The Twisted Sword

by Winston Graham

  ‘It is difficult to tell her anything about what happened,’ Ross said. ‘She heads me off, turns the point, brings up some other subject. Well, perhaps that is natural. One cannot go on probing at a wound – or should not, I imagine. Last night . . .’

  He stopped. Dwight said nothing, staring at a squirrel swarming up the branch of a tree.

  ‘Last night,’ Ross said, ‘she would hardly let me touch her. We lay beside each other in bed, just holding hands. When I woke early this morning just as it was coming light she was gone, standing by the window looking out. When she heard me move she came back, slipped into bed, took my hand again.’

  Dwight said: ‘When Caroline lost Sarah . . . You remember? She left me, went to London, stayed with her aunt. I did not know when, or if, she was coming back. This is much, much worse – for Demelza and for you. Sarah was a baby – like your Julia. Jeremy was just happily married, everything before him. I can only guess at what you both feel.’

  The squirrel had disappeared. Rooks were clapping their wings somewhere. They sounded like an unenthusiastic audience.

  Ross said: ‘Of course there is much I cannot tell her – would not. You saw my letter to her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I said little enough about that last day . . . When Wellington entrusted me with the message for Prince Frederick of the Netherlands I knew the distance to be about ten miles, but I expected to be back in the very early afternoon. But on the way back – perhaps I was a thought incautious and steered too close to the fighting – I was almost overrun by a French cavalry charge. Then my horse was killed, and as I fell with it a piece of round shot struck me in the chest – just below the chest – and I was knocked out for what must have been half an hour. And for a time after that I could barely stand.’

  Ross fumbled in his pocket and took out a piece of crumpled metal which Dwight could see had been a watch.

  ‘My father’s,’ said Ross. ‘It was the one thing the French left me when I was interned. When I escaped I intended to sell it to buy food or shelter or perhaps a weapon of some sort; but in the end I did not have to. Had I done so I should not be here today.’

  Dwight took the crushed watch, turned it over. The face had gone altogether, and the gold case was splayed as if it had been hit with a hammer.

  ‘Then that is one piece of extraordinary good fortune.’

  ‘It was intended for Jeremy. If I had given it him perhaps he would be here instead of me. Better if it had been that way.’

  ‘Have you shown this to Demelza?’

  ‘No. Nor shall do.’

  ‘Well . . . perhaps not. Not yet anyway.’

  The sun came out, warming them as they sat together, two old friends.

  ‘There are many things I cannot tell her,’ Ross said, ‘even if she would listen. That night after Jeremy’s death I could not sleep. I was not hungry but was sickly empty of stomach – and thirsty, so thirsty – and black with powder and stiff from my small injuries. I lay down in the hut for a while, trying to wrap an old blanket round me – just beside him – but after a while I got up again and began to wander about the battlefield. There were many still wounded, crying for attention, but I was too dazed to help – and in any case had no means to help – no salves, no bandages, no water. Have you ever seen a battlefield, Dwight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I had. Or thought I had. Not like this. Never anything like this. Of course you have been in a battle at sea, have suffered the horrors of the prisoner-of-war camp . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Before he died Jeremy spoke of the horses. They were almost the worst part of it. Some were lying with their entrails hanging out, yet still alive. Others dragged themselves around in terrible stages of mutilation. Some were simply wandering loose, having lost their owners. I caught one such and rode as far south as Quatre Bras, where all the fighting had been on the Friday.’

  ‘Was the fighting at Waterloo over by this time?’

  ‘Almost. There were some Prussian troops still about, and not too particular whom they shot at; there were a few camps of them, bivouacking, cooking their meals; but the main body had passed on. Quatre Bras was a ghastly sight. You of all people must be familiar with what happens to a body after it is dead.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Those at Quatre Bras had mostly been dead for two days. It was a brilliant moonlit night, with only a rare cloud passing across the moon. In the moonlight they looked like negroes.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘And swollen into grotesque shapes. Bursting out of their uniforms – those who were left with uniforms. Many had been stripped naked by the peasants; most of those who had not, lay upon their faces with their pockets pulled out and their boots taken, their papers scattered everywhere. Of course it was not just the peasants. The soldiers themselves: the French when they advanced, the British and Germans when the French retreated . . . The stench in the courtyard of the farm at Quatre Bras was intolerable . . . Perhaps you wonder why I tell you all this.’

  ‘No, I think it should be spoken of.’

  ‘There is no one else I would say this to. When I was in America as a young man I saw enough to fill my crop. But not like this. That was skirmishing. This was head-on conflict of a most terrible kind.’

  They sat for a while in silence. Ross fingered his scar.

  ‘I found one man still alive. That is why I went into the yard of the farmhouse; there’s a well there; I went to get him water. Why he was alive I don’t know; his skull was crushed; but some people take a deal of killing. He was a Frenchman, and when he found I understood him he asked me to kill him and finish off his misery.’

  Dwight glanced at Ross’s lean, restless face. More than ever lean now, and the veins in his neck showing.

  ‘I found I could not, Dwight. There had been so much blood spilt; for three days I had been surrounded by death. And then I thought of the French brigadier, whom I had come greatly to like and respect, even though he was a Bonapartist. And I knew he would say it was only a kindness to kill this suffering man. Perhaps even a duty. But still I could not.’

  ‘I think you were right.’

  ‘I spent more time on him than anyone else on the battlefield. I bathed his face and his crushed head and tried to tie up his other wounds. Then I put a beaker of water beside him and left him – presumably to die.’

  ‘Were there no surgeons anywhere?’

  ‘A few. Working desperately, trying to help the worst wounded. Though from the way I saw them treating men then and afterwards in Brussels, I wonder if they did not help to kill off more wounded men than they cured.’

  ‘Ours is still a primitive science.’

  Ross got up. ‘By God, I should think so! But you, Dwight, have often said that your profession was over-fond of the leech. You bleed your patients far less than most of your fellows. These men – these so-called surgeons – were bleeding men who had lost half their blood already!’

  Dwight got up too, patted his leg with the little riding cane he carried. ‘The medical view is that if a wound is inflamed, bleeding will help to reduce the inflammation. It’s not a theory I totally subscribe to – as you know – but I was not there and so cannot speak much against them. I’m afraid most physical treatment is rough and ready. Not least when it comes to war.’

  ‘The arms and legs that were hacked off! I know it is better than gangrene – we both know too well that – that anything is better than gangrene . . . But afterwards, to sterilize with hot tar, and then, as like as not, a clyster of soap and water and a pill of senna pods in lard, to clear the humours!’

  They began to walk across the paddock towards the distant trees.

  After a minute Dwight said: ‘Is your ankle . . .?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  They walked on.

  ‘Where is Demelza now?’

  ‘I left her in the garden with Matthew Mark Martin. Jane Gimlett says she has hardly been in it since she came home
.’

  ‘We have never spoken of your baronetcy. I believe it was a good thing to take.’

  ‘Good? Dear God! It is a cynical twist that Jeremy will now no longer be here to inherit it.’

  ‘Henry will.’

  Ross looked up. ‘Maybe. Well, yes. If he survives.’

  ‘There should be no wars after this for generations. And if there were Henry would have no need to take part. You have three handsome children left.’

  ‘And a grandchild on the way . . . It was strange how I met Cuby. And horrible. On the Monday morning I was able to purloin a farm cart and I put my horse – the one I had found on Sunday night – into the shafts, and I lifted – I lifted my son into the back and covered him with a blanket. The road back to Brussels was – impossible, with the sick and wounded, with returning soldiers, with ambulances and wagons; but we went with the stream. Then I saw this coach coming against the stream with a man riding before it with a drawn sword, forcing people to give way. I paid them little attention, for I was too sunk in my own sorrow. But I remember noticing that the coach horses were screaming with fright. Coming into the battle zone from Brussels, they were not used to the smell of blood and corruption. Then suddenly a voice called: “Captain Poldark!” It was Cuby, my daughter-in-law.’

  They stopped at the edge of the paddock. The vegetation here was lush with cow parsley and ragged robin and wild marguerites. Ross wiped his forehead.

  ‘In all those days of battle that was the second worst moment for me. Her round pretty anxious face changed when I told her, she went deathly pale. She jumped down and insisted – insisted on seeing Jeremy, on uncovering his face . . . Then – then she looked at me as if I had stabbed her to the heart. Which indeed I had – and would have given my own life willingly not to have done so.’

  Bees were humming around a clump of foxgloves, struggling in and out of the bells like fat robbers peering into caves.

  Ross said: ‘Sir William de Lancey, Wellington’s Chief of Staff, had been gravely wounded, and his wife was forcing her way out to Waterloo to see him. Cuby had asked if she might have a lift and had been given one . . . There were other women going out, amid all the confusion, seeking their husbands, hoping to find them alive. Magdalene de Lancey found her husband and nursed him for a week in a cottage in Waterloo, and then he died.’

  They began to walk back.

  Dwight said: ‘It is hot today. Let’s go indoors for a while. Will you take a glass of lemonade?’

  Ross gave a short harsh laugh. ‘In most of the crises of my life, the big disappointments – as when Elizabeth married Francis – the tragedy when we lost Julia – the stresses when Demelza became infatuated with Hugh Armitage – and they all seem to be dwarfed – are dwarfed – by this; in all of them I have taken to the brandy bottle. Now I am offered lemonade!’

  ‘There is brandy if you want it.’

  ‘I drank very little after Jeremy’s death; first because there was nothing – except one flask I found half full of genever. Then I was preoccupied looking after Cuby. Then there were the burial arrangements. With one thing and another . . . I drank more than usual on the trip home, but the taste was lacking. As my medical man, would you advise a glass of lemonade at this stage?’

  ‘I am going to take one.’

  ‘It guarantees absolute oblivion?’

  ‘As good as brandy in the long run.’

  Ross said: ‘I’m not sure that I want to regard anything – in the long run from now on . . . Tell me, Dwight, one thing extra that has been concerning me . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know Demelza all her life has been a thought fond of drink – some drink – chiefly port. When I returned yesterday there was no sign. Have you seen any sign?’

  ‘I have hardly seen her in the evening, but Caroline would have mentioned it, I am sure.’

  ‘She did over-drink at one time, you know. I came home one night and found her incapable. That was about a year ago.’

  ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It never happened again. Perhaps it was a passing phase. Human nature is unfathomable, is it not? Demelza has lost her dearly beloved son and yet appears to stay sober. I am in similar straits and content myself with lemonade. Perhaps grief – real grief – brings sobriety. Or are we just growing old and no longer consider it worth while to make gestures of protest?’

  ‘I suspect you will live to make many more gestures of protest yet,’ said Dwight, ‘but they are no better for being seen through the bottom of a brandy glass.’

  Chapter Four

  I

  Stephen said: ‘It has been a bitter time for you, dear heart; and in truth ’tis sad for me. All I said to your mother was God’s truth. Jeremy was a real true friend. We did – many things together. All through the time when you and I were estranged, him and me, we were still friends. In that year when we was separated he never, of course, took my side against you, but he was never anything but sympathetic to the way I felt. In fact we were both deprived in a similar way. It made for a fellow feeling. He was a brave man and it’s bitter, bitter that he should be gone now, just when he was happy married and his wife expecting a baby. An’ I’m deeply sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, Stephen.’

  He was rowing her back from the Adolphus, which she had been visiting for the first time since its famous voyage.

  ‘And thank you for this lovely present,’ she added, fingering the heavy coral necklace about her throat. ‘It is marvellous pretty, and I want to wear it all the time.’

  ‘So you shall. And others I shall buy you.’

  He paused in his rowing, allowed the boat to drift of its own momentum.

  ‘Jeremy’s death,’ he said, ‘Jeremy’s death has put a damper on what I did; but I can’t but rejoice at the way everything else has turned up aces for me – for the both of us. I can’t but rejoice, Clowance, and that’s God’s truth too.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to. In a month – in a few months – I expect I shall be able to rejoice with you.’

  ‘Ye must be able to rejoice now, that we are right out of the wood!’

  ‘Are we really safe?’

  ‘Oh yes. Oh yes. By a long haul.’

  ‘Can you bear to tell me again?’ Clowance asked, knowing that he would like nothing better. ‘At Nampara, in the bedroom, it seemed so unreal beside Jeremy’s death, I could hardly take it in. You captured this ship called – called . . .’

  ‘Revenant. She was a chaloupe. What in England we more or less call a sloop. But bigger than we build ’em in England. She was bigger than we were, bigger than a packet ship, and carried a crew, I reckon, of about twenty-five, and four four-pounders and any amount of small arms. And when we rescued Jason and the other two, we bore away with us the captain and a rich merchant who were aboard at the time, and can be ransomed!’

  ‘Why did you take the – the chaloupe to Bristol?’

  ‘I knew more people there, see. And to tell the truth I was wary of Sir George. Ye know, the Warleggans have a long reach, and after what has happened I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can spit. I thought, maybe somehow he’ll try to seize part of the cargo in lieu of a debt – or say it was illegal because of the end of the war and should be returned – or any trumped up charge. I thought I was safer in Bristol. I thought first of Plymouth, but I felt safer going home.’

  Clowance shivered slightly; she could not have told why, for the day was warm.

  Stephen did not notice. ‘Mind, there was a time when I regretted that choosing. Once safe across the Channel, I crept close in to the English coast, not fancying a meeting with a French frigate again; but not far off Penzance the weather turned foul; a strong gale blew up sudden from the south. There was a great peril of being embayed, so I set every stitch of canvas the masts would bear and began to claw off the shore. The Revenant was hull down way to the south-east of us and riding it out well. I’ve never seen Adolphus in such a state before. She plunged through the water
so fast clouds of spray were frothing to her very topsails. I thought the canvas would any minute carry away. But it did not, and after an hour the worst was over. Both vessels rounded Land’s End before nightfall.’

  Clowance let her hand trail in the water. ‘And the cargo?’

  ‘M’dear, we’re rich! Not rich by Warleggan standards, but well found and independent of Warleggans for good an’ all. Revenant was eighteen days out of New York. Skins, all sorts of skins to make coats; leather and boots; saddlery; 50 tons of pig iron, steel rods, five cases of apothecaries’ wares, 36 wheels and axles, 48 kettles – I lost count . . . Aside from the value of the ship itself!’

  ‘And what is happening now?’

  ‘The Cornish Naval Bank has a corresponding partner, as they call it, in Bristol. As the money comes in, ’twill be transferred into my name in Falmouth. I was tempted to stay on and on, but I felt I must come back and see you, tell you this wonderful news. Alas, that you had such bad news yourself!’

  ‘You have shareholders to pay?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And the crew. But the crew I have now paid off. They’re all roaring happy and consider themselves rich, small though their portions are compared to mine.’ Stephen shipped one oar and steered past some wreckage floating in the harbour. ‘The shareholders will take thirty-five per cent. The rest will set us up very nicely, and very independent.’

  ‘Have you seen Warleggan’s Bank yet?’

  ‘No. I shall go in tomorrow. All the way home – and ’twas none too placid a trip for July neither – I have been asking myself how I ought to do it. I thought at first just to tell them straight just what I thought of ’em. I thought over just what I should say. But then I considered further and changed me mind. I’ve decided to act just as he might act if he was in my shoes.’

  ‘What does that mean, Stephen?’

  ‘I shall act very polite. I shall tell ’em nothing of what I have been doing or what profits I have made – though no doubt they’ll hear about it or already have. I shall go in tomorrow and see Lander and simply say: “Good-day to ye, Mr Lander, it so happens that I have been able to obtain finance through another bank, and as they impose no restrictions, well, I think I shall transfer my account to them from the end of this week. Any accommodation bills I have signed, Mr Lander, will be paid the moment they come due, and I will continue, with your permission, Mr Lander, to trade in Penryn and Falmouth as an independent shipper.” Something like that, but smoother. “Good-day to ye, Mr Lander,” I shall say. “I hope I find you well. Now it so happens, quite by chance, like, that I have been approached by another bank, who offer me all the accommodation I need without imposing any restrictions as to the overdraft I choose to carry – ”’