The Four Swans

  Two o’clock was the children’s games; three-thirty was tea; each child received a tin mug of steaming black tea and a huge saffron bun which it was almost impossible to eat at one sitting. Adults had had a bite of something, if they were lucky, before the feast began, but there was any amount of ale to be had. Each miner was given a shilling by the mine on the day and this usually went in drink, with money of their own to follow. At four o’clock there were games and races for the young grown-ups. At five the wrestling began. Sam and Tom Harry were due to meet at six in the challenge match, but the ordinary wrestling was a knock-out competition open to anyone who threw in his cap, with the prize of a guinea and a hat for the outright winner. A player who brought his opponent to an approval fall stayed in for the second round, and if he won the second round he became a ‘standard’. The play-off among the standards was when the real wrestling began.

  Drake walked back to his shop after church and made himself a frugal dinner. He had just finished it when Sam turned up.

  ‘Well, brother,’ Drake said. ‘Tis good to see ee. I thought maybe you’d not turn up for your match in time.’

  Sam took a seat and began to munch the bread and cheese that Drake brought him. ‘Oh, aye, I’d not forgot.’

  ‘Maybe twould’ve been better if ee had. I’ve no liking for a brother to be fighting my battles.’

  ‘Not yours, boy. My own.’

  Drake put down the stave he had been straightening and sat on a box opposite Sam. ‘Ye went then? Did it all happen?’

  Sam told him.

  At the end Drake said: ‘Twas a kind thing to do, brother, but a sad one. D’you – d’you see God’s hand in all this?’

  ‘We cann’t measure and guess all that the Divine Spirit intends. Tis for we to bow our heads and accept chastisement where it d’fall. It seemed me that twas only one sinner suffering ’mong many who went scatheless. But it grieved me that he went dead without the chance of laying hold of the true blessing.’

  ‘I’ll pour you some tea,’ Drake said. From the scullery he called: ‘Went all the way back Camborne with them, did ee?’

  ‘For the funeral, aye. They left us bring the body away. We was lended an old cart. Six of us drawed’n, turn and turn about. I pulled with Peter Hoskin . . .’Fore ever we reached Camborne we was met by others. Hundreds of folk downed work and walked on behind. Great procession. Hundreds. Sang hymns while they walked. Many blonged to the Connexion, ye could tell.’

  Drake brought a mug of tea but said nothing.

  ‘Thank ee, boy . . .’

  ‘A stranger thing never I seen,’ Sam went on, sipping. ‘You mind Sir Basset? Sir Francis Basset? Lord Dunster – Dunstanville as he now is?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I mind him well.’

  ‘Ye know twas he who was at the arresting of Hoskin and Sampson and Barnes and the others, and twas he who was at the trying of them. And twas he they d’say who had to choose whether to sign a reprieve for John, like was done for the others. Well, this procession – nigh on a thousand folk now, I warrant – was passing by this house by the church, and we was a mile maybe from the burying ground, when who should come out of this house but Basset himself, all by his self save for one servant; and sure ’nough all these folk he come up against, most of them miners, many I reckon as took part in the riot with Hoskin and the rest, they all knew who twas. And the man at the door of the house where Lord Basset had been calling tried to draw him back within the house; but Sir Francis wouldn’t be sheltered and says as he is in no danger from these men, he says, but let these men make one move against him and they’ll surely suffer the fate of the corpse they’re drawing home . . . So he comes to his horse and mounts it, and his servant mount his, and quiet as you please he rides slow through the procession, passen near by the corpse – and quiet and peaceable the folk part and separate like the waters of the Red Sea . . .’

  Drake nodded slowly.

  ‘Did ye stop by and see William, John and Robert?’

  ‘Yes. But there was only Robert home. And the widow and Flotina, and John’s new wife and cheeil. They were all bravish.’

  ‘Bobbie’s come well again?’

  ‘Clever. They all asked for you.’

  ‘That Basset be a brave man,’ Drake said. ‘I’ll give him that. Twas more than many a man would’ve dared to do.’

  ‘For a while I veared for ’n,’ Sam said. ‘But I reckon he was upheld by his conviction of right. Twas a strange sight to see . . . And a lesson to us all . . .’

  ‘Even when we be in the wrong?’ Drake asked with a glimmer of his old mischief.

  Sam smiled and shook his head. ‘That’s what we must try and take care and pray not to be.’

  ‘Where’s Peter? He’s not back wi’ you?’

  ‘He’s resting with the family and will come home tonight.’

  ‘You missed two days at the mine? You got leave to go?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There’s no pressure t’our work. I come home now for the – for the challenge.’

  ‘Ye’ll be weary with the walking.’

  Sam put a finger round the top of one of his boots. ‘I got sore feet. The rest is naught.’

  ‘I wish ee well, brother. I reckon we’ve got an hour afore we need stir. I’ll get a bucket and you can soak your feet. I hope ye beat him, Sam. But he’s as bulk-headed as a mule. You want to watch how he takes his hitch.’

  ‘God will decide it,’ said Sam.

  II

  The Enyses were not in church, but they rode over for dinner with the Poldarks. They were not churchgoing people even on special feast days and holidays. This was a disadvantage to Dwight, for it was an ill thing for a doctor to be thought an atheist. In fact Dwight was not that, and would have made token appearances had Caroline so desired it, but Caroline had an active prejudice against all forms of organized religion and only entered places of worship on such unavoidable occasions as weddings, christenings and funerals.

  She was again looking in much better health and chatted amiably through the early part of the meal. Then as the main course came on – it was a leg of mutton boiled with capers and served with walnuts and melted butter – she said she had some ill news to impart, namely that she was with child.

  Demelza dropped the serving spoon and jumped up and hugged her and kissed her and then went to kiss Dwight.

  ‘I’m that glad. I’m that glad. Judas, that’s happy news! Caroline, Dwight, it is wonderful! Wonderful!’

  ‘It was what was wrong with me all the time,’ Caroline said, ‘and my husband never diagnosed it!’

  ‘Because she lied to me,’ said Dwight, ‘and anyway would scarcely let me get near her!’

  When Ross bent to kiss Caroline, her lips sought his. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘what you’re responsible for – even if at one remove. You would bring him home.’

  Ross said: ‘If it is a boy we’ll marry him to Clowance, and if a girl to Jeremy.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Dwight.

  ‘We’ll all drink to that.’

  After they were again seated at the table and the meal had begun and everyone was silent because they were eating, Caroline said:

  ‘Of course I don’t want the brat.’

  ‘Caroline!’ said Demelza.

  ‘No, in truth, are they not revolting little specimens when they come? Really I can’t bear babies! Wrinkled, red-faced little tyrants, greedy, selfish, demanding, incontinent, full of crudities and wind, claiming the whole attention of an adult person night and day and never saying thank you for it. They’re warm and moist and clinging, and they smell of urine and sour milk, and there are far too many of ’em in the world already!’

  Everyone laughed at her but she grimaced and said: ‘No, I mean it! Dwight knows. I have warned him.’

  ‘You have warned us all,’ said Demelza, ‘and we don’t believe it.’

  ‘You have to think of succession,’ Ross said ironically. ‘After all, the world is not a bad place, and it would be a crying
pity to leave it altogether to other people’s children.’

  ‘Succession?’ said Caroline. ‘I would not mind so much if I could breed a little Dwight – or even, God help me, a little Caroline. But one’s own child, it always seems to me, turns out to be the living image of one’s least favourite cousin!’

  ‘Or parent,’ said Demelza. ‘Jeremy has my father’s feet but I dearly hope there’s no other likeness.’

  Everybody laughed again.

  ‘I think,’ said Dwight, ‘as the father of this particular embryo I might be allowed to deplore Caroline’s remarks. For my part, if it’s a girl, I don’t mind what it looks like so long as it is tall and thin with auburn hair and freckles on its nose.’

  ‘You describe a monster,’ said Caroline. ‘Was that some great-aunt of yours?’

  ‘Seriously,’ said Demelza.

  They all stopped and waited then.

  She thought a moment, crumbling her bread. Then she smiled.

  ‘Will it not be lovely for us all?’

  III

  By five forty-five all the main wrestling was over. The hat and the guinea had been won by Paul Daniel who, in spite of his age (he was forty) and his liking for strong drink, was yet too fly and too cunning for any of the others. The assembly straggled round a ringed-off circle of the common which adjoined the main track from Sawle to St Ann’s and which was the other side of the road from the stagnant pond where Drake had been half drowned. Altogether a couple of hundred people spread about the common land, of whom two-thirds were near the wrestling ring. The rest sprawled or played games or drank beer and talked, dotted haphazard over the rest of the field. Many of them were merry with drink, most of it having come from Sally Chill-Off’s just down the lane. This was how she could afford to give prizes for the wrestling.

  By now the fog had lifted – or rather it had drifted a few hundred yards farther out to sea, so that the common was just on the edge of it. Most of the time it was in hazy sunlight but sometimes in hot sun, sometimes in dank grey fog. Overhead, but always in the misty part of the sky, the seagulls were being tortured, and constantly screamed please . . . please . . . please . . .

  Sam and Drake had arrived at five-thirty, tramping up from Pally’s Shop. They were now sitting on a bench surrounded by their well-wishers, while Tholly Tregirls lurched like a self-important scarecrow between them and a similar if smaller group surrounding Tom Harry. Emma Tregirls was not to be seen, nor Sally yet. After the giving of the prize to Paul Daniel she had hastened back to open her kiddley again so that she should not lose custom to any of her rivals. Tholly had a small boy posted ready to dart off to warn her when the contest was about to begin. But it could not begin yet. It was said that some of the gentry were coming down from Trenwith to watch the match – there were rumours of wagers having been laid – and, like Mr Odgers at the church, nothing could proceed until the gentry arrived.

  The Poldarks and the Enyses strolled up about six. Ross had not wanted to come, nor had Demelza; yet it had been difficult to stay away. Sam was Demelza’s brother. It was neither easy to patronize nor to ignore. But as Demelza said, this was not a bare-fist fight, it was a proper wrestling match and there’d be sticklers to see fair play. And there was no need for the gentry to mix with other gentry.

  Yet when the time came it was not possible for them to sit far apart. There were only four benches, and these were in a line by the entry to the ring. At fifteen minutes after six George Warleggan and Osborne Whitworth emerged from the gates of Trenwith and sauntered towards the common. Osborne had changed out of his clerical clothes and wore a handsome coat of mulberry-coloured silk with white breeches. The ladies were not with them. The two gentlemen sat at the end of the benches farthest from the Poldark party.

  Tholly Tregirls was now in his element. Shoulders hunched in his long coat like a vulture in a tree, scarred and one-armed and asthmatic, he stood in the centre of the ring and announced the contest . . . ‘Wrastling challenge contest, best of three falls, three three-point falls, for the prize of two guineas, awarded by Mrs Sally Tregothnan of Sally’s Kiddley, contestants to be . . . on my left Tom Harry . . . and on my right Sam Carne . . .’

  There were cheers and counter cheers as the two men stepped forward. They were dressed in the prescribed costume for the bout, naked to the waist except for short loose Jackets made of untearable linen cloth, with loose sleeves, and secured round the neck by tough cord. They wore breeches to the knees, thick stockings but no shoes. Kicking might be allowed east of the Tamar but it was considered unfair in Cornwall, where all the power and skill had to be in the shoulders and arms. In addition to Tholly two others, Paul Daniel and Will Nanfan, were in the ring to adjudicate and see fair play.

  As the contenders came to shake hands it could be seen that Sam was a good three inches the taller of the two, but Harry was massively broad across the shoulders with matching legs and buttocks. It was not necessarily an advantage to be tall in such a contest.

  Tholly blew his whistle; it was one he had had for years, given him, he always said, by a dying bo’sun on one of the frigates on which he had first sailed, as a measure of the bo’sun’s esteem. In fact he had stolen it from a Spanish beggar in Gibraltar. As Sam circled round his man he saw Emma Tregirls come to the ringside along with Sally. They stood among the group supporting Tom Harry. Emma was not even looking at the wrestlers as she talked and laughed with Sally. Her laugh floated across the field.

  There were a lot of cries and shouts as the two men manœuvred for the first hitch. Sam had most of the support, and he noticed with embarrassment the voices of many of his own flock. It was not that he did not want them to support him but that he felt the falseness and wrongness of his own position. On that long dragging walk back from Bodmin, with the mourners and the corpse, he had thought a lot about life and death and his own position in the world, his own privileges and his own duties. And it did not seem that one of his privileges or duties was to spread the Word of God by returning to the old habits of his youth and entering into a public contest of physical skill and strength with a brute of a man who had assaulted and beaten his brother and threatened to marry the girl who for some reason had engaged his own worldly heart.

  Harry made a sudden sharp lunge for Sam’s coat as it swung, but Sam, crouching as low as the other man, dodged him and tried to grab his own hitch as they slid past each other. But Harry tore himself away and the circling and feinting began again. This was part of the technique of the play and with champions could sometimes go on for half an hour. But it could not this evening; there was too much feeling in the game.

  It might be, thought Sam, that he had persuaded himself into such a contest to try to save a precious soul for Jesus, but surely in the final searching of one’s own soul two other and very un-Christian motives came in. Revenge and lust. Revenge and lust. How could you deny it? And if you could not deny it, how could you justify it? After seeing a man hanged and the grief and horror of knowing that he had died unsaved, how could a man indulge in this sort of trumpery violence for the entertainment of folk on holiday?

  Suddenly they were joined and Sam’s thoughts went no farther than self-preservation from being thrown through the air. Tom Harry had gained the grip he wanted: they struggled for position; twisting, Harry had his head under Sam’s armpit, was trying the back crook, swung with arms pinioning a counter move – Sam’s feet were off the floor, he was going up and over; to struggle now was fatal; he went, but dead weight all to one side so that instead of landing heavily on his back he landed on elbow and buttock, fell and rolled over – Harry was on him as he was half up, was now attempting the fore heave. Sam broke the grip on his collar, fell again to his knees and suddenly collapsed head down. Harry went over the top in his turn.

  They separated and began to spar again. Harry rushed – more like a bull than a wrestler – his shoulder caught Sam in the ribs, seeming to bend them, gripped both Sam’s shoulders till the cord cut at his neck. Sam broke the hold
by working his elbow into Harry’s face; hooked his leg behind the other’s leg, and they fell and rolled over on the hard ground together, first one uppermost and then the other. Tholly had to leap out of the way as they convulsively jerked towards him: he blew his whistle, for fighting on the ground was not permitted.

  He had to haul Harry away, and the two men got to their feet to the sound of cheers and hisses and shouts from the crowd.

  It’s wrong, thought Sam, it’s wrong that I should be here. Hands gripped his coat and a bull head grated hard against his chin. A hand was round his waist, the other clutching his breeches. He fell like a tree with sixteen stone of bone and muscle on top of him.

  In a daze of pain and lack of air he heard the whistle and felt hands pulling Harry off him. He had lost the first fall.

  IV

  ‘I believe,’ said Demelza, ‘I do not like this.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said Ross, ‘but we must see it out.’

  ‘That man is not wrestling proper: he’s wrestling to do hurt! Why don’t they stop it?’

  ‘In honesty they can’t without giving the match to Harry. He’s not quite breaking the rules; he’s just playing rough. The sticklers can interfere, as Tholly did then, but he can’t stop the match. Ah . . .’

  Anger and spite are not necessarily the best fuelling ingredients for a contest of physical skill, but a measure of combativeness is vital, and until now Sam had lacked it. He knew nothing of Ross’s wager but he knew too well the promise that Emma had made, and today more than ever it looked like a joke on her part, unworthy and unmeant. He felt defensive and ashamed.

  But in spite of the saintliness that had come upon him with conversion to Christ, and in spite of his present shame, there was enough old Adam in him to dislike the pain of badly bruised ribs, the bleeding from the tooth that had been loosened by Harry’s bullet head, the sweaty smell of a brute body forcing him into humiliating and painful postures, the gasps and grunts of triumph coming from his opponent. And Harry, bent on quick success and now sure of it, had begun to relax his guard.