She sat down and watched him eat. She sat with one elbow on the table, the other smoothing the cloth. ‘I have a fear that if you hear nothing soon you may go over to ask questions yourself.’
‘The risk would be small if I did. Neither government has yet made any attempt to stop the trade.’
‘It is not just “governments”, as you call them. It is people. We are at war. Some may forget it if it lines their pockets, but others will remember. Hatred will grow week by week. See what Will says about the crowds in Brest. You might be attacked at sea – or captured and taken prisoner yourself – or stabbed in the back. That is one risk. The other is being caught landing back in England. We have had one bitter narrow escape. Twould be too much to expect another.’
He smiled. ‘What a lot of hazards you see! I suppose you have forgotten what I said to you when you told me you were with child. And do you know what you replied? “Just by living we are all hostages to fate.”’
‘It is not the same thing, Ross. Women – whether high or low – it is their natural lot, their destiny to bear children. I have had two. Why should the third be any different? But men are not – it is not their natural destiny to travel overseas and risk their lives in an enemy country.’
‘Not for a friend?’
‘Ah. I know. I know . . .’ She puckered her brows. ‘You make me sound mean. Why do you make me sound mean, Ross? But others can do what you can do. Employ them. We have money enough – that is the way to use it.’
Services at Sawle Church were held at eleven in the morning on the first and third Sundays in the month and at two in the afternoon on the other Sundays. On these occasions Mr Clarence Odgers said prayers and preached, and the choir and musicians sawed away at a few psalms and hymns, helped by the sparse congregation. Old Charles Poldark had liked an evening service starting about five or six, so of course it had been arranged to suit him; but a couple of years after he died, with the rest of the Poldarks taking so little interest in the church, a more convenient time had been reverted to. Then when Francis died there had only been Elizabeth, with her small son, and such had been the claims on her time and energies that all the old customs had fallen away; in particular, and most to be regretted on Mr Odgers’s part, the weekly obligation of the big house to feed the curate. Attempts by Mr Odgers to induce Ross Poldark to take over this and other devoirs had signally failed.
But now that the house belonged to the Warleggans a new régime had come in, and Mr Odgers was pleased to see the new squire in church every Sunday he was in residence, together with such other members of his household as he thought fit to bring. There were no signs yet of a reversion to the old custom of victualling the needy cleric; but help of an even more valuable kind – in the form of actual money – had occasionally come Mr Odgers’s way; and this was so unprecedented that the little man was only too anxious to make any alterations in the shape, time or condition of the service that Mr Warleggan might desire.
In his heart, or on his knees, Odgers had to confess that things were not quite the same with Mr Warleggan as with Charles or Francis Poldark. None of the Poldarks had been as regular in attendance as Mr Warleggan was proving. Old Charles had been difficult with his sudden likes and dislikes and his constant belchings, and young Francis had sometimes been bitter and sardonic. But they treated him as one of themselves. Or almost one of themselves. It was ‘Lost your place this morning, did you, Odgers? Thought I was asleep, didn’t you, but that goes to show I was not. Aarf! Not that I blame you with all these damned Hebrew names.’ Or Francis would say: ‘Damn me, Odgers, that fellow Permewan with his bass viol; I’ve never heard a worse noise from a sow in farrow. Could we not ask him to take some water with his gin?’ Mr Warleggan was different. Mr Warleggan would call him up to the house and would say: ‘If you cannot get a sufficiency of bellringers, Odgers, I will send two of my men. See that they are properly rung next Sunday.’ Or: ‘I notice some of the congregation do not rise when we come into church. Will you kindly see in future that all do so.’ It was not just what was said but how it was said – none of this man-toman familiarity which, while never bridging the gap in social stations, helped to disguise it. Rather a cold over-politeness which was more suitable between master and employee.
As to the second request, Mr Odgers had entered no comment upon it when it was made. There had been a time, when Odgers had first taken up the curacy, when it had been the custom for most of the congregation not merely to rise when the Poldarks entered but to wait outside until they came and then follow them in. It had all been very free and easy but it had been taken as a natural part of village life. ‘Afternoon, Mrs Kimber,’ Charles would say, as he passed, ‘hope you are better,’ and ‘Av’noon, sur, nicely, sur, naow, thank ee,’ Mrs Kimber would reply, with perhaps a bob or a curtsey if she felt like it; and in they would all go. But this custom had gradually ceased during Francis’s brief tenure, particularly after Verity left. There wasn’t much point, for instance, in waiting outside if no Poldark ever turned up. When Francis died it had all gone from bad to worse; the congregation had fallen off and those left had become unruly; no one cared about the church any more.
Now someone cared but in a different way. The congregation had to be brought under a new discipline, and not one which had ceased altogether to be a discipline and become a casual, time-sanctified habit. Trenwith servants and those depending in some degree on Trenwith for trade or patronage presented no problem. But there were a number of independent-minded souls whom Mr Odgers would have to work on.
To begin with he went about it by posting himself and his eldest son, who performed the duties of verger, at the church door a few minutes before the start of the service. Then, as soon as the Warleggans were seen approaching, his son was sent hurriedly into the church to stop the congregation chattering and make them rise while Odgers walked down to the lychgate to greet the arriving party.
George, however, made it all much more difficult by frequently arriving late. The Poldarks, to give them their due, had never been three or four minutes out at most. If they were delayed or unable to come Charles would send Tabb or Barge telling Odgers to start without them. So it had been the customary thing not to start until they came; it had again been part of the natural order of the day. But George and his party were sometimes ten minutes late, and then the congregation became very restive.
Normally between twenty and thirty villagers would come to the service, with a few extra in the choir. (Dr Choake, who was vicar’s warden, would attend with his wife regularly on the first Sunday in the month, Captain Henshawe, the people’s warden, somewhat less often, and the Poldarks from Nampara once a year.) But of late these basic numbers had been swollen by the attendance of a solid block of men and women, some twelve to eighteen strong, who filed in led by a man called Samuel Carne, and seated themselves in the back five rows by the font. Odgers knew them to be Methodists, a sect that he hated but could do little to check. Although they came to church, as now, they really had little respect for its authority and still less for its ordained ministers. But their behaviour in Sawle Church was exemplary, and he could do nothing to turn them out.
Too exemplary. It showed up the behaviour of the other parishioners, who were wont to chat and gossip among themselves and had grown accustomed to doing so right through the service until Mr Warleggan stopped that too.
On the second Sunday in August, the service being at two, Sam Carne led his flock into church about five minutes before the hour, and as usual, after a short prayer, they all settled back quietly into their seats to wait for the service to begin. The rest of the congregation was at its noisiest, and they cast unfriendly looks at the Methodists and tittered among themselves, thinking pretentious the reverent manner of the people in the back rows. Unknown to Mr Odgers, George was entertaining friends, and, although they would not begin dinner until after the service, they had been drinking tea and practising archery and generally enjoying the summery day, so that it was fifteen minut
es after two before eight of them appeared at the gate. They were George and Elizabeth, Geoffrey Charles and Morwenna, St John Peter and Joan Pascoe, Unwin Trevaunance and a Miss Barbary, the daughter of Alfred Barbary. Mr Odgers hurried down to greet them and was nodded to by some and smiled at by others as they went past.
Then George said, half stopping: ‘Has the service begun?’
‘No, Mr Warleggan, we are all ready to begin—’
‘That singing . . .’
Mr Odgers pushed at his horsehair wig. ‘It is none of my doing, but certain members of the congregation while away the time singing a hymn of their own devising. I have sent John in to stop them. It will cease in a moment.’
They waited and listened. ‘Egad,’ said St John Peter, ‘it sounds like a Methody hymn.’
‘It will stop in a minute,’ said Mr Odgers. ‘It will cease in a moment.’
‘But why should we wait?’ Elizabeth asked good-humouredly. ‘Is that not what churches are for? Perhaps if we hurry we can join them.’ She squeezed George’s arm. ‘Come, dear.’
He had looked annoyed when the singing did not stop; but Elizabeth’s words cooled him off, and he made a little disclaiming gesture to his guests and went on.
As he came into the church the Methodists had reached the last verse, and the sight of him, plus an inability to remember all the words, almost silenced them. But a few, led by Pally Rogers and Will Nanfan and Beth Daniell, all of whom resented certain fences that had been erected during the last few months and who had nothing to fear from George Warleggan or his family, sang out more loudly than ever to make up for the loss of other voices, and the last verse followed George and his party emphatically all the way to the pew.
‘A rest where all our soul’s desire
Is fixed on things above;
Where fear and sin and grief expire
Cast out by perfect love.’
There they subsided. The rest of the congregation had dutifully risen at the arrival of the Trenwith party. The Wesleyans had not.
Mr Odgers moved into his stall and coughed and cleared his throat.
‘Let us pray,’ he began.
Sam Carne was on night core that week, and when he came up it was raining so he hunched his shoulders against the weather and began to walk over the brow of the hill towards Reath Cottage. As he got near he saw a small damp figure standing by a horse just near the bed of the dry stream below the cottage. It was the Reverend Clarence Odgers.
‘Why, sur, good morning to ye. Was you looking for we? I think brother’s gone work. But twill be drier inside. Come you in.’
Sam had no doubt as to the subject of Odgers’s visit. He led the way into the dark little cottage, and after a moment’s hostile hesitation, Odgers followed. He looked about at the oblong room with its crude chairs, many of them knocked together out of driftwood or pieces of timber from the mine. On a table at the end a bible lay open, and Odgers noticed with distaste that the chairs were arranged in three rows facing the table. On a wooden board on the wall was written, ‘Be ye saved in Christ’.
Sam towered over the little parson. ‘Do ee sit down, sur. I be that pleased to welcome another man of God into our home.’
The phrase was not well judged to start the conversation on a happy note. Odgers said: ‘This is not a parochial call. Carne. I think that is your name. I believe you are a newcomer in this district.’
‘Six months gone the Lord directed our steps into this parish, brother and me. We d’love and worship Christ every Sabbath in your church regular.’ Sam’s sad young face creased into a smile.
‘Yes,’ said Odgers. ‘Well, yes, so you do.’ He was not by nature a belligerent man, having had neither the money nor the breeding necessary to nurture arrogance; but he had received his instruction. ‘I have seen you there, you and your friends, and it was about this that I come to speak to you. Yesterday before the service you sang – you sang and chanted for ten minutes in a way that was unbecoming to the dignity of the church and to my position as a clerk in holy orders. You – you and your group – arrive every week, sit together and behave as if you were holding a private service within a service!’
‘Ah? Twas not our intention, sur. We come together – as you d’say – and sit together and sing together, to bear witness to our conversion to the gospel of Christ, to show as we have been saved by the blood of the Lamb. We all—’
‘You speak of conversion to the gospel of Christ, yet you and all your sect have repeatedly sought to undermine the church of Christ, have you not, to subvert its holy doctrines and to set up rival and revolutionary practices. There can be little doubt that you and your sort set out to overthrow law and order and the proper teaching of God in his ordained and consecrated houses!’
Mr Odgers had begun weakly but had gathered strength as he went on. George’s prejudices had set fire to his own. He put his fingers through the buttons of his waistcoat and took a deep breath to continue, when Sam interrupted him.
‘Now, sur, you’re being very hot ’bout we, but what you d’say edn true – not the truth as it is in Jesus. Never by no thought, word or deed do we nor any of our like seek to overthrow holy doctrines – we seek to embrace them where they been all but forgot! By true repentance and acknowledgment of our sins we discover God’s mercies as manifested in Christ Jesus. Which be open to all – every man jack of us who can come down on his knees and confess his faults! So he can lay hold of His blessing. You can, just so much as any one of us!’
‘You dare to say that to me! I who by the laying on of hands have been granted the authority and grace of Apostolic succession—’
‘Mebbe. I don’t know nothing ’bout that. But we overthrow no holy doctrines. All we d’ask is for all sinners to think on their sins and to flee from the wrath to come. We attend church, regular, seeking forgiveness and salvation in Christ. Tell us, sur, what there be wrong in that. We obey the precepts laid down by our honoured father, Mr Wesley, and by—’
‘Ah!’ said Mr Odgers, pouncing. ‘Ah! There you have it. You elevate this man, this renegade preacher, and claim an authority for him that overrides the authority of the Anglican church! This is just what I say: you claim to be independent of truly consecrated governance! When you come to church—’
‘Ere,’ said Sam, getting warm himself. ‘Sur,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘And what do we find when we d’come church, now? Eh? Tis more like a market place’n a house of God. Folk chattering ’bout the price of tin. Folk saying eggs is going to be scarce come winter. Little childer active like twas a bear garden. Womenfolk gossiping, menfolk bawling crost the aisle. Tis no decent or seemly way to behave. Tis as if Satan have crept into the holy place and made it his own!’
‘Satan has indeed crept in!’ declared Mr Odgers. ‘But not in those who dutifully accept the teachings of the English church. It is in persons such as yourself who seek to overthrow due authority both in the church and in the nation! There is little to choose between rebellious sects such as yours with your independent classes and your love feasts and your presumption of – of religious enlightenment and those Jacobin clubs which teach the ignorant rabble first equality and impertinence and disrespect for their superiors and then vile revolution which in the end denies Christ and brings all humanity down to the level of the gutter and the sewer!’
The argument continued for a time, each getting more heated but less coherent, until Odgers stalked out of the house slamming the door behind him. Perhaps Sam did not improve things by reopening the door and offering to help Mr Odgers climb on his borrowed horse, help which was first angrily refused and then as angrily accepted. As the horse turned for home with Mr Odgers only half in control of it, Sam said: ‘I shall pray for ee, sur, every day of my life!’ Then he stood in the rain, hands on hips, until the little man disappeared over the hill. His face had been hot and angry, but as it cooled the lines relaxed and he smiled at his tensed hands and relaxed them too. It was not the way to behave for someone who had found Salv
ation.
Odgers had ended by forbidding them the church. Sam did not know the law but he doubted whether anyone could legally do this. There had been similar trouble once over at Illuggan. But it would be hard to continue to worship at a church in face of such hostility on the part of the parson. It could of course be done. It was the privilege of the follower of Christ to face persecution. But the parson’s name and authority still stood for something in the eyes of many of his flock, and some would not like to go and defy him. That meant St Ermyn’s at Marasanvose. You could not miss church altogether.
Drake, he knew, would be upset. Drake, for some reason, always specially looked forward to his visits to Sawle Church and disliked St Ermyn’s. Sam shrugged. Well, there would be a prayer meeting tomorrow night. No doubt the older members of his group would have something to say.
Chapter Eight
Ross saw Henshawe almost every day, but it was two months before he brought up the gossip about Wheal Leisure of which Harris Pascoe had told him in June. By now rumours were rife in the neighbourhood but so far Henshawe had not said anything.
Mid-August was three months since the last ‘setting day’ at Wheal Grace; that was when the tributers had last bargained for pitches in the mine, agreeing to raise ore to the surface by their own labours and at their own expense – saving only overhead costs such as pumping water, etc. – in return for a proportion of the value of the ore raised. This in some mines was held as a quarterly or two monthly auction, so that the miners could bid against each other; but Ross did not like this for it often led to bad blood among the miners themselves, two men with a specially profitable pitch being subject to the undercutting bids of their neighbours. Setting for the next three months was therefore conducted between Ross and Henshawe and the men concerned quietly and peaceably over a table, others being called in only if the men in possession could not come to an agreement with the owner and captain. In fact, there were no disputes this time. Most of the tributers had worked on a 12s 6d in the £ share until Christmas and had made a fat killing with the mine becoming profitable from October. Since then there had been three setting days, and twice the miners’ profit percentage had been reduced, as was the custom, so that now the bargains struck ranged from 4s 6d to 6s 6d in the £. Henshawe was for pressing for a further reduction but Ross said no, let them take their profits. He was doing handsomely, and there was no reason why the tributers should not also do well. Besides, in an area where there was so much distress, even a few people with good money in their pockets spread their prosperity abroad.
The Black Moon Page 10