The Stranger From the Sea

Ross waited. A French clock struck the hour.

  The Prince said: ‘What do you mean, you expected to fail?’

  ‘I expected that you would not be interested.’

  The Prince yawned. ‘I have been told that at Bussaco General Merle reached the top of the ridge almost unopposed. Why did Wellington allow that?’

  ‘He had too long a line to guard, sir. They were not unopposed, but they came up sudden through the fog, and we had not sufficient fire power at that point to hold them.’

  ‘Why was the defensive position so extended?’

  ‘Because otherwise it would have been turned.’

  ‘So the battle nearly ended in disaster to begin?’

  ‘No, sir. Wellington was holding troops in reserve for such a situation. From his position he could see the whole ridge but because of the dawn fog little of the ground below. As soon as he saw the French break through to the top he sent in the 88th Foot – and I think some of the 45th; there was a bloody fight which went on best part of twenty minutes and then the crack French battalions were driven off the ridge, with something like two thousand casualties.’

  ‘Were you involved in this?’

  ‘No, sir, I attached myself to my nephew’s company which was a part of Major-General Craufurd’s 43rd.’

  ‘The 43rd,’ said the Prince, and yawned again. ‘Then you were more than an observer in the further stages of the battle.’

  ‘Yes, sir. In that charge later in the day on General Loison’s Division. I confess I have never seen men better led or more fierce towards the enemy. You see, General Craufurd when ordering them to attack shouted that they were to avenge Sir John Moore.’

  ‘Moore,’ commented the Prince. ‘Another failure!’

  ‘All who fought with him believe otherwise. They say he was given impossible orders from London.’

  ‘That would not surprise me. That would not surprise me at all. All the same, he was defeated. As Wellington himself is now admitting defeat.’

  ‘Not defeat, sir. A tactical retreat. With such superior forces against him he would soon have had his flank turned and his communications cut.’

  The Prince took out his own snuffbox and pushed a little snuff into each nostril.

  ‘That is not how I have it reported, Captain Poldark. I am told the British Army became a rabble, intermingling with the rabble of refugees all fleeing for Lisbon before the triumphant French. It is the usual story: inefficiency, bad generalship, careless officering, ragged, drunken, plundering soldiery!’

  ‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Ross coldly, ‘you have later and more detailed news than I.’

  ‘No doubt I have. No doubt at all.’

  ‘Nevertheless before I left for home I saw some of the defensive positions prepared round Torres Vedras and I cannot imagine, having seen the valour of our troops and of the Portuguese – now properly led and trained for the first time – I cannot imagine that the French will ever take them. I’ll wager my head Lisbon is safe.’

  The Prince of Wales at last rose from his chair. It was a major upheaval and peculiarly uncoordinated, large areas of bulk levering themselves up in unrelated effort. One could even imagine all the joints giving out, the utter indignity of a fall. But presently it was achieved and he was upright, heavily breathing, began to pace the room, his thin shoes slip-slop, slip-slop.

  ‘Defence, defence. That’s all our generals ever think of, even at their best! All we can ever do is land in some outlandish country of Europe, subsist for a while on the patriotism of the natives, deal the French a few pinpricks, and then retreat in ignominy either to prepared defences or to our very ships! How can this bring Napoleon down? I ask you!’

  Ross stood and watched him. ‘It’s no easy question to answer, sir. Indeed, it may be best to accept the inevitable and bow the knee to Napoleon.’

  ‘Ah, so you agree then with what most sensible men think!’

  ‘I don’t know what most sensible men think, your Highness.’

  ‘Don’t fence with me, sir.’

  ‘Well, we are after all an unimportant island attempting too much, are we not? . . . Straining our resources to no effect, wasting our blood and treasure in trying to restrict the expansion of the great French nation. They already own most of Europe. Without our pinpricks they will soon own the rest . . . Since you do me the great honour of asking my opinion . . .’

  He waited. The Prince did not speak.

  ‘Since you do me the great honour of asking my opinion, then personally I should be deeply grieved to see the first decade of this century end in England’s complete humiliation, and indeed in our abdication of responsibility to the many peoples in Europe who look to our help; but you, your Royal Highness, must – above all men – accept the responsibility of choosing the destiny of your country, and we, your subjects, will accept the decision. As, indeed, will History.’

  The Prince dabbed his nose with a handkerchief which had been worked in the now inaccessible town of Ghent.

  He said: ‘Insolence can come in many forms, Captain Poldark. As a soldier you must be aware of that. Do you speak your mind in Parliament?’

  ‘I seldom speak in Parliament, sir.’

  ‘Not surprised at that. You should take lessons from friend Sheridan. When he was at his best – which alas is time enough – he could . . . but no matter. No doubt you’re doing your duty as you see it. Perhaps you will give me leave to do the same.’

  ‘Sir, that is what I said.’

  The Prince resumed his heavy-slippered pacing. Ross eased his leg. The stertorous breathing came near, went away again.

  ‘Poldark.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Come here.’

  His Royal Highness was standing at a desk. As Ross went over he opened a drawer, took out a parchment about three feet by two; unrolled it, spread it on the desk, trembling jewelled fingers winking.

  ‘See here. This is the plan sent back to me of the dispositions of the defences before Torres Vedras. Explain them to me.’

  Ross screwed up his eyes.

  ‘Wellington is an incorrigible blunderer,’ said the Prince. ‘So say all my best advisers. The Tories think different – but then they would, being responsible for having put him there, and the Foreign Secretary his brother. I wait to be convinced that Wellington is not an incorrigible blunderer.’

  Ross said: ‘If all that I have said up to now, sir . . .’

  ‘Never mind that. Explain this map to me. In fact, perhaps you do not know, I have despatches to say Massena is no longer investing Lisbon but, having tested the defences, is retreating. Some assure me that this is only to take up a better position and to place us in a worse. Others say that winter and hunger and disease are doing Wellington’s work for him – as possibly he calculated they would. But I am not without military knowledge. If you have aught to say on this matter, pray say it before you leave.’

  Chapter Nine

  I

  The Duchess of Gordon did not have a town house but when in London lived at the famous Pulteney Hotel, and it was here she was to give her reception. The Beautiful Duchess, as she was known, had been a Monteith and was almost as much admired for her wit as for her good looks, but by 1811 she was in her early sixties which perhaps explained why the Duke lived separately in New Norfolk Street.

  All the same she was impeccably and inextricably linked with the higher reaches of the British aristocracy and everyone who was anyone would be there – which, Ross said, meant the place would be insufferably crowded and unthinkably hot. Besides, although he kept some clothes permanently at his old lodgings in George Street, he had no smart new elegant suit available and appropriate for such an occasion. George Canning said it was all the more correct that, recently returned from active service in Portugal, he should wear something sober and restrained – perhaps even battle-stained! That way he would be distinguishable from the fashionable gentlemen of Westminster and the court. He was himself, he said, making no effort to dress in the latest fashion.
Women – ah, women, that was different. If his beloved wife were here . . .

  It was Friday, the first of February. The bitter cold had quite relented and some of the mud and slush had dried off the cobbles. Straw had been laid across Piccadilly outside the hotel, and a carpet and an awning put out. Lanterns flickered on decorated poles, and menservants in white wigs and scarlet coats kept back the people pressing in to see. There was already a big crowd when the two men arrived. In the street there was the strange mixed smell of cold unwashed humanity, horses, horse dung, damp straw and smoking lamps; one passed into the foyer already warm with candles and heavily scented with perfumes; servants took cloaks, women touched hair hastily in the long gilt mirrors, one by one joined in the procession crocodiling towards the salon where the Duke and Duchess waited for them to be announced.

  Splendid blue Scottish eyes but rather cold met Ross’s momentarily as he unbent from her glove; the tiara and the necklaces glittered, these latter on skin now best covered; a fixed gracious smile dimpled the still rounded cheeks; his name was murmured and he was past, a drink offered him which he accepted before he realized it was sweet white wine. ‘Come,’ said Canning, ‘I know this place, it will be cooler and less noisy in the music room.’

  An hour passed in idle talk. Canning excused himself and then rejoined him. Three men had spoken to Ross about his report and congratulated him on it. No one, it seemed, knew anything of his visit to the Prince – which was as well since the meeting had accomplished nothing.

  When he returned Canning said: ‘There’s few enough of the Opposition here. Indeed there’s a rumour they’ve at last been given leave to form the new Administration and are at work on it tonight. An unfortunate thing for the Duchess’s soirée, and I’ve no doubt it will be an unfortunate thing for the country at large.’

  Ross was only half attending for he had spotted a familiar figure in the doorway whom he had no desire to see either here or elsewhere: Sir George Warleggan. He was with an elegant woman of about forty Ross had never seen before. He inquired of the other and altogether more admirable George now standing beside him.

  Canning said: ‘That’s Lady Grenville. Agreeable creature – much less needlessly austere than her husband. But this is what I mean: they are here without their men; Lady Grey is in scarlet by the piano; Mrs Whitbread is with Plumer Ward; Lady Northumberland is on your extreme right.’

  Ross was peering to his extreme right but not at the woman Canning indicated. There was a tall fair girl in white with braided hair. The frock was low cut across the bust, had gathered sleeves to just above the elbow, and a silk bow under the bust with long flowing ends. She had grey eyes, and a fringe fell lightly on her forehead. She was talking to, or, more properly, being talked to, by a burly young man in a silver coat of irreproachable quality and cut. The young man Ross had seen before somewhere. The young woman, by the strangest chance, bore a strong resemblance to his elder daughter. He stared and blinked and looked away and then stared again. His eyes went across the rest of the group and he saw two people he really did know.

  ‘By the Lord God!’ he exclaimed, swallowed, and smiled at Canning’s surprise. ‘Forgive me, George! There are old friends here whom I must greet.’

  He slid among the talking chattering groups, avoided a waiter with a tray of wine, excused himself when Sir Unwin Trevaunance tried to stop him, and came presently up against the fair girl in white.

  ‘Miss Poldark,’ he said.

  She turned, half smiling at something the young man had said, then her face after a moment’s hesitated surprise became suddenly radiant.

  ‘Papa!’

  He took her by both elbows but with tact resisted the desire to crush her in his arms. Instead, he held her quite firmly at a three-inch distance and kissed her first on one cheek, then on the other and then rather selectively on the mouth.

  ‘Papa, Papa! We didn’t know you were home! When did you come? Why didn’t you tell us! Are you well? You look well! But how are you? Does Mama know? How lovely! I never expected this . . .’

  ‘And could I expect this?’ he said. ‘You, here, in London. Is your mother here? How did it come about? Dwight! Caroline!’

  So the greetings went, questions half asked, answers half listened to. In all this the young man in the silver coat seemed about to withdraw, when Caroline said:

  ‘Ross, have you met Lord Edward Fitzmaurice?’

  They bowed to each other. Ross said: ‘I know your brother, sir. Henry Lansdowne.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I think we’ve met in the House.’

  ‘You spoke last year on Catholic Emancipation.’

  The young man had a craggy face.

  ‘Among other things! My brother tells me I am on my feet altogether too much. I believe now he has inherited he is not altogether sorry to be out of the hurly-burly.’

  ‘Is he here tonight?’

  ‘No. He was to have come but is involved in some political discussions which I believe are going on.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Ross said drily.

  ‘And you, sir,’ said Lord Edward. ‘I have just had the great pleasure of meeting your daughter.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Ross.

  ‘Ah yes, but not quite for the first time!’

  They talked for a few moments more, liking each other, and then Caroline took Ross’s arm and led him gently away, telling him of things in Cornwall, asking him of things in Portugal. They were returning to Cornwall next Thursday, she said, perhaps they could all go together? But Clowance, Ross said, to find her here, and at such a gathering. Clowance, who liked nothing better than to be barefoot and ride her big horse and to act the tomboy! Had Demelza agreed? Had Clowance wanted? Was it her, Caroline’s, suggestion? And what, for God’s sake, was Dwight doing here in February?

  ‘Peace,’ said Caroline, and Dwight smiled and shook his head. ‘Peace,’ said Caroline, ‘when we are home Demelza will explain how it came about; there is nothing to worry about, everyone is well, and if you will now come home with us and tend to your broad acres—’

  ‘Narrow acres,’ said Ross.

  ‘And see to your family and your mine and leave these sporting expeditions to other men, we shall all be happier.’

  ‘Fitzmaurice,’ said Ross, looking round.

  ‘Yes, Fitzmaurice,’ said Caroline, ‘who clearly has taken a fancy to your charming daughter. It will do no harm.’

  ‘But Clowance,’ Ross said and frowned. ‘Isn’t it Petty-Fitzmaurice?’

  ‘Well, it’s an old family, and no doubt they can choose for themselves. His brother was simply known as Henry Petty until he succeeded last year. Lord Edward is twenty-seven. And not bad-looking and clean-living like his brother and of good repute. What more could you ask?’

  ‘For what?’ Ross asked, startled.

  ‘For a friend for your daughter. Is it so surprising? Let the attraction run.’

  ‘So long as it runs in the right direction.’

  ‘Ross, are you being parental? Not surprising – we shall all be in due course! But Clowance is, I believe, far too clear-headed to be influenced in any way by the claims of eminence or title.’

  At that moment the clear-headed Clowance was discussing foxes.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Fitzmaurice, laughing. ‘How is it possible?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Perhaps I live closer to the ground than you.’

  ‘At the moment, Miss Poldark, you look far too astral to be anywhere near the ground! And please, I beg of you, do not call me sir.’

  ‘What may I call you then – sir?’

  ‘Lansdowne is my brother’s new name, and he says he can scarcely get used to it yet. But I was born Fitzmaurice and am likely to die the same, since luckily my brother is married and already has issue. The names my parents gave me at holy baptism were Edward John Charles, and if I dare not ask you to call me by any of these, since it would presume an intimacy on my part towards you, I trust our acquaintance may soon become of sufficien
t depth to permit it.’

  Clowance opened her eyes wider at this Westminster eloquence.

  ‘Mine is Clowance,’ she said. ‘I believe I have only the one name.’

  ‘Clarence,’ said Fitzmaurice. ‘Is that not a surname?’

  ‘No, Clowance. C-L-O-W . . .’ She smiled. ‘There is one old . . . very old man who lives near us in Cornwall who insists on calling me Clarence, but I assure you it is not.’ Into her mind as she spoke, making her smile broader than it would have been, came the thought of Jud Paynter – almost immobile now – sitting like a partly squashed beetle outside his dirty cottage in Sawle, chewing tobacco and spitting and refusing to accept the fact that he had not heard her baptized as Clarence. The contrast with this brilliant, elegant society was almost too much for her.

  Fitzmaurice said: ‘Well, this old man, Miss Poldark, will make no such mistake in future! Even so, if I may venture to say so, it’s an unusual name to me. Is it common in your county?’

  ‘No. There are no others I know of.’

  ‘Has it a meaning? I mean in your Cornish language.’

  ‘Yes, I believe so. I believe my mother told me it meant “Echo in the Valley”.’

  ‘Echo in the Valley,’ said Lord Edward, looking at her. ‘That is indeed an appropriate name.’

  II

  ‘Dear Ross,’ Caroline said, ‘on these occasions you do not so much took like a fish out of water as a cat in water. What may I do to entertain you?’

  Ross dabbed his face and laughed. ‘Explain to me why my dearest woman friend should have such different tastes from my own.’

  ‘Oh . . . that’s difficult, isn’t it. But let us say that of course I know we see here a selection of men and women who are vain, self-seeking, arrogant, over-dressed, avaricious and shallow. But they are little different in this respect from other people, except that they have more possessions, and perhaps possessions are a corrupting influence.’

  ‘Stop there, stop there!’ said Ross; ‘for the first time in my life I’ve heard you utter a radical statement!’

  ‘Of course I’ll not stop there! My lecture’s not half done. It’s true you may also come across a greater simplicity, even a greater generosity among some of the poor. But among most of the poor and the base you will also find a greater brutishness, an ignorance, a lower level of understanding of so very much that is important in life. Many are poor because they have had no chance to be anything else, but most are poor because they are of a lower order of intellect, feeling, taste, comprehension. It’s an inescapable fact!’