The Twisted Sword

  It was the man who only two years before had been the master of Europe, come to reclaim his rightful kingdom.

  Chapter Nine

  The medical fashion of the day, which catalogued people according to their humours, would have listed Stephen Carrington as sanguine. He felt himself at present to be on a wave of success, and he had no doubt he could continue to ride it until he had made his fortune.

  Ever since he married Clowance things had been running his way. In years it was no time at all since he was picked up off Nampara Cove, a penniless starving seaman; yet now he was married to a beautiful, well-bred and well-connected girl, financed by the most influential bank in Cornwall, and owner of three vessels – three, mind you – which were in service earning him money in the coastal and cross-Channel trade. And he was building his own substantial house overlooking the harbour of Penryn. Everything was coming right.

  Because his nature was what it was he disregarded the problems he had to surmount in making his three ships pay. Ever since he married he had spent more than he earned, and building the house would add to his indebtedness. But these were all natural developments in the life of a man still only feeling his way in the maritime world. His principal difficulty was in keeping his ships fully employed. The trade was there but it had to be fitted in. A vessel idle for two weeks cost almost as much as one employed. Even ‘light passages’, as they were called, when a vessel sailed out or home half full, usually meant a loss.

  The Lady Clowance, under Sid Bunt, was slipping nicely into a routine. She would take on tin at Truro or copper at Gweek and carry them to London, bringing back a miscellaneous cargo for the small ports around the Cornish coast: groceries for Devoran and Port Navas, pipe clay and salt for Gunwalloe and Porthleven, ironware and maybe a ‘passel’ of books for Penzance. Because the Lady Clowance had a shallow draught she could venture up almost any creek, and Sid Bunt, the best navigator among them, could edge her in and out with the tides. He knew just how to handle her. Well and good.

  But the Chasse Marée, though fir built and with fine raking lines, was what was known as a slopped ship: corners had been cut in her construction and she had been inefficiently fastened; so that there was a bit of trouble on most voyages. Moreover Andrew Blarney, who was in charge, though a good enough seaman, didn’t understand the coastal trade. Bred into the Packet Service, which was only a step down from the navy, he never seemed to accommodate himself to his new role as master of a casual tramp. Nor was the money good enough for him.

  Andrew was something of a thorn in Stephen’s side; a jolly character in his way, but attracting trouble (either with men or with wind and water) as a magnet attracts iron filings. And in his new-found respectability and settled married state Stephen was keen to side-step trouble if he could – at least relating to his past life. (The sudden appearance of his son was bad enough.) Andrew, though mercifully ignorant of Stephen’s involvement in the coach robbery, knew enough about his past life to hang him.

  Not that Andrew for a second would mean to give him away; his cousinship with Clowance was surety against that; but Andrew in his cups was not a safe person to know anything. An incautious word at a wrong time might fall on a receptive ear.

  So cargoes for, and maintenance of, Stephen’s two larger vessels still had to be constantly seen to and negotiated. For some time he had been angling with George for a share of the trade carrying granite from the quarries above Penryn. This regular trade – at least outward – would almost certainly lead to reciprocal cargoes in London and Hull and Newcastle, and once established would mean a constantly profitable line. Chasse Marée, though built for fishing – or privateering – would well adapt for that if the chance came along.

  That left his flagship, Adolphus, in which so far he had been chiefly trading with Brittany. Since the end of the war a flourishing – and now legal – trade had grown up. The French were eager for all the manufactures of England, of which they had so long been starved, the English for the silks and wines and fruits which until now had only come in under cover of darkness and under threat of seizure. It was a fairly easy trade, the easiest to negotiate though not the easiest to exact payment for, since the French were slow to part with their gold. And of course the profit was only a modest one on each trip, eaten into by maintenance, seamen’s wages, and the like. Nothing to compare with a cargo run at night and shipped in duty free. There was also tin to be had – if one chose to carry it – on which poundage duty had not been paid, and this, shipped illicitly, doubled the profit.

  So far, with Warleggan backing, Stephen had chosen to live within the law, but at times he grew restive.

  It was on a fine early-March morning that they walked together – Stephen and Clowance – over to the site where their new house was to be built. In fact it was already in the process of being built, the first sods having been cut, some of the foundations already laid. Mr Jago, the master mason, had gone over it with them, pacing out the size of the rooms.

  ‘They mayn’t look so very big when ye just see the foundations,’ said Stephen, ‘but Jack Jago says rooms always look smaller when they’re only planned out, and I believe he’s right.’

  ‘They’re big enough for us,’ said Clowance. ‘Heavens, there are only the two of us, as yet – and did you say two servants?’

  ‘To begin. But there’s more bedrooms to spare in the space over the stables.’

  ‘Can we afford even two?’

  ‘This’ll be my office,’ he said. ‘Clowance, I been thinking a long time – when we move in here and I’m away, could ye bring yourself to see to things for me?’

  ‘See to things? You mean – the ships?’

  ‘Just the business side. Just while I’m away.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Clowance instantly. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  ‘Ye would, my dear heart? Ye would? Not find it – unwomanly . . . demeaning?’

  ‘Heavens, why should I? A woman is allowed to look after her husband’s affairs! If anyone is so stupid as to think different, they can take their thoughts elsewhere!’

  He squeezed her arm. ‘It would be a great help to me. I try to deal with agents as little as possible, for they eat into your profit. But I have to tell you I get real frustrated sometimes – the paperwork is not what I like, and now Warleggans finance me I’ve always got to write things out to satisfy ’em. And then I get held up with mastmakers, ropemakers, chandlers and the like. Even if I miss one tide it costs money.’

  Clowance was flattered by his invitation and squeezed his arm back.

  ‘Talking of costing money. This house . . .’

  ‘It is a question of planning for the future,’ said Stephen, ‘and not being afraid to expand. As things are going at the moment I reckon in a few years we shall be rich, and it’s right that we should be living in a suitable house, like. Why, in a few years’ time your father’ll be talking about his son-in-law, the ship owner!’

  Clowance somehow could not see her father expressing himself in those terms but she held her peace. Presently Stephen was called away and she paced round the perimeter of the new house, trying to visualize it when it was completed. From this site you could not see the creek, but you had a fine view of the bay of Falmouth. Today the sun glinted on a score of coloured sails bending before the breeze; there were brigs, schooners, snows, luggers, smacks. The water drifted and shaded into bottle-greens and kingfisher-blues and muddy browns about the vessels and the piers and the headlands of the Roseland peninsula.

  She was happy at his new suggestion and appreciated again the zest with which he tackled any new enterprise. This was the first time he had had a business of his own and a home of his own. If he was over-stretching himself out of sheer hubris, out of the pleasure of his new situation, well and good; should unexpected obstacles arise he would have the determination and the enterprise to surmount them. He was that sort of man.

  Last night Verity had told her that she and Andrew senior were going to spend a month with
James Blarney – Andrew’s son – and his family in Portsmouth, and she, Clowance, was feeling isolated. For Easter her family would be in Paris, the Enyses in Paris, Jeremy and Cuby in Brussels, and the Blameys in Portsmouth. It was a notable exodus at a time when she would have liked to see her family or old friends. Not that Stephen must be allowed to notice this. She could not help but wonder whether his latest suggestion had come partly because no child was yet on the way. It was logical enough.

  A step behind her and she turned to smile at Stephen brilliantly. But instead it was Jason.

  Washed and shaven, in good clean workaday clothes, with the same blue woollen jerkin, fuller in the face, his blond hair brushed, his face smiling.

  ‘Mornin’, ma’am. Handsome, handsome mornin’. I thought as my father was here . . .’

  ‘So he was but he has just gone to see Mr Jago.’

  They stood in the sunshine, looking over the scene. Turning away from the sea, you could see part of the town, the parchment works, the gunpowder factory.

  ‘Are you settling down, Jason?’

  ‘Oh, aye, ma’am. This be the best thing that’ve ever happened to me. Tomorrow I leave for Cork in the Chasse Marée, carr’ing slate and bark and tin stuff. Mr Blarney in command. My father have made me second man.’

  ‘Where have you been living? In Penryn, I mean.’

  ‘There’s a room at Widow Cardew’s. But I’ve been to Liverpool and Glasgow since I seen you last.’

  For him to keep calling her ma’am seemed too respectful, but her Christian name was too familiar and she felt Stephen would not like it. Officially she knew he had been introduced into the town as Stephen’s nephew, but how long that story would hold she wasn’t sure.

  ‘They’re ploughing over there,’ said Jason. ‘Bit late, but I suppose ‘tis all this wet weather.’

  ‘Of course, I’d forgotten. You were brought up on a farm, weren’t you?’

  ‘Sort of, yes. But before ever I seen the sea I wished to venture upon it.’

  ‘Like your father,’ said Clowance, smiling.

  ‘Oh, I suppose. ’Twas my grannie’s sister learned me to read an’ write. She lived in a cottage two mile from us; ’twas a tiny shop they kept; and Uncle Zed had a pair of millstones that he worked wi’ a horse, grinding barley and wheat for the folk around. But he died quite sudden and Aunt Loe couldn’t manage by herself. But they was better than us, had been school themselves, better’n my grandfather, who seemed to know naught or care for naught except horses. They was his life. But I used often to go help Aunt Loe, and she give me books to read; there was only seven, I remember, extra to the Bible, but the four of ’em was about the sea. Two of ’em was books called Voyages. Somebody’s Voyages. Hak – Hak-something. I read ’em over and over and I s’pose that started me off. That was before ever I seen the sea. I only seen rivers until I was a ten-year-old.’

  ‘I expect you helped your mother as well,’ said Clowance.

  ‘Oh, yes. My grandfather kept two cows and a donkey and did cartage work t’make ends meet. I used to milk the cows and drive the donkey and help load the cart. Gran had rheumatism so bad she couldn’t bend to get her shoes and stockings off. When one of us was about we’d do it for her, but sometimes I’d come in and see her sitting on the floor trying to get undressed for bed and pushing her stockings down with the kitchen poker. Mam did most of the work about the house, see, and of course helped Granfer wi’ all manner of things.’

  ‘Do you not have any real uncles and aunts?’ Clowance asked.

  Jason blinked. ‘Real ones?’

  ‘Well, you’re speaking of your grandmother’s sister, aren’t you? Did your mother have any brothers and sisters?’

  He blinked again. Perhaps the sun was too bright. ‘Oh, aye, two, but they left home when I was young.’

  He stopped there. A man was climbing the gate back into the field where shortly his fine new house was to be built. He wore a blue coat with a yellow swansdown waistcoat, dark kersey small-clothes, brown top-boots. His mane of yellow leonine hair was ruffling in the wind. The coat was becoming too tight to fasten comfortably. (They laughed together that he had put on weight since their marriage.)

  But he did not look over-pleased to see his son.

  ‘Well, Jason?’

  ‘I hoped to find ’ee here, Father,’ Jason said. ‘Mr Bunt sent me t’ask about the replacement bow anchor. I know ’tis off the schooner Ferris but Bunt says it is not the weight Barker’s promised. Lady Clowance catches the morning tide and he’d like a word . . .’

  Stephen put his arm round Clowance. ‘Tell Bunt to go to Barker himself. Tell him if there’s anything not to his requirements we’ll trade elsewhere. I’m for Truro myself and shall not be back till the morning.’

  When the boy had gone Stephen said: ‘I intended to tell you, dear heart, but there’s a consignment of carpets and rugs from Calvert’s not yet agreed and it will be to my advantage to see them personally. Calvert thinks he can strike a hard bargain, but two can play at that game. Also I wish to see Sir George, for there’s the deeds of the land to be transferred and other associated matters.’

  ‘Will he be in Truro?’

  ‘Yes. I hope Jason was not bothering you.’

  ‘No. Oh no.’

  ‘I’ll do my best by him. But him being here, it’s a reminder of what I did wrong by not telling you about him, and that makes him uncomfortable company.’

  He went to Truro by dinghy, sailing up the river and mooring at Town Quay: with a decent breeze it was quicker than by road, and he still lacked what he called a first-class horse. On the way he wished he had brought Jason. Honest truth was, he liked the boy. Maybe it was natural, finding a full-grown son – reminding you of yourself – where you had left a squalling child.

  There was no trace of resentment in Jason’s manner at having been deserted, only pleasure at having found his father again. And admiration. He was full of admiration for Stephen, and this warmed Stephen like the summer sun. Jason was more romantic than Stephen had ever been. The books he had read – Somebody’s Voyages, Piracy on the High Seas, The Corsairs of the Barbary Coast – had all given him an unduly romantic picture of what it was like to make a living at sea. Stephen, who had begun his short commercial career by taking all the unorthodox risks, who had broken the law on so many occasions, found himself taking the orthodox, law-abiding view against the eager questions of his son, who thought privateering the natural aim of any daring and ambitious man, who saw smuggling as a suitable side-line and expected his new-found father to know all about it.

  His new father did. It was a paradox. The war had ended too soon.

  There being as yet no children between himself and Clowance had not become an issue – nature was taking its time, no need to fuss or worry. But the absence of that issue was partly filled by the arrival of Jason.

  Clowance had been very good about it, bless her. But he walked on a high wire; an incautious word would tip him off.

  He saw the Calvert brothers that evening, drove a hard bargain with them, which ended with an equally hard handshake accepting the terms, and ate a hearty meal and slept at the Fighting Cocks Inn. He was up early and waited on George at nine.

  George had slept well too, and all his interests were prospering. Ursula had been bright and affectionate last evening and she had hugged and kissed him before going off this morning. So he greeted Stephen without evidence of distaste. One could not put it higher than that, for his association with the young man had frayed and irked him since he had allowed it to begin. Apart from the fact that Carrington was married to a Poldark, the man was too free in his manner – had no real manners as such – thought too highly of his own abilities, was over-confident, with the slightest encouragement would get above himself. Harriet – naturally – pretended to like him.

  Yet he, George, was really responsible for bringing the fellow forward and helping him to establish himself as a small-time but potentially prosperous merchant.


  That first morning when they had met in the chamber above the bank George had just been fresh from the bitter, searing quarrel he had had with his own son over his marriage to Selina Pope; and the idea of putting this young man on his feet instead had had a cynical appeal. Now he kept Carrington at a grudging distance; so far he had been a good investment, and was likely to remain so. But if in any way he overstepped such marks as George had mentally laid down for him, he could be very quickly brought to heel.

  That morning there were several legal documents to be signed, so Hector Trembath had been called in. Trembath was the tall, thin, still youngish mincing solicitor who fifteen years ago had taken over the remnants of old Nat Pearce’s business and had since become very much a Warleggan man. (Ross now used Barrington Burdett.) He was a man of good education and genteel manners who had served George well.

  The documents were signed and witnessed. Stephen Carrington became the official owner of four acres of Penryn farmland and of the house which Warleggan & Willyams Bank were going to finance him to build on it. They drank a glass of canary wine, and Stephen spoke of the hopes he had of getting one of his vessels into the granite trade. He knew well enough that George could put this business in his way with the stroke of a pen; but George, knowing Stephen knew, would not be drawn.

  After it was over, Stephen shook hands with the two men and left.

  ‘A forthright young man, sir,’ said Trembath deferentially.

  He would please me more if he were as deferential as you, George thought. But he only grunted and turned over the papers on his desk.

  ‘One thing did strike me, if I may say so,’ said Trembath. ‘It was just a thought that occurred to me but . . .’