So it would be living in unbearably cramped quarters, eating and sleeping where you could, jostled together in bad weather and in good, searching the horizon for a sail, and no room for grumblers or shirkers. Stephen would have been quite glad to have had Andrew Blamey with him because of the authority of his experience, but Blamey and Jason simply didn’t hit it off, so that was that. He’d pushed the boy forward and had put two reliable older men, Springfield and Penberthy, directly under him to give him advice when it was needed.
The more he saw of his son the fonder he grew of him. It’s hard anyway to take a sour view of someone who hero-worships you; but Jason was very companionable, and they had the same impulses and feelings about so many things. Indeed in the first few months of their time together Stephen felt he had not quite come up to the image expected of him: the owner of three small trading vessels, commercially sound, content with small profits, hard working and staid, with a home and wife to care for and a respectable place to build in Falmouth’s business world. Now it was all changed. They were off on a predatory trip that exactly suited Jason’s romantic conception of his father.
He ate at the Royal Standard, alone this time. Jason was still working on board the Adolphus, and Clowance was visiting her Aunt Verity. Relations had been strained between him and his wife since his decision. Almost for the first time she had refused his caresses, as if trying to register her protest, make it clear, unconfused by physical contact. It would pass; he was sure it would pass when his adventure turned out to be the success he knew it was going to be. He knew she was not taking any stiff moral attitude, rather that she thought the risks too high and altogether unnecessary.
He had wondered whether to bother to make the tiresome journey to Plymouth – where, he had heard, the press gang was out again – merely to obtain a Letter of Marque. But without it he was a pirate, with it he was legally entitled to board and capture; he must go.
Eating at the next table from him was Captain Robert Buller, the tough, sturdy, middle-aged packet captain of the Queen Charlotte, refitted now and ready to sail on the New York run on Friday.
Not an approachable man but a tough, fair-minded seasoned sailor who had made enough money to build himself a substantial house on the newly burgeoning seafront of the town. He knew Stephen and nodded when they passed; Stephen’s recent approach to him on behalf of Jason had not apparently been resented.
‘Hope this fair weather keeps up over the weekend,’ Stephen volunteered. ‘You’re sailing Friday, Cap’n?’
‘Aye,’ said Buller, picking his teeth.
‘Full complement, I suppose?’
‘Aye.’
‘Me nephew I decided to keep with me for the time being. He’s young yet. Bit more sea experience before he aspires to the Packet Service.’
‘Maybe,’ said Buller and took a swig of ale.
‘There’s a man I know,’ said Stephen; ‘used to be in the Packet Service, first officer, I believe, or second officer, cannot remember. Opted out. Much regrets it now. Very capable man. Still pretty young. I believe he would like to return to the service, if he had the chance.’
‘Name?’ said Buller, still busy with a tooth.
‘Blamey.’
Someone was shouting at the other end of the room, something about Death to the Frenchies.
‘Blamey? Andrew Blamey’s son?’
‘Just so.’
‘Went missing, didn’t he? Countess of Leicester. Couple of years ago, wasn’t it?’
Stephen was surprised at the memory. ‘He was in dire straits at the time. Trouble with the moneylenders. You know. If he’d stayed he would have gone to gaol. That’s all changed now. A changed man. He’d give his ears to be back in the Packet Service again.’
‘What’s he been doing since?’
‘Sailed with me on a couple of voyages. First-class man. Has just brought me other brig home from Oslo with a cargo of timber and saddlery. He’s always regretted leaving the Packet Service, I can tell ye.’
Captain Buller pushed his plate away. ‘Gaming and drinking, no doubt, that was his trouble. They say his father was too fond of the bottle once. That was before my time.’
‘Never touches it now.’
‘Who? The father or the son?’
‘Both,’ said Stephen, lying in a good cause. ‘But young Andrew never did drink at sea. Couldn’t fault him at sea.’
‘Don’t know what Captain Faulkner said. Never spoke to him about it.’
‘Countess of Leicester’s in Jamaica, if all’s well.’
‘I know that,’ said Buller irritably.
Stephen hesitated. But he was never one to be easily put off. ‘I hear they’re pressing men in Plymouth. I’m off there meself tomorrow so I sh’ll have to watch out! I’m going to get me a Letter of Marque. I’ve already written about it.’
‘Oh, aye, I heard tell of this. No trouble finding your crew, eh? Make sure they’re not all tinners!’
Stephen laughed and ordered another glass of ale for Buller. They sat listening to conversation around them.
‘Now the war’s on again,’ said Stephen, ‘good crews will be hard to get. Experienced young officers specially. I’ve invited young Blamey to come with me on Adolphus but he hasn’t answered finally yet. I don’t think he will come.’
‘Why not?’
‘He has a fancy for the navy.’
Buller grunted, but it was hard to be sure whether it was a grunt of approval.
‘Privateering’s a fly-by-night job,’ he said presently. ‘You toss a card: a quick gain or a quick loss.’
‘There’s more skill than that in it, Captain Buller. Seamanship and guts.’
‘Oh I’ll give you guts. Guts and blood. Still, if you’ve the fancy for it, I wish you luck.’
‘Thanks … Shall I tell Blamey to come and see you?’
The famous eyebrows came together. ‘What for?’
‘I thought if he had the chance he’d better prefer to return to the Packet Service than go in the navy. They’d jump at him, of course.’
Buller finished his beer. ‘Well, I shall not jump at him. But I tell you frankly, Carrington, I could find room for a reliable young officer. If he really means what he says and is prepared to sail Friday eve, I’ll see him if he presents himself at my house at eleven tomorrow.’
V
Andrew had called in to see Clowance again when Stephen burst in upon them. Andrew had stayed late at Cardew yesterday playing cards and at length had been persuaded to spend the night. He had passed the early part of the evening with Thomasine, who was warm and sympathetic about his plight. On departure this morning Harriet had charged him with a message for Clowance, which was to say that Sir George was leaving for London tomorrow and would she care to come and visit her one day soon?
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Stephen demanded. It could have been more tactfully phrased, but his goodwill had turned to frustration as it looked as if his efforts to help Andrew were going down the drain.
Andrew had a thick head and was only just coming to. He flushed and said: ‘What’s that to you?’
‘I’ve been seeking for you everywhere – as if I’d not enough to do minding me own business! I even sent over to Flushing to see if you were there.’
‘Shouldn’t you do just that,’ said Andrew. ‘Mind your own business?’
Clowance put a hand on his arm. ‘Stephen, you wanted Andrew? Was it something special?’
‘I thought it was something special,’ said Stephen roughly. ‘I saw Captain Buller last eve and persuaded him that Andrew would like to return to the Packet Service. He said he needs an officer for his first trip to New York, leaving Friday. He said if Andrew went to see him at eleven this morning he’d mebbe engage him.’
Clowance looked at the clock. ‘But it is past eleven now! Where did he want to see him? At his house? Andrew …’
Her burly cousin rubbed his chin, which had not been shaven this morning. ‘Avast, I don’t remember
ever saying I wanted to go back to the Service. Let me settle my own life in my own way, Stephen!’
Clowance said: ‘But, Andrew, it might be a solution! It – it would give you more standing with the Trevethans … if that’s what you want. You’d go back as an officer, lose nothing for having been away two years. And your father and mother would be delighted!’
Andrew shrugged. You don’t live your life to please your father and mother.’ He looked at Stephen without favour. ‘Where did you meet Buller? I expect he was in his cups.’
Stephen turned away. ‘Well, it’s up to you, boy. Take it or leave it. Mebbe it’s leave it anyhow, as he said eleven and ye couldn’t be there until a quarter before twelve. So forget it, if ye’ve the mind to.’
‘Your pony’s outside,’ Clowance said to Andrew. ‘It would take you no more than fifteen minutes. You could explain to him you had been away for the night and only just returned. What is there to lose?’
‘If he said no, nothing. If he said yes, I have to ask myself, do I want it?’
‘Well, I’ve no more time to waste,’ said Stephen in disgust. ‘If ye want me, Clowance, I’m aboard the Adolphus.’
‘Stephen, it was a kind thought,’ said Clowance. ‘Thank you. When Andrew is in a better mood perhaps he will thank you too.’
Stephen patted her cheek and went out. They could hear his hard boots clattering up the street.
After a moment Andrew suddenly laughed. ‘God damn, I’ll go and see. I’ve only met Buller twice and twice he’s growled at me like a mangey old dog, but he’s a good seaman, I’ll say that. Faulkner always spoke well of him. And he don’t change his crew much … New York … Hm … not a bad run, so I’m told. Wonder if all the American privateers have heard about the peace yet.’
‘Go on if you’re going.’ Clowance took his arm. ‘Do not let the chance go by default.’
Andrew stared down at his jacket. ‘Spilt some wine down it last evening. Hope it don’t show. Anyway, they’re my best togs. I wonder if Buller was serious? You know how Stephen can think something has happened when he wants it to happen? I suspicion that when I get up there I shall be turned away at the door.’
Clowance had been fearing the same thing. ‘Well, you won’t ever know if you don’t try. And don’t underrate Stephen. Sometimes he can work wonders … Anyway I am very obliged to him for doing this.’
They went to the door together.
Andrew said: ‘You know, it was fortunate you asked me to keep quiet on what Stephen was about. Late last night, when all the girls had gone to bed, a fat little man – oldish man – sat down next to me, began to talk – Blencowe, he said his name was – thought he was a servant at first. Says he has a son in the navy, asked me a lot of questions about what sort of a life it was. Then, after a while Stephen Carrington’s name came up, and he said he knew him and admired him and what sort of man was he to work for? And so on. And so on. Might have been trying to pump me. You know.’
‘And you said nothing?’ Clowance asked.
‘Can’t remember exactly what I did say – one gets a bit fuddled late at night. But I can promise you I told him nothing about Stephen’s plans for the Adolphus.’
VI
Corporal Julien Lemerre, being preoccupied with thoughts of the girl he had met in the village last night, was slow to notice his colleague’s late return. Corporal Charles Bernard always took the breakfast up at eight and normally was back by twenty minutes past. At fifteen minutes before nine Lemerre swore and stirred himself to walk up the two flights of stairs and along the corridor to the room where Captain Sir Ross Poldark would normally be eating his breakfast – indeed by now should have finished it.
The door of the room was open, which anyway was against regulations. Lemerre went in and saw the breakfast was untouched. Corporal Bernard was sitting in a chair bound and gagged.
There was not much need for conversation. Lemerre took a knife from his pocket and hacked at Bernard’s bonds until he was free. Then he ran out of the room, down the stairs, and pulled the alarm bell.
Chapter Ten
I
June 4th was a public holiday in Paris. It was a day of celebration and re-dedication to the imperial power of Bonaparte. Thirty-six fountains provided free wine in the Champs-Elysées, huge trestle tables offered food to all, open air displays had been arranged, with military bands, fire-eaters, tight-rope walkers, conjurers and magicians.
With sunset came a great concert in front of the Palace of the Tuileries, and afterwards a firework display, showing the ship on which Napoleon had landed on the French coast on the 1st March. The Emperor himself watched it all benevolently from a balcony. A week later he left Paris to join his army at Avesnes.
His army consisted of 125,000 men, with 350 guns. It was organized into seven army corps; a homogeneous mass of eager and angry and courageous Frenchmen, fanatically devoted to their Emperor and aware that they must conquer or die.
The Prussian army under Marshal Blücher amounted to 115,000 men and 290 guns; it consisted of four army corps and occupied Charleroi and the country east with outposts as far as Namur.
The mixed army under the Duke of Wellington consisted of 105,000 men and 200 guns. About one third were British, of which 12,000 were his veterans of the Peninsular War, the rest untried and under-trained. Scattered among the various divisions of the army were about 20,000 Dutch–Belgian troops, so scattered that the British elements could help to stiffen them. The rest were made up of 5,500 first class troops of the King’s German Legion, a quantity of Brunswickers and Hanoverians, five Nassau battalions and a Netherland Indian brigade. This army guarded Brussels and the country to the west, particularly the road from Mons.
The Prussian and British armies, by the nature of the distances their defences were stretched to cover, were too far apart to be in touch with each other and contact was only maintained by means of messengers carrying scribbled notes across the intervening thirty-four miles.
On the 7th June, before he left Paris, Napoleon issued instructions that dropped a blanket of iron secrecy over the movements of his army. All frontiers along the Sambre, the Moselle, the Rhine were sealed. No stage-coaches were allowed to travel. Every wagon was intercepted, every traveller held and searched. Only his own agents moved, spreading false reports wherever suitable, even as far as Brussels.
It was into this countryside that Ross Poldark, having broken out and stolen a horse, had to make his way in the hope of reaching the British positions.
II
He’d been lucky at the beginning. He had reckoned on a maximum of fifteen minutes; in fact it was nearly forty before the alarm bell sounded. First there was the knife, the pouch with the small change, the keys, which Corporal Bernard had unwillingly loaned him, then a flight of stairs and cupboard where spare uniforms were kept; a tunic and a hat were all he had time for; another flight and a door where the other corporal was supping coffee with his feet up; past that and into the courtyard. General and Mme Wirion, he knew, always went to mass on Sunday mornings at eight: it was worth the risk. The third key he tried let him into the General’s house which was on the corner of the courtyard. A woman stared at him, hand to mouth, as he came into the living quarters. A cloak, a better pair of boots, two silver candlesticks, a pistol without cartridges, a map, no money to be seen anywhere, some bread and cheese and a bottle of wine; he let himself out of the front door and into the street. Two old women pushing a handcart, a lad kicking a stone; the stables were round the corner. He chose a pony which was nearest to hand, saddled him, grabbed a nosebag to hold his possessions, was leading the pony into the street as someone shouted from the back of the stables.
Then it was all straightforward - for the time being. He took his direction from the sun until he came to the River Meuse, then began to follow it downstream towards the north. It was good weather, warm, with an occasional thundershower. The road kept to the left bank of the river, sometimes leaving it for a few miles as the river describ
ed a deep narrow winding arc, then rejoining it. There were a few peasants in the fields, an occasional ragged traveller on the road or a child driving a few sheep; he kept a sharp watch behind but there was no obvious sign of pursuit. He felt conspicuous on his pony, his legs too long; but no one seemed to take any notice at all. Only once on that first day did he hurriedly dismount and lead his pony into a copse while a troop of cavalry clattered past. He spent the first night under some willows, his pony contentedly chewing grass and dozing by the light of a sinking moon.
Early on the second morning he came to a village and spent some of his few coins buying bread and cheese and butter and another bottle of wine. The shopkeeper, looking at his hat and tunic, asked if he was going to join his regiment, and Ross said yes, hoping that no one would remark his broken accent. Nobody did. The shopkeeper wished him luck and told him to make haste. ‘The Little Father must not be kept waiting. He is ready to strike.’
It puzzled Ross that there was still no sign of pursuit. Perhaps there was no one to send. France was in turmoil. The armed forces worshipped Napoleon and would follow him to death or victory; but a large proportion of the people longed for peace and a quiet existence. Who knew what General Wirion’s private thoughts were? And what in any case did it matter that one middle-aged Englishman should be at liberty when the destiny of Europe was shortly to be decided?
On the morning of the second day he came upon a town of a fair size (General Wirion’s map had been discarded, as it did not cover so far north), but emboldened by the total lack of interest people were taking in a lonely, ragged, ill-dressed soldier, he rode straight in and by luck found the kind of little shop that he was seeking. There he sold the silver candlesticks and the pistol, and the boots, which were too small for him. The one valuable item of his personal belongings he had been able to retain throughout his captivity was the gold watch that had belonged to his father. When planning his escape he had decided to sell this to provide him with the money to sustain him on his flight, but when it came to the point he chose not to. The items he had filched from General Wirion would see him through the next two or three days. He would like to keep the watch for Jeremy.
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