The Loving Cup

by Winston Graham

  I did not buy a horse, for I was told it was easier to get one in Holland – which has hardly proved to be the case; although I now possess one, I am not sure if I did not pay far too much for so indifferent a mount.

  We marched to Ramsgate, and embarked on the 16th, arriving at Stevense, on the Dutch coast, on the 23rd. I thought, this is the strangest Christmas! Our instructions have been to join the rest of the 52nd, which arrived from Dover three weeks ago, and to form part of the army of Holland under General Sir Thomas Graham – a man with a great reputation from the Peninsula. More particularly we are part of the light brigade commanded by Major General Kenneth Mackenzie, and with us now, though not exactly near enough to be on terms of fraternization, is part of a Prussian corps under Prince Berkendorff and a German army under General von Bülow.

  So far we have seen little to disturb or affright, but I am told we are probably going to invest Antwerp before long.

  It is bitter cold here, and all the lakes and canals are frozen. Many of the inhabitants use the canals to skate from one village to another, and some of the English soldiers do the same. Coming from a county where the frost is seldom hard enough, I don’t remember ever having a skate on in my life! I have tried a couple of times and it is deuced difficult, I assure you. But I shall persist!

  The windmills here are huge. They say that sometimes a single sail in one arm stretches to 120 feet. A friend I have made called Lieutenant Barton, who comes from Devonshire, tells me the name Holland is a corruption of Hollowland – and I can well believe it, for everywhere the sea seems to be prevented from bursting in on us only by dykes and embankments. There are marvellous sea birds, some of kinds I have never seen before, and in great quantity. In this harsh weather many are in distress, and I began to feed them, only to be called in to see Captain Sheddon and ordered to desist – otherwise, he said, the camp would be covered in guano!

  In addition to Frederick Barton, I have made particular friends with two other ensigns, both men of about my age: John Peters, who is a farmer’s son, and David Lake, who went to Eton and knows Valentine.

  Well, that is all there is to tell, I rather think. In addition to the wish that I could skate is the regret that I learned no modern language at school. No one expects you to speak Dutch, but a little French can be a great help, since France has run this country for twelve years.

  A happy New Year and love to you all.

  Jeremy.

  In early January Tom Guildford, on a short visit to Cornwall, came to see Clowance and asked her to be his wife. She refused, but in thoughtful, hesitant terms that encouraged him to suggest that they might continue to see each other.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’d like that, Tom, please.’

  He looked at her with grave dark eyes. ‘We enjoy each other’s company, do we not.’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Then do you not suppose that this is the basis on which a warmer affection could be built?’

  ‘Oh, affection,’ she said. ‘That I already have for you in some measure. You are so . . .’ She hesitated to find the word.

  ‘You have a sisterly affection for me, eh?’

  ‘No . . .’ She laughed in embarrassment. ‘It is not quite that.’

  ‘More – or less?’

  ‘Different.’

  ‘In that case I shall take heart and invite myself to call upon you again tomorrow.’

  ‘Pray do. I should like that. Come to dinner. I know my father and mother would be pleased.’

  They were alone in the library, where they were a little removed from the rest of the house and from risk of interruption. Tom was in a mole-coloured velvet jacket, with wide lapels, a darker waistcoat with pearl buttons, yellow cord breeches, highly polished shoes. The light fell across his dark hair which he wore long and tied at the back. He had poor skin, white, uneven teeth; there was something very solid and reliable about him.

  He said: ‘Now that my mother is past my aid or the need of my company, I can make this journey more often.’

  ‘Tom, believe me, I am so very sorry. And believe me also that I could almost love you for preferring her to me last summer.’

  ‘We make a little progress, then. What I was about to say was that, excepting my studies for the law, I now no longer have any ties in London. My father is one who will survive everything because his personal self-esteem is great enough to rise above the inconveniences of bereavement. I shall be happy to come to Cornwall whenever I can, not merely to escape from a home which is no longer desirable to me but in the hope that what is desirable to me in Cornwall is at least within my sights. Now wait, my dear, before you protest, for I know you have said no, to me, and I fully understand you are not a girl who would trifle easily with a man’s affections. In other words, no, means no. But there are degrees of no, if I may venture to say so. The first degree of no, means that you cannot bear my company, that your flesh crawls at the sight of me, that, if my hide is not too thick to take the hint, I should leave this room and this house, never to return. The second degree of no, means that you acknowledge me as a human being, as a man, as a person of about your own age, who can be useful to pass the time with, who has the merit of a certain breeding and address, who is acceptable as a companion, and, within reason, as a friend; but whose personality means nothing to you at all. The third degree of no, means that you find me of reasonable interest, of reasonable attraction, that you enjoy the thought of my company, that life is the better for my being around; but that the vital spark, the vital charge of electricity and energy which transforms liking to love, is at present missing . . . How would you assess your feelings?’

  Clowance said: ‘I believe you will become a very clever lawyer, Tom.’

  ‘Thank you. So I intend to be. But would you, as the honest girl you are, tell me in which category you rate me in the three I have suggested?’

  Clowance was silent.

  He said: ‘Can it be the third?’

  ‘Of course it is the third, Tom!’

  ‘Then I feel my future journeys will be worth while.’

  ‘Perhaps you will meet someone in London soon.’

  ‘Perhaps I shall. I do not intend to be an anchorite on your account; but it will be very difficult to find someone else who will bear any comparison with you.’

  ‘Do you not think it time we changed the subject?’

  ‘Not at all; it is a very pleasant subject, even though its main purpose is blighted.’

  ‘What time will you be here tomorrow?’

  ‘When you say.’

  ‘Would eleven be too early? Then I will wait to canter across the beach until you come.’

  ‘That will be very pleasant.’

  ‘This frosty weather is likely to last. I’ll have a fresh horse for you. The tide is right and we can reach the end and be back for dinner.’

  ‘Clowance.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know I love you.’

  ‘So you have just said.’

  ‘But I do not intend to join the army on account of frustration, as Jeremy has, it seems.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Valentine.’

  ‘It’s very strange . . .’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘No matter.’

  ‘Given the encouragement,’ said Tom, ‘of being in the third degree of no, I intend to pursue my suit. I would warn you that I am a very persistent person. I almost drove my Nanny mad.’

  ‘You wouldn’t take no for an answer?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  Clowance bent to put coal on the fire, but he was too quick and did it for her.

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ she said.

  ‘Good, good, that is a nice voice.’

  ‘I almost wish it were not no. Life would be so much easier for me, less fretful, less hateful.’

  ‘Does it have to be hateful?’

  ‘A little. Just at present. Perhaps in a little time . . .’

  Tom said: ‘I’l
l give you time.’

  II

  In the late January the Thames froze; it was the hardest winter for many years. The Allies were over-running France, and it seemed there was little to stop them from entering Paris. At La Rothière on the first of February the Germans under Blücher, and aided later by the Russians, gained a decisive victory over the French. Wellington, however, when he learned of the disposition of the allied troops, did not approve at all: they were too strung out. And so it proved. With his old genius Napoleon gathered his troops, many of them young and raw, and struck first at the Germans under Blücher, defeating him and his commanders four times, and annihilating a Russian division by the way. Then while they reeled back he flung his exhausted troops against two other German and Russian armies, swept them from his path and confronted the Austrians under Prince Schwarzenberg who were advancing with dignified caution on Paris. The Austrians lost their dignity and beat a hasty retreat, and by the end of the month were in the foothills of the Vosges once again considering a separate peace.

  In Holland Jeremy, unaware of the noble part being played by the 1st Battalion of the 52nd beyond the River Adour in France, was with the 2nd Battalion undergoing his baptism of fire. They had driven the French out of Merxen, without loss to themselves, and then after staying there a few days had advanced into the suburbs of Antwerp. From the position they now reached the British were able to survey the French fleet frozen into the basin of the city, and it seemed a profitable idea to bombard them from this vantage point.

  One day they were surprised by the arrival of William, Duke of Clarence, the Prince Regent’s brother, come to observe the scene, but unfortunately it coincided with a French retaliatory bombardment. The Duke showed no signs of fear and continued to watch from his horse until a bullet pierced the skirt of his greatcoat and Captain Love, the commander in the field, was blown from his horse, without serious injury to himself, and the sentry beside him was killed and three others seriously wounded.

  In spite of the little scuffles near Merxen, this was the first time Jeremy had seen the shambles of a direct hit by cannon. Blood and bones spurted, a man held his hand to a shoulder that lacked an arm, another writhed on the ground breathing blood and vomit on the grass. But it was Love’s horse that finished Jeremy. He moved a few feet away and was sick into the bushes.

  ‘Feeling a trifle off-colour, Poldark?’ Lieutenant Barton asked with a grin.

  ‘No, no,’ said Jeremy straightening up and wiping his mouth. ‘I do this for pleasure.’

  The bombardment having stopped on both sides, as if by mutual agreement, there followed a period of consolidation while breastworks were built and batteries were brought forward. The bombardment of the ships had been considered a failure, because the ships were relatively small and there was so much ice on which the cannon balls could bounce harmlessly away. Antwerp should now be bombarded instead, to soften it up before the troops moved in to take it.

  This cannonade went on for four days, but the enemy return fire, after that one spectacular hit, was sporadic and usually harmless. The army waited for an order to advance which never came. Instead they were ordered to retreat – to Odenbach, where they had been for a few days on the advance. Captain Love explained that the Germans under von Bülow had received orders to move south and to pass by Antwerp; it was part of a grand design, though whose design no one knew. Some Russian troops, some Cossacks, remained behind. A menacing lot of men, with their shaggy ponies, their sheepskin cloaks, their long lances and straggling beards. On the whole they maintained a sort of discipline, but one could imagine how quickly it would slip away in a war of conquest and pillage.

  Jeremy mentioned little of all this in his second letter to his family, being full of amusing anecdotes about his fellow officers, of which there were plenty. He was interested in the way the Dutch kept pigs, what fine cattle they bred, the oddity of the Dutch cheeses (‘why do they not thread a wick in them and use them for candles?’), the lovely dyed silks and silk-stuffs they made. In the meantime what was this exciting news about two new finds of copper at Wheal Leisure? Extraordinary those old Trevorgie levels, which had been mined so extensively for tin . . .

  In early January the Chasse Marée and the Lady Clowance, one only a day behind the other, arrived at Livorno and unloaded and sold their hogsheads of pilchards at 182/6 a hogshead. After a week ashore they reloaded with Italian white wine, tubs of liqueurs from the monasteries, silks, laces and velvets; but when about to leave they were embayed for two weeks by a vicious winter storm that sank six vessels in the port and did some damage to the Chasse Marée, so it was near the end of the month before the brooding mountainous landscape of Italy was out of sight.

  It had been an eventless trip out, except for a few tense hours weathering Gibraltar, and except for the fact that two members of the seven crew of the Chasse Marée had been struck with a mysterious illness from which they had nearly died. Andrew Blamey thought sometimes that they had come through so far as much by good luck as by good management; Stephen’s knowledge of navigation was cursory to say the least; even he, who had been skipping his exams lately, knew far more. One of the fishermen crew, Bert Blount, who came from St Erth, knew more than either of them.

  Ross had been at Westminster almost three weeks before he saw Canning, who had been at Hinckley with his ailing son. Canning was again in a mood of despondency – not because of the state of the war but because of the state of his personal affairs.

  ‘Naturally,’ he said, ‘I’m delighted that things are moving so well for us at present. All the same, I would have dearly wished to play some part in these ultimate stages, some part other than that of an uninformed back bencher, listening with anxious ears for the drops of information leaked out by the relevant ministers. Especially from Castlereagh.’

  Castlereagh was the man with whom Canning had fought a duel five years ago. Reconciliations had taken place between them since then, yet their inability to work together had as much as anything contributed to Canning being left out in the cold.

  ‘If Castlereagh plays his cards right – or perhaps I should say uses our gold right . . . But I know it still all trembles in the balance. Napoleon’s latest successes make one fear Marengo all over. He is trying to divide us once again.’

  ‘Austria surely cannot make a separate peace this time,’ Ross said.

  ‘Well, one still has to consider that our allies are really only allied in their opposition to Napoleon. The Austrians have far more in common with the French than with the Russians or the Prussians, whom they consider the ultimate barbarians – and one has to admit they are not so far wrong. The Empress of France is the daughter of the Emperor of Austria. Her son is Napoleon’s heir. If Napoleon has the good sense to accept his defeat so far as it now goes, agree to the old frontiers and begin to act like a reasonable man, the Austrians would far rather he retain his throne than that he should lose it and have Europe living under a Russian–Prussian hegemony.’

  ‘But France will continue to exist. We have no intention of destroying it – only Napoleon.’

  Canning made a sudden impatient movement. You could see he wanted the dispatch boxes of office under his hands. ‘That is Castlereagh’s task – to make that clear. He must use all the influence we have, especially our money, to prevent the Austrians weakening. And the Russians: I’m told Tsar Alexander is very depressed by the latest reverses. What we really need – what we must have – is a formal treaty between all the Allies, guaranteeing that none shall make peace without the others!’

  It occurred to Ross that Canning did not appear to be badly informed about the diplomatic and military situations as they stood at that time. It was said by his enemies that he behaved as if he ran a little government of his own.

  ‘You have heard of Sir Humphry Davy’s adventures in France?’ Ross asked.

  ‘In France? No.’

  Ross explained. ‘They are well, it seems, and in Paris, staying in a hotel, having been twice arrested o
n suspicion, and having had great difficulty in obtaining passports. Nevertheless he has met Ampère, Gay-Lussac, Humboldt, Laplace. And they are permitted now to roam abroad at will. They have been to the theatre, have met the Empress Josephine. The few Americans living in Paris are astonished. I wonder if a revolutionary French scientist would be given so much freedom in London.’

  ‘I think we should not be unmatched in such civilities.’

  ‘But should we invite him?’

  ‘Ah, it is one of Napoleon’s virtues and advantages not merely to be able to do a good if eccentric thing, but as an absolute monarch to have to answer to nobody for his actions. Just supposing Lord Liverpool were to invite some eminent French scientist to pay us a courtesy call, imagine the questions in the House!’

  Ross said: ‘There may well be rioting in Paris and civil war if the Emperor falls.’

  ‘As he must within a month or so,’ said Canning. ‘Granting only that we stay together.’

  Chapter Two

  I

  In early March Wellington’s army including the 43rd Monmouthshires penetrated further into Aquitaine. Word had gone ahead of them that the men did not rape and pillage but behaved under a strict if brutally imposed discipline. It was told that Wellington even invited the mayors of the towns and villages through which he passed to dine at his table, something a French general, for all his ideas of equality, would never have done. What was more the British paid for what they took. By the time they entered St Sever, and Brinquet, they were greeted almost as a relieving army. Bunting was hung from windows, and here and there a Union Jack. The army basked in its popularity and brief rest.

  Luckier than his cousin, who was to be in the forefront of the last bloody battle for Toulouse, Jeremy’s battalion was not involved in the attack on Antwerp and Bergen-op-Zoom, which was a disastrous and costly failure. The 52nd were kept in reserve all through the 8th March and on the 9th they were deployed to cover the retreating troops when the attack was abandoned. Jeremy was sickened by the procession of wounded soldiers, groaning in carts, limping along the frozen tracks, leaving stains of blood behind like little signatures in the snow.