Ross caught the speculative eye of the man beside him and laughed. ‘I’ll think of it.’
They rode along saying nothing for a while till they came to the fork in the trail where Ross would go on and Tregirls should turn for Sawle.
Ross said as they reined in: ‘There is something I could put in your way but I do not know if you would fancy it. Do you speak French?’
‘Aye. Rough and ready but plenty of it. Like a native, as you might say.’
‘This – this that I might put in your way – there might be some danger in it or then there might not.’
Tholly rattled the bones in his bag. ‘That sound like my young Cap’n. It sound like him and like the Old Cap’n over again.’
‘Well, clear your mind, Tholly, it is not. In a few weeks’ time I am going to France as part of a French expedition which is expected to land – well, somewhere on the French coast. There will be very few English except English sailors on the ships and English marines, but I am going and thought to take half-dozen men with me who would be under my orders, though I should myself be under orders either from the English commander or directly from the French.’
‘I’m your man.’
‘Wait. Before you agree too readily let me make other conditions plain. There would be no raiding, no foraging, no stealing French property or taking French women. Anyone found guilty of any such crime would be shot.’
‘All proper and above board, eh, Cap’n? But I reckon we’re at war with the French!’
‘Not when we cooperate with them in a landing. So . . . there would be no pickings for you, Tholly. Indeed, if I found you with any I should feel it my duty to shoot you without delay.’
‘So what is there in it?’
‘Payment. I’ll pay each man who comes. A fixed sum which will be his only reward.’
Bartholomew Tregirls coughed horribly into the cool spring air. ‘How much?’
‘Twenty guineas.’
The coughing resumed, and when Tholly was able to speak Ross was unable to catch what had been muttered.
‘What?’
‘I said, make it fifteen, Cap’n, and I’ll come.’
It was only that day, his final decision to go; after meetings during the last month at Killewarren, at Tehidy, at Falmouth. The expedition was fully fledged and would sail in three weeks. The main force had been assembled at Southampton: three and a half thousand French in some forty transports; another thousand expected from ports along the coast. Four small ships waited at Falmouth with about two hundred men. The fleet was to be escorted by Admiral Sir Borlase Warren, flying his flag in the 40-gun frigate Pomone, with five other warships. Indeed, until it reached its destination, the expedition was to have the company of the whole Channel Fleet under Lord Bridport, evidence enough that the Cabinet at St James’s was giving whole-hearted support. In addition to equipment for those sailing, the transports carried great quantities of arms, ammunition, uniforms and other supplies for the Royalists in France.
The Comte de Puisaye, the giant Breton, was to command, for it was his enthusiasm which had brought the scheme to its present fruition; and the Bourbon princes, though slow or cautious to move themselves, had appointed him Lieutenant General and Commander of the Loyalist armies of France.
Ross had met neither de Puisaye nor the Comte d’Hervilly, who had been colonel of one of the crack French regiments and was to be second-in-command, for they had remained in London; but through Caroline he had maintained his contacts with the handsome young viscount, de Sombreuil, with Mlle de la Blache, to whom de Sombreuil was affianced, with the energetic but somewhat volatile de Maresi, with Mme Guise, who had spent her time in the beds of numerous Cornish gentlemen; and he had met half a dozen others. Of them all he greatly preferred de Sombreuil, who in spite of his brilliance and vitality often seemed to have a shadow on his face. Perhaps it was the shadow of the guillotine which had almost wiped out his family. He told Ross that when peace came Ross must bring his wife and stay with them in their great château near Limoges. It was a genuine friendship and Ross had come to prize it, perhaps particularly because he had relatively few close friends of his own in Cornwall.
In the company of the French he was carried along by their determination and their enthusiasm and their obvious courage. The expedition would not lack for any of these. And reports were mounting – too numerous to be false – of the utter disenchantment of the French people with their present rule of terror. If England suffered harshly from the war and the weather, France fared even worse. Although she was virtual master of Europe, bread queues stretched through every French town. The currency had all but collapsed, so that the peasants would not sell their corn; such control as the Government had hitherto exercised in Paris was breaking down: groups of youths roamed the streets killing and robbing at will; several towns had even dared to elect Royalist mayors. The ordinary decent French no longer yearned for liberty, equality and fraternity, or at least not at the expense of justice, order and food. All this was true; and Ross was hopeful that this expedition would gain the success it deserved.
It was only at odd times that he felt unsure whether the terrible dynamic of the Revolution had yet expended itself. He knew his own yearnings for a better and more equitable society, and remembered how the original proclamations of the revolutionaries had quickened his heart. Now he was so disillusioned by the anarchy and the tyranny which had followed that he was prepared to fight those same revolutionaries everywhere and anywhere. But he remembered the way in which – only a few months ago – the Dutch towns had welcomed the revolutionaries in. The battle cry might be tarnished and stained, but all the magic had not gone from it. And even though the Dutch might bitterly regret their enthusiasm for this splendid ideal when its practical applications became apparent, and even though the French had had six years to suffer it, the alternative, which was a return to the old régime, could surely offer few attractions. Although de Sombreuil was an exception, the attitude of many of the émigrés Ross had met was that peasants were little better than cattle and should be treated as such. Their attitude even to the English servants of their English hosts was completely without that streak of humanity which marked, in however peculiar a way, the relationship of servant and master in England.
So, in the midst of his enthusiasm and his hope, he doubted. And this was at the base of his decision to go himself and to take a few friends with him. And the men he invited to join him were, apart from the one he had just asked, men who had benefited, or seen their families benefit, from Dr Dwight Enys’s ministrations. Jacka Hoblyn, Joe Nanfan, John Bone, Tom Ellery, Wilf Jonas, the miller’s son. Will Nanfan he would not ask because he still had a young family by his second wife; Zacky Martin because he had not been well all winter; Paul Daniell because of the old tragedy of Mark and Keren. But this group made six with Tregirls, and it might well be enough. Indeed he might not use any of them.
After he had left Tholly he jogged on until he reached his own land. He was not looking forward to his meeting with Demelza, for now he must tell her of his decision. He knew she would accept it and make the best of it; but he did not like the thought of causing her this worry; and he knew well enough that if things did not go aright with the expedition his secondary plan would lead him into danger. This he was not going to tell her.
But he knew it himself, and he struggled with his own complex feelings as he rode down the valley with the Mellingey stream bubbling and hissing not far away. There had been a real hint of summer in the sun today. The light had been clear and scintillating, the air charged with life and ozone, the sky had looked a million miles high. It was a day that made you feel good to be alive.
Why then choose to risk it all?
First was his heavy obligation to Dwight. That was primary to the decision. But secondary and not to be overlooked was a barely conscious hankering within himself for danger and adventure and the company of men. At home, at the home he was just approaching, he had a wife whose gamin beau
ty, wit and earthiness he still found totally engaging; and he had a son of four years old, good-looking, sharp with incentive and already full of the most endearing characteristics: and he had a daughter of seven months, dark-haired and dark-eyed like her mother, plump and laughing and contented at being born. All this he put at risk. A chance musket ball would have a broken widow and two fatherless children, and himself written off the page, no longer able to draw breath and life and savour.
Yet, although he could not quite work this out in simple terms in his own mind, the very savour of life, he thought, was itself enhanced if it were not totally taken for granted. Perhaps it was something to do with the whole philosophy of the world into which we were born. If we lived for ever, who would look forward eagerly to tomorrow? If there were no darkness, should we so appreciate the sun? Warmth after cold, food after hunger, drink after thirst, sexual love after the absence of sexual love, the fatherly greeting after being away, the comfort and dryness of home after a ride in the rain, the warmth and peace and security of one’s fireside after being among enemies. Unless there were contrast there might be satiety.
He did not suppose that these were original thoughts, but they constituted an element in his decision to go. He knew how quickly Demelza could demolish them if they were put to her. Accepting the first premise, no doubt, she would then go on to point out the fallacy of all the rest. Love is brief, sun is brief, warmth and peace and sexual and parental happiness last but a few years. Few possess them as we now possess them. So savour while we can. They’ll go quick enough without inviting the French musket ball to heighten the flavour.
It was practical, and if it came to the argument he would admit she was right. But it never would come to the argument for he never would reveal to her the secondary motivations for his decision. On loyalty to Dwight she would have no answer.
Chapter Two
It had become the custom of the Rev. Clarence Odgers to visit Trenwith House every Saturday morning that the family was at home. He had now given up all hopes of being fed at the house on a Sunday. Although their eldest daughter was employed as Valentine’s nurse, George barely acknowledged the existence of a Mrs Odgers or an Odgers family. But Saturday the curate not infrequently was given the inestimable benefit of a small dole of money, and if matters arose concerning the parish they could be discussed then. Further he received his instructions about the morrow, whether Mr and Mrs Warleggan would attend service and if they had any preference for lessons or for hymns.
Today, which was the sixth of June, George received him in his study, a room that old Joshua had made peculiarly his own. George was wearing a cream silk cravat, a long flowered silk morning gown and crimson slippers, and was at his most easeful. One could almost have fallen into the mistake of supposing his affability to be friendliness. It made Mr Odgers’s self-appointed task at once easier and more difficult. One broached the subject more readily, but one feared all the more the change of manner which would ensue.
‘Mr Warleggan,’ he began. ‘Mr Warleggan. I trust you will forgive me if I appear to intrude upon the private affairs of your household. It has never been my wish to seem to interfere in anything domestic, or in any aspect of your life which does not have a direct bearing upon the life of the church here in Grambler and Trenwith. But, Mr Warleggan, there is something I feel I ought to tell you. If you already know it, and approve of it, then I trust you will accept my humblest apologies and consider the matter as never having been mentioned.’
George’s face had already altered slightly. ‘I am in no position to tell you that until I know the subject.’
‘The subject, Mr Warleggan. The Subject, Mr Warleggan, is your niece. Beg pardon, your wife’s cousin. I refer to Miss Chynoweth. An estimable young lady, I have always thought, a dean’s daughter, a young lady of Christian parts, a help in the church; an adornment, if I may say so, Mr Warleggan, too. An adornment . . .’
George bowed his head in acknowledgment.
‘Recently she has helped with the choir and has worked a sampler for the lectern. Highly estimable. But – but, oh, dear, Mr Warleggan, she is meeting – did you know? she is meeting a young – a young man – and one of the Wesleyan sect – and utilizing our church as a trysting place. I cannot believe that you would wish her to do that! Especially as the young man she is meeting is one of the ringleaders of those rowdies we were able to exclude from the church on your directions. Or at least, on your advice, Mr Warleggan, on your advice. You will remember my calling to visit you last year – it would be towards the end of last summer – and we agreed then that it would be better in the interests of the parish as a whole—’
George held up his hand to arrest the spate. Mr Odgers then obediently sat silent. George sat there for a full minute before he spoke.
‘How has she been meeting him and when?’
‘In the church on Sunday afternoons, and possibly on other occasions, I don’t know.’ Mr Odgers chewed on his sparse teeth. ‘Because she helps in the church she knows where the key is hid and so can enter it at all times. I chanced upon them two Sundays ago, entering the church from the vestry: they did not see me for I was able to withdraw in time. But twice I have seen them there in the last two weeks.’
‘You are sure it was Miss Chynoweth?’
‘Oh, yes, certainly Mr Warleggan. I fear so. And the same young man.’
‘What same young man?’
‘During your absence, Mr Warleggan, I took the opportunity of visiting Miss Agatha Poldark from time to time. She was long an attender at the church, although it was before my day . . . Well, twice in visiting this house, once on arriving, once on leaving it, I have seen the young man, this same young man, approaching the house as if to pay a call – a call upon someone in it. I can only conclude, it seems only reasonable to conclude—’
‘Was this before Christmas or more recently?’
‘Oh, before. Afterwards the weather was so inclement, one hardly ventured out.’
George got up and went to the window. This window did not look out over the pool, the source of his other vexations. It looked over the tiny courtyard towards the back of the house.
‘I was not aware of these meetings, and you are right to have brought them to my notice. It is possible that they have some innocent explanation, and I trust that is so. But innocent or not, they shall be put a stop to.’
‘Thank you, Mr Warleggan. I acted for the best in this, with, I believe, your interests and the interests of Miss Chynoweth at heart—’
Scratching under his horse-hair wig, Odgers went on, telling the same story and offering the same comments in different words. Having received a congratulatory pat, he liked it so much that by reiterating the purity of his own motives he sought a repetition of the praise all over again. He did not get it. George, his mind very busy with what he had learned, had neither time nor further attention for the parson, and with a few words and a few nods and grunts he got rid of him.
George went straight to Elizabeth, who had no more knowledge of the matter than he. Their ignorance pointed the gap in communication that existed, the isolation they lived in although surrounded by servants and the rest of the community. For in spite of Drake’s and Morwenna’s belief to the contrary, a considerable number of people knew of their walking together on the beach, of his calls at the house, of their meeting at the church since. Secrecy might have been possible in a town, it was not possible in the country where observing one’s neighbour was one of the few recreations available to all. Had Verity been in the house, or even Francis, someone would have dropped a hint to them as a matter of course. People were afraid to do so to George because they were scared of him, and Elizabeth, though kind enough, had always been remote.
Various servants were summoned, interrogated and sent about their business. Next Geoffrey Charles, who by turns was gleefully frank, defiant, tearful and defiant again. Finally Morwenna.
She bore her ordeal with thumping heart and choking breath, but outwardly at
first meekly calm. Yes, Geoffrey Charles had been seeing this young man, in her company, at intervals since last summer. As he was related to the Poldarks, she had thought there was little harm in it, even though he had had no education and was a tradesman. Geoffrey Charles, as he must already have told them, had taken a very great liking to him. Drake – Drake Carne – had been able to teach Geoffrey Charles many sides of country lore that she could not have done herself. She had tried to attend to his formal education, but how to tie knots, how to build fires, how to shoot an arrow: these were skills she did not have. So the friendship had formed and had – continued.
‘And your friendship, Miss Chynoweth?’ George said. ‘How do you explain that?’
Morwenna raised frightened eyes to his and then hid them again by looking at her hands.
Her friendship had grown out of the companionate friendship of the three. She had been glad to see Geoffrey Charles so happy and had entered into his happiness. So, without intent, she had allowed the young man to become fond of her – and had become fond of him.
‘And you sit there,’ said George quietly, ‘and tell us that?’
‘I am sorry. I know it was unwise. But that is how it happened! I can be no more than truthful with you, Mr Warleggan. For that is just how it occurred. There was never any harm intended or thought – either on his side or on mine.’
‘Let us leave his intentions out of it for the moment. Let us consider yours. You came here as governess to my stepson. By doing this you accepted a trust to look after him and teach him in the ways that you know we would wish. Instead, under the pretext of wanting him to be instructed in country lore – and I must say that I can only possibly see it as a pretext – you entangle yourself with this out-of-work miner, this Methodist; you compromise yourself and drag your name – and Geoffrey Charles’s with it – through the mire of the village streets for every gossip to sneer at!’
The Black Moon Page 31
