep I think it passing strange I should not have.’ Ross stared at his friend. ‘Harris, you always surprise me: you have the gossip of the county at your fingertips.’

  ‘I hope it is gossip, for the sake of the ventures.’ Pascoe spoke a little stiffly.

  ‘Gossip was the wrong word. But the reason I tend to discount this news is that Will Henshawe is captain there and a venturer. As you know, he is captain of Grace too and one of my oldest friends. I should have expected him to have told me if the lode were dying.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Pascoe took off his spectacles and polished them on his napkin.

  Some drunken men were shouting outside. There was a scuffle and a sound of blows and someone ran off shouting.

  Ross said: ‘No, I had not thought of any further adventure in mining. But there are other outlets for investment. The foundries, shipbuilding, the roads . . .’

  ‘I will keep a l-look out, Ross. But at the moment, with your prosperity so young, perhaps it is not an unwise thing to keep your money safe at a bank as you are doing now. It is easy to withdraw, instantly usable at need. In another year perhaps you will have a greater surplus.’

  ‘In six months I shall have a greater surplus,’ Ross said. ‘Don’t forget, except for Henshawe’s small stake, I own the mine entirely.’

  ‘Perhaps I am always a trifle the pessimist,’ said Pascoe, putting back his spectacles. ‘But maybe that is one of the necessary characteristics of a b-banker. I do not like this war and what it is doing to us, even though it may bring a temporary prosperity. In order to destroy this system which we so much detest we are creating conditions over here which run contrary to our dearest p-principles. This new move of Pitt’s, the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act, strikes at the heart of our freedom. Imprisonment without trial – it is going back two hundred years! And this huge army we are raising; it is not a levée en masse like France’s, but the m-methods of raising it are as unsavoury. Kidnapping, debauchery, bribery, any way of enlisting men. And Pitt is borrowing, borrowing at exorbitant rates to finance the war – taxes are heavy, I know, but more taxes would be better. As it is, he is mortgaging the future. I don’t like a policy which, whatever its intentions, b-bears hardest on the poor.’

  Ross said: ‘You know you are speaking to the converted or perhaps you would not be speaking at all. But I have changed my views a small matter in the last two years. At first Burke’s thunderings failed to impress me. But one by one I have watched them come true. This is an evil that we face. When I fought in America I remained unconvinced half the time of what I was fighting for. I would fight much more readily this time.’

  ‘I trust you don’t intend to.’

  Ross was silent. ‘I am thirty-four, and I have a wife and a – child to consider.’ He had been about to say children. ‘We are forming a local branch of the Volunteers. What little I remember of soldiering may be useful there. But of course it depends how things develop. England may soon be fighting alone.’

  ‘I pray God not.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Sometimes this country is at its best when alone. The history of our unsuccessful wars are the history of our coalitions.’

  They got up, and the maid came in to clear. A small fire burned in the grate and Harris warmed his hands before it. When the maid had gone, Ross said: ‘It would be a strange quirk of fate if Wheal Leisure were to become less profitable now, George Warleggan having gone to such lengths to possess it. If it were not for the other venturers I should be vastly amused.’

  The next morning, having made his purchases, Ross strolled down to the river behind the old town hall where the Whitsun market was held. There were many things he needed for the farm, chiefly livestock, so much of which had been sold to realize a few miserable pounds two and a half years ago. Of course it would all be put right some day, and some day soon. But one could not buy really good stock in bulk and in a hurry. One built up a farm lovingly, as he had done until the winter of 1790. He had no intention of buying any cattle or pigs today without even Cobbledick to drive them home; but a horse for Demelza to replace Caerhays was an urgent need, and if anything re
ally suitable should be about he might take it.

  The really suitable presented itself quite early in his stroll. This Whitsun fair was not as big as the Redruth fair held every Easter Tuesday, where on one occasion Ross had picked up something of considerable significance in his life, but it filled the fields running down to the river. Stalls and compounds straggled across six or seven acres of trampled muddy grass. Men already lay drunk outside beer tents; half-naked urchins tumbled and fought for scraps whenever a scrap was thrown; farmers in leggings haggled over the price of sheep and the quality of grain; thin muddy-flanked cows chewed slowly and waited their fate unaware; a ring was being prepared for the afternoon’s wrestling; a bull snorted and stamped in protest against the stout rope holding him; beggars without legs, beggars without noses, beggars holding out withered hands: these would probably be driven out of the town before nightfall; the usual sideshows: the flame-eaters, the pig with six legs, the fortune tellers and the fat woman. Fortunately it was a fine day, but every footstep ploughed deeper into the mud.

  Ross was among the stalls where some old clothes and second-hand shoes and wigs were for sale, when a harsh voice behind him said:

  ‘Well, my grandfather’s ghost, if it ain’t the young Cap’n himself! It’s you, my son. There couldn’t be no other!’

  He turned. ‘Tholly?’ He could not believe his eyes. ‘But I supposed you dead!’

  A heavy man with the square shoulders of an asthmatic; stooping, forty-six years of age, dressed in a fustian long coat, primrose yellow waistcoat, dark green corduroy trousers, a green silk neckcloth. A flat nose, dark hair grizzling, ice-grey eyes, beside one of which, puckering it like an inefficient seamstress, ran a scar which made Ross’s look no more than a cat’s scratch. In place of his left hand was a steel hook more suitable to a butcher’s shop.

  ‘Dead I been – or near it – oft enough, but come up smiling. It’s been a long time. Thirteen – fourteen year?’