But Wellington was still biding his time. Napoleon, recovering rapidly from his disasters of the winter and with an army of which the leading sixteen battalions were raw youths, had scored a resounding victory over Blücher and the Germans at Lützen in May and followed it with another at Bautzen, this latter too costly in arms and men but of vital importance to the strategy of keeping the Allies on the defensive; then, still faced by the gathering forces of his enemies and the uncertainty of his friends, he had agreed to the armistice of Poischwitz, which lasted precariously from June 4th until August 10th. During the negotiations Napoleon had spent his time in Dresden, arguing terms but manifestly preparing for a renewal of the war. As soon as the armistice ended he flung an army at Blücher hoping to take him by surprise. There were rumours of another battle of Dresden, the outcome still unsure.
Gossip in the town was of a shipwreck in the fog off the Lizard: a tin-ship moving up channel, five men missing; of a musical festival to be held at the Assembly Rooms next Tuesday at which the principal draw was to be the renowned Madame Catalini; of a Society for the Prosecution of Thieves just formed in Truro under the patronage of Mr Paul, the mayor; of the bad harvest, of the wicked poor price of tin.
Jeremy went into the second room and spoke to the tapster, who knew him.
The tapster wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Oh, aye, sur, Mr Poldark. How’s the Cap’n and his lady? Well, I ’ope. Seldom see ’em in here nowadays. Dr Garner? Surely, if I recollect, tis ’im over there, sur. Dr Garner over there, sur. Him in the yellow jacket, see? Just getting up now, sur, and coming this way.’
Coming this way, pushing his way through the crowd of drinkers, was a medium-sized but sturdy youth, dark haired, full lipped, heavy lidded. Jeremy looked beyond him but saw no one else.
‘Poldark,’ said the young man, smiling and holding out his hand. ‘Very civil of you to come.’
Jeremy stared, had his hand taken, but in his surprise hardly returned the grasp.
‘Garner?’ he said. ‘Dr Garner?’
‘Well, in a manner of speaking, yes.’
‘But . . . you’re not Garner. You’re – Gurney!’
‘True. True. Can’t deny it. Wouldn’t wish to really. Well . . .’ The young man had flushed under Jeremy’s uncompromising stare. ‘It is all of four years since we met, and I thought . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Well, I was two forms below you, wasn’t I. Under Hogg. Remember old Hogg? Knew his stuff, d’ye know. Not a bad teacher of his own subjects.’
‘But why Garner?’ Jeremy demanded.
‘Allow me to order you a drink. The ale is fair here. I’ve downed a pint while waiting. Can I—’
‘Why Garner?’ Jeremy insisted.
‘Well, to tell the truth, I thought you might not come if I said I was Gurney! Thought you might remember me as a fifteen-year-old and say to yourself, God’s my life, why should I talk to him?’
This was so exactly what Jeremy would have thought that he half smiled and then did not smile. He remembered Gurney at the Truro Grammar School, a bright, pert boy two years his junior, but rather a thorn in the side of some of the older boys because of his quick wits and argumentative, combative character. Thomas Hogg, the headmaster, had made a favourite of him, which had not endeared him to his fellows, but Gurney had usually managed to slide out of any collective bullying. In fact Jeremy had not particularly liked him, if only because he often tried to be too smart; and indeed if the letter he had received had been honestly signed he would have replied to it quite differently, or not replied to it at all.
Having failed to find a waiter, Gurney had fought his way to the bar and was returning with two brimming glasses.
‘There’s two seats over there. I put a stick across ’em. What d’you think? – they say Austria’s declared war on France. At last. Think you it will make much difference?’
‘I doubt if you can rely on any of them very far. If Napoleon arrives suddenly at the gates of Vienna, they’ll be suing for peace again in a trice.’
Gurney laughed as they sat down. ‘Here’s good fortune!’
They drank.
‘You have not joined the colours yet?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Nor I ever,’ said Gurney. ‘There are plenty who can fire a gun – few who can invent one. Tell me, Poldark, what started you on this experiment with the steam coach, and how far have you progressed?’
Over the drink Jeremy told him, though briefly, still too irritated to go into details.
‘Andrew Vivian told me part of this – as much as he knew. I’ve seen Trevithick twice – I told you in my letter. He’s as discouraging as you say – but is he necessarily right? I would not dare to question the great man in matters of steam engineering – but only in applying those matters. After all, he has not made any great practical success of his own life, has he.’
As they talked Jeremy allowed himself to speak more freely. It seemed that all the rest that Gurney had told him in his letter was true. Though barely twenty he had been admitted to a junior medical partnership by Dr Avery of Wadebridge, who was at present in ill-health. Because of this ill-health Gurney seemed to have assumed responsibility for half the practice. Jeremy wondered how much physical book learning he could possibly have had time for in so short a life, what practical experience he could have had. If you were ill, would you welcome a boy taking your pulse, bleeding you, prescribing some drug or herbal remedy to stop the pain, even with sager advice in the background?
And a boy moreover fairly bubbling with other thoughts. Did he tell his patients about Trevithick and his own absorption in the problems of steam? If one could judge from what he let fall inadvertently, the patients – even the older patients – seemed willing to transfer their allegiance and to trust his judgement.
In a sense his vitality hypnotized Jeremy – or at least fascinated him. In no time they were arguing. Gurney’s conviction was that the wheels of an engine could never be relied on to provide enough traction on the roads. As they received the power, Gurney argued, the wheels would begin to spin round, sending up clouds of sparks while the carriage remained immovable. Jeremy cited the carriages of 1801 and 1808, which had proceeded without difficulty and had found traction enough. Gurney referred to another experiment of Trevithick’s when the engine had reached the bottom of a hill, had stopped and, on being re-started, had spun its wheels round and round without ever making a move to go up the hill again.
His idea therefore was that any successful and reliable carriage of the future must be impelled in the first stages by legs which, coming into operation at the same time as the wheels, helped the carriage to push itself into motion. He was quite prepared to accept the fact that, once the carriage was moving, the legs could be retracted and the wheels left to do the rest. But to start, or on hills, the extra leverage would be necessary.
The stimulus of discussion, of argument, began to light lamps in Jeremy which had been dimmed for a year. Indeed he never had had another young man of like mind to talk with like this. Dwight Enys had lent him books. He had read everything he was able to get hold of. He had corresponded with a number of the authors. He had met Trevithick, in a technical sense, only once. All through the period when he had been taking secret trips to the Harvey works at Hayle, his only confederate had been Ben Carter, who understood little beyond a few of the practicalities, and Paul Kellow, who had a sharp intelligence but no flighting imagination to go with it.
This man had too much. In spite of Jeremy’s initial prejudice, in spite of all the killing pessimisms which had surrounded him this year, he was caught up in his old interest. They talked for two hours over beer and rabbit pies. Gurney started up, saying he must go.
‘It is as if we have only just begun, Poldark. We must meet like this again – and soon. And since you are a freer agent than I, why do you not come next time to Wadebridge? Then all the time I have spent riding forth and back today could be spent in fruitful discussion.’
J
eremy hesitated.
Gurney said: ‘Of course it would be better to meet at Hayle; but it is too distant for me at present while Dr Avery is so unwell. In the meantime . . . But this machine you have built . . .’
‘What were you going to say?’
‘Well, whatever is at Hayle – what you have built at Hayle is useless, if Trevithick is to be believed – and I would accept his view unhesitatingly in such a matter: sorry, Poldark, if I appear blunt, but was that not very much what you said yourself? Until we have a suitable boiler . . . Did he say he had drawn a sketch for you of a suitable boiler?’
‘As a crude pencil sketch. It implants the idea, gives one a basic design.’
‘Well, why do you not bring it to Wadebridge one day next week? Spend the night! My landlady has a room, I believe. Or you could share mine.’
‘I’ll come over for the day,’ Jeremy said. ‘Next Wednesday, if that’s your best day.’
‘Bring everything you can. And I’ll show you some experiments I have been conducting on sea sand. I was born by the sea, d’ye know. I believe the lime content of sea sand has yet to be fully appreciated.’
Jeremy rode home, his mind active in directions it had not been for some time. Gurney – Goldsworthy was his odd Christian name – Goldsworthy Gurney had greatly changed since they had last seen each other: for only just twenty his maturity of mind was startling. Was he at heart a crank, or likely to develop into one? He had some wild ideas; this talk of sea sand; numerous other side thoughts he had let drop; how practical would he or could he ever become? Yet there was a basic sense in what he said. A partnership between them might provide something jointly that each individually lacked.
And while there had been no mention of finance today, Jeremy had the impression that Gurney came of a genteel and monied family. Unlike Paul and Ben, this young man might be able to contribute towards the building of an engine. A partnership would mean half each. The only money Jeremy had, except for the dividends just beginning to be paid by Wheal Leisure, reposed in the sack hidden in the shaft at Kellow’s Ladder. Would he feel justified? Surely if there was any purpose to which he could put his share of the money they had stolen, this should be the one.
Chapter Nine
I
Stephen Carrington, on his way back from St Ives, dropped in at the Fox and Grapes to rest his horse and to take a bite of food. The clouds were shredded with a wan light as sunset approached. The inn, being on the coaching road, was more dependent on passing travellers than on the sparse and needy population surrounding Chacewater and St Day. This evening it was quiet, and Stephen went into the dining room, hardly noticing the dark young man in the expensive grey riding suit who was talking to the one pretty barmaid.
Stephen was tired but jubilant, and he ordered curlew pie, expecting it to be old and unsavoury but not really much caring. When, however, the young man came into the dining room, bending his head to avoid the rafters, and walked towards his table, Stephen was immediately on edge and on his guard. The one thing he had come to fear in Cornwall was an unwelcome recognition.
‘Good evening to you,’ said the young man. ‘Are you not Stephen Carrington?’
Stephen stared at the narrow face, the sparkling dark eyes, a shade too close together, the aristocratic nose, the smile.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’re – er—’
‘Valentine Warleggan. We met at Nampara last year, when that girl died. And then later at Truro races.’
‘Of course,’ said Stephen again, but cautiously. The name alone was dangerous.
Valentine said: ‘The brandy here is not insupportable. Would you care to share this bottle?’
‘Thank ye.’ There wasn’t much else to say. So far as he knew, Stephen could perceive no pitfalls in this meeting.
Valentine pulled a chair out and sat down. It was clear that this was not the first drink he had had. ‘Just been in your district paying calls. It is your district still, I conceit?’
Stephen said: ‘I have been in Bristol for a while, but I believe shall make me permanent home in Cornwall from now on.’
Valentine called for a second glass, and when it came he bobbled some brandy into it and pushed it across the table. ‘Try that. Tell me what you think of it.’
‘Um . . . Very good.’
‘Last time we met you were engaged to my pretty cousin. Then you were no longer engaged. What went amiss? I quizzed Clowance but she was not forthcoming.’
‘Tis a private matter,’ said Stephen.
‘Naturally.’
Silence fell.
Stephen said: ‘Her parents were at her all the time to break it off. She’s very much under their thumb, y’ know.’
‘I would not have thought that. Of all the girls I know I would have given Clowance the most credit for having a mind of her own.’
A worm of dislike for this young man turned in Stephen. ‘Well, it happened.’
The pie was brought. He cut into it, considering the smell of the steam that came out. Valentine’s eyes were following the girl who had brought it in.
‘Attractive little creature. Pretty, don’t you think.’
Stephen grunted. She was quite good looking, true, but he personally would not have given her a second glance.
‘Girls of that sort are generally very simple,’ said Valentine, musing over the rim of his glass. ‘And easy got . . . Easy rid of too. Go a little higher in the scale and they become tenacious. There was a pretty little thing in my first term at St John’s. But by God she was a clinger. Once she had obtained a footing inside my door she took a great dislike to the outside of it, and I had the utmost difficulty in uncolonizing her.’
The pie was eatable. And the brandy warming. Stephen’s spirits rose again. He said: ‘Of course I have not given up Clowance.’
‘Not? Well, perseverance has its merits. Though, as I have said, Clowance has a mind of her own.’
‘Is he your friend, this man Tom Guildford?’
‘I introduced ’em. In all innocence, needless to say.’
‘If he wants her, why is he not down here now?’
‘His mother is gravely ill. I was the bearer of his messages. No doubt he has written too.’
‘I suppose he has money.’
‘His family are comfortably circumstanced.’
‘That makes a difference, don’t it. Never mind, maybe I’ll have money before very long. I’ve just bought a ship.’
Valentine took his eyes reluctantly off the barmaid. ‘Women fascinate me,’ he said. ‘Hypnotize me. They have this secret that I have to discover. That it is always the same secret does not seem to matter – until I have discovered it. When it is gone, then my interest has gone. Very sad. Many of ’em say I am unsatisfactory. That is, when I have given ’em marching orders they say this; not before!’
‘And are you?’
‘Unsatisfactory? Damn me, not at all, I assure you! It is not the act they complain of, but they appear to want something more afterwards. A relationship, so I might describe it. I am not at all interested in a relationship. I only want to rob them of their secret. Perhaps I am like a thief, always wishing to break into a safe.’
Stephen winced. ‘Come, come, drink your brandy.’
‘Or a bee, wishing to steal their honey. I have no lasting interest in the safe, in the flower. The pleasure is in the theft . . .’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Stephen, and continued with his pie. A second glass of brandy went down.
‘So you are not so very poor,’ said Valentine.
‘What?’
‘Buying a ship. You are not so very poor.’
‘My uncle died in Bristol. I heard he was ill, but it was too late. He left me a small amount.’
‘What is your vessel?’
‘A French prize. I shall fit her out for local trading. And I have another building.’
‘Where?’
‘Looe.’
‘What yard?’
‘Ble
wett & Carne.’
‘Is that not the Carne who is Ross Poldark’s brother-in-law?’
‘Yes. No harm in that, is there?’
‘Nay, nay. So soon you will become a man of substance.’
‘It is a long way off. But it is a beginning.’
The pie was done. Stephen picked his teeth.
Valentine said: ‘You should meet my father. He is a great one for enterprising young men. Unfortunately he does not consider I am enterprising in the right direction!’
‘Your father’s too big a man for the likes of me.’
‘Yes, maybe. Who knows? He told me last week whom I was to marry . . .’ Valentine slopped a little brandy on the table.
Stephen stared at him. ‘Does it please ye?’
‘It pleases me that no instant marriage is suggested – not even a public betrothal. There is still some dotting of the “i”s and crossing of the “t”s to be completed.’
Stephen still stared. ‘D’ye mean a marriage contract?’
‘I believe you could call it that.’
‘Riches marries riches, eh? It was always so. A man without name or money is always lost.’
‘Does not follow, my friend, does not follow.’
‘Who is the fortunate girl?’
Valentine spilled more of the brandy on the table. ‘Have you heard the news from Europe? No sooner do we have cause to rejoice than the Little Corporal pulls some magic out of his bag. After putting Blücher to flight he has, they say, devastated Schwarzenburg at Dresden. The Allies lost 25,000 men taken prisoner, 30 guns, any number of flags. You cannot keep the man down.’
‘That is what I am counting on,’ said Stephen.
‘What?’
‘The war, I think, is not over yet. It will suit me book if it lasts another year or two.’
‘You haven’t told me what your book is.’
‘Oh, this and that about the sea.’
‘What’s your vessel called?’
‘The Chasse Marée. Know you what it means?’