‘I think all is well now, Captain Poldark. Safely gathered in, if one might say so without irreverence.’
‘Yes. We’ll get it up the cliff tomorrow.’ At the very last the trolley had slid off the track at one side and was quite immovable. But it had done its work. For the last few yards the beam could be levered forward on its own.
‘So . . . If I should now take my leave . . .’
‘You’d be welcome to sup with us, Mr Harvey. We have all been on a starvation diet today. Indeed, stay the night, if you wish. It would be a pleasure.’
‘It would be a pleasure to me, sir. And an honour. But I should neither eat nor sleep peaceable with my three vessels off this dangerous shore. Perhaps another time.’
‘Indeed. Your brother Francis stayed with us once before his – his accident.’
‘He would have been forty-four this year. I have lost two other brothers and a sister since then. Natural causes with them, of course, natural causes . . . Yes, but strong steam has to come in spite of the risks, as your talented son recognizes. I shall watch the performance and duty of this engine with most particular interest.’
Ross looked at the darkening sky. It was like a mourning card.
‘I think you’re wise to go. There’ll be no trouble tonight. But one can’t be sure of tomorrow.’
They shook hands. A part of the purchase price of the engine had already been paid over; the balance was due on delivery, but it was not between gentlemen that this should be discussed. As the sweating horses were relieved of their harness, men at the sea’s edge were already beginning to lift the sleeper track. Ross walked with Mr Harvey down to the sea as far as his dinghy, where two men waited to push him out through the frothy little surf to join his brig and return to Hayle.
‘. . . Tomorrow?’ asked Stephen Carrington.
‘What?’ said Clowance.
‘For Trenwith.’
‘It is dangerous. People will see us.’
‘Let ’em.’
‘No. You have not lived here long, Stephen. I would hate the whispering, the dirty rumours. It would – contaminate what . . . what I don’t wish to have contaminated.’
‘Where, then? Where, then?’
‘Trenwith maybe. But it would be better about dusk.’
‘That suits me.’
‘Yes, well . . . But it means . . . more deceit . . . more lying.’
‘Not my choice. I would shout it out in the open for all to hear.’
Clowance gave a little irritable shrug. It was impossible to explain to him her own mixed feelings, the overwhelming lure of his physical attraction warring with all her loyalties to upbringing, family and friends – with the added weight of little doubts about his attitude towards other women that could not altogether be set aside.
She said: ‘Perhaps next week.’
‘Too far off. I want to see you tomorrow.’
‘No.’
‘Then Wednesday.’
‘No . . . Friday I might, perhaps. I could go and see the Paynters, come on from there.’
‘What time would it be?’
‘About five.’
‘I’ll be waiting. Don’t fail me, will you.’
‘I’ll try to be there,’ said Clowance, knowing well that she would.
II
The winter had been a draughty comfortless one but without severe cold. Its relative mildness had prevented some of the worst privations in the stricken English north; and even in the Iberian peninsula, where each side had gone into winter quarters exhausted after the bloody fights and sieges of the last year, the weather was not so icy as usual.
Throughout a long campaign of desperate battles for hills and bridges and towns in Spain and Portugal one theme had predominated. Wherever Wellington was there victory was. Each of Napoleon’s great marshals had taken him on in turn and each in turn had given way, having got the worst of it. Not yet had the ennobled general come into direct conflict with the greatest soldier of them all, but that might occur any time in the next campaign. Although Napoleon still ruled Europe, Englishmen everywhere held their heads higher. Splendid news had come in from the Far East too, where an expeditionary force of 3,500 men under General Auchmuchty had defeated 10,000 Dutch, French and Javanese troops and conquered Java – almost the last and certainly the richest French possession overseas. The picture was changing, for the Czar Alexander was at his most enigmatic and unyielding and Buonaparte was threatening that dire punishments should fall upon the Russians.
At home the King was sunk in his senility and the Prince Regent persisted in his folly of reposing his confidence in his old enemies the Tories and the government of the inefficient and ineffectual Spencer Perceval. Or so the Whigs felt. A year ago when he first became Regent the Prince had abruptly stated that he did not wish to risk making the change of government because his father might recover his sanity any day and be infinitely distressed and wrathful to find his own ministers dismissed. But as time wore on this showed up more and more for the miserable excuse most of his thwarted friends had all along supposed it to be. Having supported the opposition Whigs against his father’s Tories all his adult life, the Prince, on the very brink of his accession, had had second thoughts, had held back, trembled on the brink of seeing Grey and Grenville and Whitbread and Brougham in office with the prospect of much-needed reform in England but a patched-up peace with France to go with it. Many straws in the wind might have swayed him at the last moment – even, however minimally, an interview with a certain Cornish soldier – only he knew how far one consideration and another had weighed.
Of course the Opposition, being patriots at heart, had changed their tune about the prospects of Wellington in the Peninsula, and most of them took a more optimistic attitude towards the war than they had done twelve months ago. Yet there were many among them still who pointed out that Buonaparte’s set-backs were pinpricks when one observed the extent of his empire. In all Europe only Russia, sulkily obstinate, and Portugal, newly liberated, were not under Napoleon’s heel. Half the countries of Europe were at war with England, and none of her manufactured products was allowed to be landed at any port. Ten thousand customs officers existed to see the law observed. Discovered contraband was seized, and often the ships that brought it burned as a lesson to all that the Emperor’s edicts must be obeyed.
To make matters worse England was now in trouble with the United States as well. Because of her naval blockade of Europe – preventing the raw materials of war reaching Napoleon – England had claimed the right to intercept and search any ship she found on the high seas. This the Americans both resented and rejected; so, in retaliation, and smarting under old grievances, the Government of the United States had issued a decree forbidding any commercial trade with England at all. This was a killing blow to what was left of Lancashire’s trade, for it deprived the mills of their raw cotton; and George Warleggan was glad he had liquidated his unwise investments in the North, even at so cruel a sacrifice. With food double the price it had been twenty years ago, the wages of the weavers of Glasgow were now a quarter of what they had been then.
So would not the Whigs, if allowed to take over now, still see the only realistic way of ending the war in a compromise peace? There had been feelers from Paris not so long ago. Now with a little more with which to bargain . . . France might have Java back in return for guaranteeing the independence of Spain and Portugal. England would recognize France’s inalienable rights in the Mediterranean in return for a reopening of the Baltic ports. And so on. It was Ross’s recurring nightmare. And not only Ross’s . . . In the letter received recently from George Canning:
We miss you [it had said], and need you, Ross. Not just for your vote – though that also – but for some Starch you provide. And military knowledge. You would think the Government inundated with military Information – and so it is. But you speak and argue from a kind of experience – and you have no Axe to grind. You are listened to – if not in the House then outside it in private me
etings where decisions of Policy are made. And that is where it is most Important.
Do you read the News sheets? How long do you suppose we may be able to sustain the War, with Revolution pending in the North? Only six of Manchester’s thirty-eight mills are left working. The situation is similar throughout urban Lancashire; and these riots in Nottinghamshire where they call themselves Luddites – where will it lead? They gather together openly, these rioters, in towns and villages and ignorantly proceed to destroy the machines they believe have robbed them of work. Of course they must be stopped; but there are already over twelve thousand frame-workers on Poor Relief in Nottinghamshire alone; how can we truly blame them? From what I gather, Perceval and his ministers are bent only on Repression. They are sending a whole brigade of Dragoons up there to bring the county to book, but how shall we fight Napoleon if our troops are needed to fight at home? We must give some sort of Help to these starving men and women while yet maintaining a respect for the Law and punishment for those who break it. I intend to press for this, and have my usual support in the House; but an added vote, an added voice, is of the greatest importance. We need you, Ross.
Demelza said dismally: ‘Shall you go?’
‘Of course not. Certainly not yet. I cannot in fairness leave the opening and management of Wheal Leisure entirely to Jeremy. I’ve been too often away, so that my own affairs have been neglected. I shall not easily forget the situation I found at Wheal Grace when I came back – was it nine years ago? God, the time has passed! All that organized theft . . .’
‘It was chiefly Bragg and Nancarrow. It couldn’t happen again.’
‘Also,’ said Ross.
‘Also?’
‘Conditions are bad enough here. There won’t be enough grain to go round. By next month people will be starving in Cornwall too. It’s not a pretty prospect.’
‘But Mr Canning is very – persuasive. I know how much you feel for him.’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes. He would not be so great a man if he were not persuasive. You should hear him in the House – that bearpit! – how, in two minutes after he stands up, all the noise goes and they listen! But this time my duty lies here.’
Demelza wriggled in her seat, not convinced.
‘Promise me one thing, Ross.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Promise that you will not be inveigled into another trip overseas. It is not right that you should be asked to undertake any more. However much you may enjoy it.’
‘What conceivably makes you think I enjoy it?’
‘Reading that old letter from Geoffrey Charles is what makes me think you enjoy it,’ she said. ‘I looked at it again only the other day. You behaved at that battle – that battle of Bussaco – without a single thought for your wife and family! What did Geoffrey Charles say about you? “Biting at the cartridges, leaping like a boy over boulders and dead Frenchmen alike, shooting and stabbing with the best.” What a way to act for a man of your dignity and responsibilities! I’ll wager Mr Canning would not have done it!’
‘Canning is not a soldier . . . When you are in a charge like that you lose the sense of being old and sere and bent with rheumatism. One becomes – uplifted.’
‘You’re hardly old and sere and, as far as I know except for your ankle, you suffer no rheumatism. But if that is the only way you can be uplifted – by killing people . . .’
He rubbed her ear. ‘We’ve had that letter nine months if we’ve had it a day; you’re a little slow to bring the charge!’
‘I’ve been saving it up,’ said Demelza.
‘Well, have you, now.’
They were sitting together on the sofa in the parlour, each having come from different tasks and each taking ten minutes of the other’s company. The great engine beam had just been successfully winched up the cliff, and tomorrow the assembling of the engine would begin.
‘Very well,’ said Ross, ‘I have to admit that I was . . . uplifted. It happened. I dislike – hate – killing as much as most civilized human beings; perhaps more than most for I little enjoy shooting or hunting. I do not for a second believe Geoffrey Charles really enjoys it either. But look at that last letter; read it again. There is some strange sense of comradeship that for the moment at least transcends one’s better self. Whoever thought that that little boy who was so doted on by Elizabeth (indeed one thought she spoiled him); who would have thought of him engaging in these desperate battles, with all the attendant hardships that he hardly mentions: the hunger, the damp, the fatigue, the loss and mutilation of one’s friends . . . and yet seem actually to be enjoying himself! There is something rare about the Peninsular army now which adds a dimension to ordinary war.’
Isabella-Rose came into the house shouting at the top of her voice; she did not sound at all angry, just vehement. Mrs Kemp’s lower tones followed her up the stairs.
‘Just hear that child,’ Ross said. ‘Is she going to be a singer or a fish jouster?’
‘I believe it’s just good lungs. Certainly she is the noisiest of the three, and yet born when our life was at its calmest.’
‘Anyway,’ said Ross. ‘I promise faithfully not to go fighting in Portugal ever again. Or anywhere else.’
‘Not even in Nottingham?’
‘Certainly not in Nottingham! I played my part once in putting down a riot here, as you may remember, and the memory still sticks like a bloodstain that won’t come out in the wash.’
Demelza moodily licked her lips. ‘I think I have a tooth going bad. It hurt last night when I was eating an apple and it has not been comfortable since. I think it has gone poor.’
‘Let me see.’
She opened her mouth and pointed.
He prodded and she made a statement that sounded like: ‘Ee – ah – ose – ah – ee – ah – ink – ah – all – ee – ike – an – ay – ogers.’
He took his finger out. ‘That’s a good language but I’ll learn it some other time.’
‘I was only saying that if I lose my teeth I shall begin to look like Aunt Mary Rogers.’
‘Have you finished chattering for a moment?’
‘Yes. I have now.’
‘Restrain any further thoughts that come to your mind. Just while I look.’
She opened her mouth again.
He prodded. ‘Is that it?’
‘Eth.’
‘You’ve made the gum sore. A piece of the apple skin must have gone into the gum. The tooth is perfectly sound.’
She closed her teeth on his finger, but not hard.
‘Anyway,’ he said, having recovered his finger, ‘if you look as well as Aunt Mary Rogers at her age you’ll be coming along pretty nice. Now you mention it, I do see a resemblance.’
‘Would you like to put your finger in again?’ she asked.
There was a knock on the door and Jane Gimlett entered.
‘Oh, beg pardon, sur . . . ma’am. I thought to see if the fire wanted looking to.’
‘It does.’
They sat side by side on the settee while Jane built up the fire. Jane’s hair is almost white, thought Ross. How long have they been serving us faithfully, she and John? Ever since he had thrown the Paynters out, and that was upwards of twenty-two years. John too had aged. He’d been a journeyman shoemaker before. Presumably they were content to serve the Poldarks for ever, so long as their own strength and health remained. If he, Ross, suggested they should retire on a pension they would be utterly downcast, cut to the quick, supposing that their service and attention had been falling off. Which it had not. So one accepted their service, their loyalty, their wholehearted commitment . . .
‘Thank you, Jane,’ he said as she went out, and she looked up surprised at his tone of voice.
So did Demelza, but said nothing.
Ross said: ‘If I feel I have to go to London again in the spring, will you come with me?’
‘That I could not. Dare not. Not, that is, unless I take Clowance; and I know she will not leave Nampara again at present. In a
ny case, as Stephen seems settled here, it would only be running away from her problem – to be faced once again when she returned.’
‘We can’t order our children’s lives, Demelza.’
‘That is most especially what we have tried not to do!’ she said indignantly. ‘Maybe a little more interference would have been to her benefit!’
He let this pass, aware that he had imposed his own double standards on her and on her children.
‘They seem to meet quite rarely, Clowance and Stephen.’
‘But when they do you can see that she is moved. Even the way she appears not to notice him.’
‘D’you think she regrets refusing Fitzmaurice?’
‘No . . . She cried a little that first night. I’ve told you, haven’t I! I felt much for her. It’s some dreadful decision for a girl of her age to have to make. A young man so eligible I could have wept myself . . . I don’t know if she quite realized what she was turning down. I fear she has inherited from us the expectation that marriages are all-loving and all-successful. We were able to hide our troubles from her when we had them, and she has only seen the bright side – of which there has been a wondrous lot. We have never bickered or quarrelled or been teasy over small things; and when she marries she wants the same!’
‘Does she think she will get it with Stephen? He has a strange reputation in the village.’
‘I know. It may be just rumour about a man who is easy in his ways . . . At least she has the sense to hold back. But she’s half in love with him – or more than half – and she wasn’t at all with Edward Fitzmaurice.’
There was a pause, each wanting to say more but each deciding to leave it there. Presently Ross got up and went to the top drawer in the bureau, took out the last letter they had received from Geoffrey Charles Poldark, came and sat beside her again.
The Miller's Dance Page 2
