Demelza

  “Really,” said Demelza. “I had not heard it.”

  “Well, so the constable says.”

  “It was rumored so, ma’am,” Jenkins said hastily. “We don’t know where it come from.”

  “So I made this call to see if ye could advise me. Captain Poldark has known the man since boyhood and I thought perhaps he would have some notice of where he might be lurking.”

  “You might search for a year,” said Ross, “and not exhaust all the rabbit holes. All the same I do not imagine Daniel will linger. I think he will make for Plymouth and join the navy.”

  Captain McNeil was watching him. “Is he a good sailor?”

  “I have no idea. Every man here has some of the sea in his blood.”

  “Now, tell me, Captain Poldark: Are there over many places on this coast where a boat may be launched?”

  “What, a naval boat?”

  “No, no, just a small boat that would be handled by one or two men.”

  “In a flat sea there are half a hundred. In a steep sea there isn’t one between Padstow and St. Ann’s.”

  “And what would ye call the present?”

  “Today it is moderate, dropping a little, I fancy. It may be feasible to launch a boat from Sawle by tomorrow evening. Why do you ask?”

  Captain McNeil screwed up his mustache. “Are there over many suitable boats about whereby a man could make his escape, d’you imagine?”

  “Oh, I see your point. No, not that one man could handle.”

  “Do ye know anyone with a suitable boat at all?”

  “There are a few. I have one myself. It is kept in a cave in Nampara Cove.”

  “Where d’you keep the oars, sur?” ventured Constable Jenkins.

  Ross got up. “Can I persuade you to stay to supper, gentlemen? I will give the order now.”

  The blacksmith was a little nervous at the favor, but Captain McNeil rose and declined. “One day I’ll call again and we’ll have a lively crack over old times. But I should appreciate the favor of being shown the cove and cliffs if ye can spare the time now. I have a notion that it would help me one way or another. If ye can shoot at two birds with the one ball as ye might say…”

  “Well, there is no hurry,” said Ross. “Try this brandy first. I trust you will be able to tell from the flavor whether or not duty has been paid on it.”

  The soldier broke into his great good-humored laugh.

  They chatted a while longer and then the captain took his leave of Demelza. He clicked his heels and bowed low over her hand, so that the soft whiskers of his mustache tickled her fingers. For a second he looked at her with bold admiration in his brown eyes. Then he picked up his gloves and his great busby and clanked out.

  When Ross came back from showing him the cove and cliffs, Demelza said, “Phew, I’m that glad it turned out that way. And you were so good. No one would have dreamed you knew anything. What a nice man. I should not mind so much being arrested by him.”

  “Don’t underrate him,” Ross said. “He’s a Scotsman.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Heavy windless rain set in as night fell.

  At ten, when the tide was nearly full, Ross went down to the cove and saw that the swell had dropped. There could not have been a more favorable night; the darkness was like extra eyelids squeezing away the thought of sight.

  At midnight two men waited inside the roofless engine house of Wheal Grace. Paul Daniel, with an old felt hat, and a sack over his shoulder, Ross in a long black cloak that came to his ankles and made him look like a bat. Presently in the depths of the pit there flickered a light.

  With the ceaseless drum of the rain in their ears, falling on their hats and bodies and on the long wet grass, they waited and watched.

  As he neared the top the light went out. His head and shoulders showed above the rim on the shaft and he clambered out and sat a moment on his haunches. The rain drummed on the grass.

  “I thought ’twas near morning,” he said. “What of the tide?”

  “It will do.”

  They set off down the valley to the house.

  “There’s money in that mine,” said Mark. “To keep from going off my head—I went all over.”

  “Someday perhaps,” said Ross.

  “Copper… I’ve never seen a more keenly lode. An’ silver lead.”

  “Where?”

  “On the east face. ’Twill be underwater most times…”

  The parlor light showed brightly, but Ross made a detour and came up against the library wall. Then he groped for the door and they were inside in the darkness. There was some scraping and then a candle burned in the far corner—in the corner where Keren had acted and danced.

  A meal was set on a table.

  Mark said, “Tes dangering you needless.” But he ate rapidly while the other two kept watch.

  With the lighted parlor as a decoy, Demelza was sitting in the darkness of the bedroom above keeping watch up the valley. After the visit of the soldier, Ross was taking no chances.

  Very soon Mark was done. He looked terrible, for his strong beard was half an inch long and the heavy rain had washed streaks down the dirt of his face.

  “There’s this,” said Ross, putting forward a parcel of food. “And this.” An old coat. “It is the best we can do. You will need all your efforts to be out of sight of the land by morning, for there’s no breeze to help you.”

  Mark said, “If thanks would bring things for ’ee… But listen…”

  “Tell me on the way down.”

  “I been thinking of my house, Reath Cottage, that I builded for she. You won’t—you won’t let it fall down?”

  “No, Mark.”

  “There’s stuff in the garden. That’s for you, Paul. It has yielded well.”

  “I’ll see for it,” said Paul.

  “And,” said Mark, turning his eyes on Ross, “and there’s one thing else. It’s… You’ll see she’s buried proper? Not in a pauper’s grave… She was above that..”

  “I’ll see to it,” Ross told him.

  “There’s money under the bed in the cottage. It’ll be enough to pay… I’d like a stone…”

  “Yes, Mark. We’ll see it’s done right.”

  Mark picked up his things, the food, the coat.

  “Keren on the stone,” he said indistinctly. “She never liked Kerenhappuch. Keren Daniel. Just Keren Daniel…”

  They set off for the cove. The rain had not put out the lights of the glowworms. The sea was quieter, grumbling and hissing under the steady downpour. It was not quite so black there; the white fringe of surf was faintly phosphorescent, easing the night’s dark weight. They left the stream and moved across the soft sand. They were within a few yards of the cove when Ross stopped. He put out a hand behind and drew Paul level.

  “What is that?” he breathed.

  Paul put down the mast and stared. He had very sharp eyes, well used to dark places. He bent a little and then straightened.

  “A man.”

  “A soldier,” said Ross. “I heard the creak of his belt.” They squatted.

  “I’d best go,” said Mark.

  “Nay, I’ll quiet him,” said Paul. “They’re soft enough under their tall hats.”

  “No killing,” said Ross. “I will do it…” But the elder Daniel had gone.

  Ross crouched in the sand, pulling the mast toward him. Mark began to mutter under his breath. He would have given himself up. Ross thought, McNeil has strung his men out all along the cliffs. Shooting at two birds. This way he may either pull in the murderer or some free traders. But if he’s watching all points between here and St. Ann’s, his men will be widely spaced.

  Creep forward.

  A sudden sharp challenge. They rushed forward. The musket exploded, flat and loud, in the mouth of the cave. A
figure sank onto the sand.

  “All right,” said Paul, short of breath. “But a damnation noise.”

  “Quick, the boat!”

  Into the cave; Ross flung in the mast and the sail; Mark groped for the oars.

  “I’ll get them; you launch her!”

  The brothers began to slide the boat through the soft sand. They had to drag the stirring figure of the soldier aside. Ross came with the oars, thrust them in, put his weight to the boat, and it went sliding down toward the sea.

  The sound of boots striking rock somewhere, and shouts.

  Men were coming.

  “This way!” shouted a voice. “By the cave!”

  Reached the sea. The fringe of surf might show them up.

  “Get in!” Ross said through his teeth.

  “Rowlocks!” said Mark.

  Ross took them from his pocket, passed them to Mark; Mark was in, pushed off. A wave broke among them and swung the boat; nearly capsized; back in shallow water. Mark got the oars out.

  “Now!”

  The noise they were making. Men were running toward them. Shove again together! The boat suddenly came to life, floated off into the blackness. Paul fell on hands and knees in the surf; Ross caught his shoulders, hauled him to his feet. A figure came up and grasped his cloak. Ross knocked the soldier flat on the sand. They ran along the beach. Figures were after them as they turned in toward the stream. Ross changed his course and began to climb up among the bracken that stood four feet high along the side of the combe. They could seek him all night there. Unless they could light a torch they were helpless.

  He lay flat on his face for a few minutes gaining his breath, listening to men shouting and searching. Was Paul safe? He moved again. Another danger existed and must be met.

  That way was farther to Nampara: you climb through the bracken until it gives way to open ground and patches of gorse, then you strike the west corner of the long field and, keeping in the ditch at the side of it, make your way down the hill to the back of the house.

  That he did. The Gimletts had been in bed for hours, so he slipped in through the kitchen, peeped into the parlor, and blew the candles out, quickly mounting the stairs to his bedroom.

  Demelza was by the north window but was across the room as soon as his footsteps creaked at the door.

  “Are you safe?”

  “Shh! Don’t wake Julia.” While he told her what had happened he was pulling off his long cloak, dragging his stock from his neck.

  “Soldiers! Their…”

  He sat down suddenly. “Help me, my dear. They may call on us.”

  She fell on her knees and began to unlace the tall boots in the dark.

  “I wonder who gave you away, Ross? Could it have been Dwight Enys?”

  “Heavens, no! Sound reasoning on the part of the—charming McNeil.”

  “Oh, Ross, your hands!”

  Ross stared closely at them. “I must have cut the knuckles when I hit someone.” Then his fingers closed over Demelza’s. “You’re trembling, love.”

  “So would you be,” she said. “I’ve been sitting up here alone in the dark, and then those shots…”

  Her voice died as a knock came at the front door.

  “Gently, my love, gently. Take your time. That knock is not very peremptory, is it? They are not sure of themselves. We’ll wait for another knock before making a light.”

  He stood up, gathered together the clothes he had taken off, and moved to the cupboard.

  “No,” Demelza said, “under the cot. If you can lift it carefully I’ll slip them under.”

  The knock came again, and louder.

  “That should wake Gimlett,” said Ross, making a light himself. “He’ll think he is always being roused in the middle of the night.”

  There was water in the room and Demelza hurriedly poured some in a bowl. As the light of the candle grew, she took up a flannel and bathed his face and hands. When Gimlett came to the door, Ross was just putting on his gown.

  “What is it now?”

  “If you please, sur, there’s a sergeant o’ the soldiery askin’ to see you downstairs.”

  “Confound it, this is a time to call! Ask him in the parlor, John. I’ll be down very soon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Mr. Odgers might have thought his pleas effective, for Sawle Feast passed barely marked. But, in fact, conditions preached the surest sermon.

  And the soldiers still lay like a blight on the land. Everyone had been hoping for their going, but instead, a contingent moved to Sawle and showed no signs of feeling themselves unwanted. They bivouacked in an open field just behind Dr. Choake’s house, and to everyone’s disappointment the weather cleared again and no wind blew to strip them in sleep.

  Ross had spent an uncomfortable few days. Apart from the chance of trouble over Mark Daniel, there was his breach with Francis. They had never quarreled in that way before. Even during the ups and downs of the previous years Francis and he had always held each other in mutual respect. Ross was not upset at being suspected of helping Verity to elope but at being disbelieved when he denied it. It would never have occurred to him to doubt Francis’s word. But it had seemed as if Francis didn’t want to believe the denial, almost as if he were afraid to believe it. It was all inexplicable and left a nasty taste.

  On the Friday, Ross had to go to Trevaunance. Richard Tonkin was to be there, and they were to go into the general accounts before the general meeting that evening. Ever since the opening of the smelting works, opposition to the working of the company had been fierce. Mines had been induced to boycott them, attempts made to squeeze them from the available markets for the refined product; they had been overbid again and again at the ticketings.

  But so far they had ridden the storm.

  It was the first time Ross had been out since Tuesday evening, and when he reached Grambler, he was not overpleased to see a tall cavalry officer coming the other way.

  “Why, Captain Poldark.” McNeil reined in his horse and bowed slightly. “I was on my way to see ye. Can ye spare the time to turn back for a half hour?”

  “A pleasure I have been looking forward to,” Ross said, “but I have a business appointment at Trevaunance. Can you ride with me that far?”

  McNeil turned his horse. “Aye, mebbe we can talk a wee bit as we go. I had intended calling on you earlier but I’ve been more than a little busy what with one thing and another.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Ross. “The smugglers.”

  “Not only the smugglers. Ye’ll remember there was the small matter of that mairderer’s escape.”

  “D’you think he has escaped?”

  Captain McNeil screwed his mustache. “Has he not! And from your cove, Captain, and in your boat!”

  “Oh, that. I thought it was a brush with the free traders you’d had. The sergeant—”

  “I think Sergeant Drummond left ye in no doubt as to his views.”

  “I judged him mistaken.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Well, I understand there were several men concerned. Murderers do not hunt in packs.”

  “No, but he had the sympathy of the neighborhood.”

  They jogged along in silence.

  “Well, it was a pity you did not catch one of the rascals. Were any of your troopers hurt?”

  “Not as ye would say hurt. Except in a small matter of dignity. It might have gone ill with the lawbreakers if they had been caught.”

  “Ah,” said Ross. And, “Do you know much of churches, Captain? Sawle Church reminds me of one I saw in Connecticut except that it is so badly preserved.”

  “And then,” said the officer, “there was the matter of the rowlocks. How do ye suppose they were gotten?”

  “I should say Daniel—if it was he—stole a pair somewhere. Every man h
ere is a fisherman in his spare time. There are always rowlocks about.”

  “Ye do not seem very upset at the loss of your boat, Captain Poldark.”

  “I am becoming philosophical,” Ross said. “As one nears thirty I think it is a state of mind to be sought after. It is a protection, because one becomes more conscious of loss—loss of time, of dignity, of one’s first ideals. I’m not happy to lose a good boat, but sighing will not bring it back any more than yesterday’s youth.”

  “Your attitude does you credit,” McNeil said dryly. “Might I, as a man a year or so your senior, offer ye a word of advice?”

  “Of course.”

  “Be careful of the law, Captain. It is a cranky, twisty old thing and you may flout it a half dozen times. But let it once come to grips with ye, and ye will find it as hard to be loose from as a black squid. Mind you, I have a sympathy with your point of view. There’s something about army life that makes a man impatient of the justice and the parish constable. I’ve felt it so myself; indeed, I have…” He gave a brief, sudden chuckle. “But that—” He stopped.

  Ross said, “See those children, McNeil. It is the only beech copse around here, and they are gathering the leaves and will take them home to be cooked. It is not a very nourishing dish and makes their stomachs swell.”

  “Yes,” said the captain grimly. “I see them well.”

  “I confess I sometimes feel impatient of a lot of things,” Ross said. “Including the parish constable and the local magistrates. But I think it dates from earlier in my life than you imagine. I joined the Fifty-Second Foot to escape them.”

  “That’s as may be. Once a rebel, always a rebel, you may say. But there are degrees of rebellion, Captain, just as there are degrees of misdemeanor, and when the parish constable comes to be supported by a troop of His Majesty’s cavalry—”

  “And a crack regiment at that.”

  “And a crack regiment, as ye say, then recklessness becomes folly and is likely to lead to bad consequences. A military man out of uniform may be no respecter of persons. A military man in uniform will be still less so.”