Warleggan

by Winston Graham

  At the top of the hill he spurred his horse away from Killewarren, away – for the moment – from Bath and elopement and his love and his new life. Left shoulder heavily throbbing, though no bones broken; blood from the scratches on his neck drying down the front of his shirt.

  Had there been more time he might have gone back for Jacka Hoblyn. He would have been quick enough in such an emergency; they might have put out in a boat to warn the cutter. But time would have run out before anything was begun. Even now perhaps too late.

  In Grambler two lights, but the same objection: by the time anyone was roused. The full responsibility was on his own shoulders.

  The officer he had seen in Truro; the two horsemen who had drawn silently off the track tonight to let him and Parthesia go by. This was no ordinary ambush; he had read as much in Charlie’s eyes; the grand betrayal; perhaps Charlie had decided that after his marriage he would give up the dangerous game. Imprisonment or transportation for a dozen men, worse if there was resistance; imprisonment and ruin for Ross.

  The night was dark enough to make quick movement dangerous; when he reached the ruins of Wheal Maiden, he slid off his horse, tethered it inside the broken wall. Then he went down the valley, haste and caution warring.

  All the way he saw no one. A couple of lights over at the mine. The ground was dry underfoot and hard with frost; impossible to tell how many others might have passed this way before him. A light in the parlour window of Nampara. By now, no doubt, Demelza knew to expect Ross back tonight.

  On the way down plans had been forming. The Nampara household could help. When every second counted . . .

  Perhaps the silence of the valley made him suspicious, or the obvious light so late. He went to the front door and lifted a hand to rap, then lowered it and moved round the great lilac bush across the flower bed to the lighted window. Curtains were drawn, but there was a chink. He peered in. On the table a grey busby.

  A stiff and curious tableau. The big soldier by the door in his red coat and gold-braided trousers, stolid, glassily staring; John and Jane Gimlett, on chair edge, strained, uncomfortable; and Demelza by the fire. Tonight, rather than the beauty in her face, you saw the strong bones underlying it. Normally they were imperceptible; it was as if she had ceased to be man or woman and become something common to both. The knuckles of her hands were white.

  Dwight thought he heard a movement behind him, sharply straightened up, but it was only some stirring of the light breeze.

  So what he had to do must be done himself. Round the house; a light burning in the kitchen window. He picked a way across the cobbled yard between the stone sheds. The curtains of this window not drawn; the room empty. He tried the latch and the door opened. Warmth and kitchen smells. An iron upended on the table and a cat asleep in a basket before a dying fire. A kitten, lying almost in the cinders, mewed and stretched at sight of him. The solitary candle near its end.

  He saw what he wanted just inside the door, a small lantern used for carrying out of doors. As he took it down, Garrick began to bark. In haste, fumble with the shutter which had jammed. He could not leave and do it outside, for then he had no means of lighting the candle. As he pulled at the catch, he thought he heard a movement in the parlour. He stepped quickly behind the door, but there were no footsteps. Garrick stopped barking, and as silence fell the catch moved and the shutter came open. Move to the stub of candle and light the lantern from it. On a trivet on the fire a pan with some potatoes had boiled dry. The kitten was lying on its back near his boot waiting for a friendly hand to bite. He closed the shutter, slid out of the house. The latch of the door clicked.

  Greater haste now across the yard, with Garrick barking again, over the stile at the back. Cloak covering the lantern, run towards the Long Field. This field occupied all that was cultivable of the headland which separated Hendrawna Beach from Nampara Cove. It reached up as far as where the outcroppings of rock and the gorse and bracken began. Over its newly ploughed surface he stumbled, climbing till he could see the sea on both sides. Only a thin surf whispered on the beach tonight; its irregular hem demarcated the sand. The inlet of Nampara could just be seen from here, a rift in the mounting cliffs towards Sawle.

  He had gone a few yards more when he saw a man standing beside a boulder, silhouetted against the low stars. Dwight’s lantern could not have been entirely hidden, and only that the man was staring out to sea saved him. Back inch by inch, slowly pivoting until the boulder was between them. Exertion or tension had made him sweat again, but now it was welcome, warming his body to the night. Crouching low he skirted the sentry, going round the north side of Damsel Point until he was near the edge of the cliff. There he lowered his lantern behind a low stone wall and peered down into the darkness of the cove.

  At first he saw nothing; and then, dawning on his eyes at no definite moment, he knew the ship was there. Something unnatural in the sea, low and black, unlike a rock even if a rock could be there. Straining, he could suddenly detect even the single mast and – for a second only – a glimmer of light aboard.

  No light ashore. The cove, the centre of the cove, where sand and shingle met the stream, was empty. In the darker corners there might be men and beasts waiting; but so far as one could tell, nothing breathed or stirred under the frosty sky.

  He lugged out his watch and peered at it like a blind man, then knelt beside the lantern to see. Ten minutes after twelve. The run had not yet begun.

  In despairing haste he swung round, staring at the land about him. The other side of the wall was as good a place as any.

  He wrenched out his pocket knife, opened it, and went back a few yards to the nearest gorse bush. Gorse is a nightmare of prickles but is brittle to the boot or the sharp twist. Part with knife, part with hands he tore a big piece off, dropped it over the wall. Then the next one. He could afford no time to build a stock. The thing must be fed while it was burning.

  So he hacked a dozen bushes, dry stuff and highly inflammable. Together a fair pile to begin. Abandoning secrecy, he uncovered the lantern and climbed over the wall. Taking out the single candle, carefully shielding it from the air, he held it under the lowest part of the pile.

  For a grievous space he thought the light would blow out; then a flame ran suddenly like quicksilver among the gorse, and in a moment the pile was blazing and crackling.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ross had borne the trip home with impatience. The eagerness and anticipation of the outward voyage was all gone, and once he was in sight of Cornwall he wanted to land at once instead of tacking about just over the horizon for twelve hours.

  Not that there was anything useful to do when he reached Nampara, nor any good news to impart. The pricked bubble of his hopes had left nothing in its place; all he wanted was to get home, to turn his back on mining for ever, and to forget what he had thrown away.

  For the first time in his life he began to feel old. Often these last years he had known himself a failure, but always within him there had been a fundamental conviction that this was a temporary phase, a ‘down’ which in the nature of events must be followed by an ‘up’. At least a part of this conviction had derived from a knowledge of his own youth and vigour. His meeting with Mark Daniel had shaken that belief.

  His realisation again of the façade of mining expectations he had erected on the chance words of this man, uttered four years ago, shook his confidence in himself and in his own judgment. He bitterly blamed himself for his rash overconfidence, for an enthusiasm which in the light of experience looked wanton and silly. He had thrown away a profitable investment in a mine of his own starting and had poured everything he had, and persuaded Francis to do likewise, into a played-out mine which had failed his father a quarter of a century ago. Not only had he gambled with money, he had gambled with security and the security and happiness of his wife and child.

  Mark’s appearance had upset him. There had been a close tie between them in the old days; they had played together as boys, fished and w
restled as youths. This ageing man, grey-haired and puckering his eyes at the map . . . Was he, Ross, as untouched by time as he imagined? Was he deluding himself into believing that youth was still on his side? How many other misconceptions had his sanguine brain given room to?

  He was not in his most companionable mood, and after a few attempts Farrell and the rest of the crew gave up the effort of engaging him in conversation. After nightfall the cutter edged her way slowly inshore until by eleven-thirty she came to anchor not a cable’s length from the mouth of Nampara Cove. The flat-bottomed longboat was lowered, and Farrell readily agreed with Ross’s suggestion that he should go ashore with the first cargo. But Farrell would make no move to have any cargo shifted until the signal came from the shore.

  It came at ten minutes to twelve, a single dark-lantern at the sea’s edge, shining only seawards, and exposed for half a minute. Farrell gave his orders, and the barrels were lowered into the longboat.

  A mixed bag, as Ross had realized when he looked at the cargo on the way home, but an immensely valuable one. No wonder Trencrom did not need to make runs more than a few times a year. Tea and tobacco and five-gallon casks of brandy and Geneva; and a good quantity of rich materials; gold and silver brocade, silk gloves, ribbons, and girdles.

  The spirits made up the larger amount of the cargo and these were loaded first. It was for the most part white brandy, with a tub of colouring mixture supplied. Its strength was 120° above proof; and in his own time Mr Trencrom would dilute his import before selling it, making three tubs to sell for every one that came ashore. He paid four shillings a gallon in France, and the price in England duty paid was twenty-eight shillings. Even sold at half that price, the degree of profit escaped Ross, since there were some four hundred tubs of brandy alone aboard tonight; but he thought he would have less compunction than ever in levying his toll for the use of his land.

  The boat was so filled that the gunwale was only an inch or two above the water, and Ross settled in the bows as the six oarsmen began quietly to row ashore.

  For a little while there was no sound but the liquid dip of oars and the lap and bobble of water as it ran against the boat. The arms of the cove closed round them and shut out the great sounding emptiness of the sea. Instead, close at hand was the whisper of the surf, for once innocuous and sibilant. Inshore the stars were not as bright as they had been at sea: a faint haze had crept across them too tenuous for cloud. Presently the boat lifted and fell and grated on sand, and two of the men jumped out and held fast to prevent the run back. Out of the darkness around them four figures instantly came, two to help pull the boat more firmly ashore, two to wade into the surf to begin the unloading.

  Ross stepped upon the wet sand. A new wave licked his boots as he walked inshore. He recognized Ted Carkeek and Ned Bottrell, and after a moment Paul Daniel loomed out of the darkness.

  ‘All right, sur? Did ee find Brother?’

  ‘Yes, I found him . . .’

  ‘Was ’e well? Did ’e give a message?’

  ‘There’s a message for you and for Beth and for his father. Tomorrow morning I’ll come round and see you.’

  ‘And did ’e help? Where was the good country?’

  ‘I’ll talk of it tomorrow, Paul.’

  Behind them there was scarcely any talk at all, just a rapid businesslike unloading the first barrels. Often it was different from this; often they had to fight the surf and float in the tubs as best they could. Ross moved on, and Will Nanfan came towards him leading a mule. Knowing he would have some of the same questions to answer again, Ross prepared to make an excuse and pass quickly by. But the excuse was never made. Behind him came a sharp exclamation from one of the men. Ross saw someone staring, and at once a reflection of light showed on the beach. A bonfire was leaping and smoking on Damsel Point.

  Events moved more quickly than the mind accepted them. Muttered curses from the men around him, a clear shout from a voice not belonging, and then a shrilling whistle. Suddenly in the flickering light extra figures were climbing down the sides of the cove; then lantern lights, not shaded.

  A surprise – gaugers – the long-expected – but this night of all nights . . . Ross swung round, saw confusion about the longboat. He ran back.

  ‘Quick! Relaunch! Get out there and tip the tubs . . .’ He flung his weight against the side of the boat; two or three others joined him. The boat slithered and grated. Two figures in it began heaving out the tubs together. Figures racing, strangers in flat caps, and some in tall. Nanfan had gone plunging away with his mule. A wave came and swirled around their knees; the boat floated but was being washed farther up the beach. ‘Hold her! Steady! Give way!’

  One of the men had gone down in the sea, his feet from under him, but two others joined. They held their ground, and as the wave slid back the longboat went with it. A musket exploded somewhere. One man jumped on the boat, then another. Ross followed until almost waist-deep. Oars were out, anyhow, but just enough to keep her straight. A man stood in the bows, held out his hand to Ross. Ross made a move to jump, then changed his mind. To be aboard again, isolated, perhaps tacking up and down for a week; he’d take his chance.

  He turned, saw the place alive with men – the way up the track blocked with mules – confusion and men fighting, laying about them with sticks. As he ploughed his way out of the water a tall man in a busby: ‘Halt, there! In the King’s name!’ Ross veered sharply. ‘Halt or I fire!’ Turned again and ducked. The musket exploded in his ear as he knocked the man flat in the water.

  Nothing he could do. Another shot, and then another. He ran left towards the cave where he kept his boat. An easy climb from there. Someone lurched at him out of the shadow – this time evasion came too late. He went down, the other on top. ‘Got you, now! Lie still, you bastard, or I’ll— One over here, Bell!’ Bearded. Vercoe. Ross doubled and sharply stiffened. Vercoe toppled, still clutching. They rolled, Vercoe under. Running steps. Twice he hit the Customs Officer, wriggled free, rolled over as the footsteps came up. Vercoe shouted: ‘Not me, you fool! Over there – he’s just gone!’

  Ross at the cliff face turned as the newcomer caught him – the hard wooden stick of the gauger. They grappled. The stick clattered. A lucky swing with all his weight. The gauger fell in Vercoe’s path.

  As he climbed, Ross heard them following. In the cove a small war. Lights dancing. Untended, the gorse fire had waned. Climbing with all the knowledge of childhood, he pulled away. But a musket ball smacked into the rock beside him. Someone on the cliff taking careful aim. He reached the top, breaths gulping, crawled around the gorse, made diagonally for the first wall of his own land. He sucked the blood off his knuckles and spat. The two gaugers reached the top; lovely target if one had a gun. So the trooper must have thought, for the two men suddenly checked and Vercoe’s voice bellowed an order across the cliff. It gave time for Ross to leap over the wall and begin to run doubled along the other side.

  Demelza’s sharp ears had caught the first distant crack of a musket, and she could stand it no longer. She started to her feet and was halfway to the door before the soldier was able to move.

  ‘’Ere, no, ma’am! None o’ that! You heard what the Captain said.’

  ‘I have a little boy upstairs! He will be frightened. I must bring him down!’

  ‘No, ma’am. Cap’n McNeil said ye was to stay here in this room.’

  ‘Please let me pass!’ she said furiously.

  ‘Now calm you down, ma’am. I has my orders and—’

  ‘I’ll not calm down! You don’t make war on babies, do you? Get out of my way!’

  He hesitated, glanced at the Gimletts. ‘Is there a baby?’

  ‘Course there is!’ John Gimlett snapped.

  The trooper turned to the drawn-faced young woman before him: ‘I don’t hear nothing. Which room is ’e in?’

  ‘The one at the head of the stairs!’

  He rubbed his finger along his chin and slowly drew back. ‘I’ll watch for ye, then
. Have a care there’s no trickery, ma’am.’

  He followed her out into the hall and stood almost in the doorway where he could see into the room and also up the stairs. Demelza flew up the stairs and into their bedroom. Unaware of the dangers that pressed upon his parents, Jeremy slept peacefully.

  This room had dormer windows looking both north and south. Demelza ran to the first of these, peered out. At first the night looked quiet and still, but then she detected the flicker of the bonfire on Damsel Point. She opened the casement window. From here the roof sloped sharply to the recently added guttering. But at the end, over the kitchen, it joined to the thatched end of the linhay where the carts were kept.

  She wriggled her body through the small window and out on to the roof. Then she crawled along it like a cat to the end and slid off it into the thatch. She followed this to the lowest part, where there was a five-foot drop, and jumped.

  She landed on all fours, tearing her skirt and bruising wrist and knee. Then she was on her feet and running towards the Long Field.

  Breathless, she had just reached the stile when a figure climbed it. She had no difficulty in recognizing the set of his shoulders, the long lean head. They stared at each other in the dark.

  ‘Demelza!’

  ‘Ross! I thought you was killed . . . Thank God you’re safe! I thought—’

  ‘Not safe,’ he said. ‘Followed. Which way is best into the house?’

  ‘Neither. There’s a soldier there. I said you was in St Ives. Are you hurt?’

  ‘Nothing.’ While they spoke, they were walking rapidly the way she had come, he behind her in case of a shot. ‘I think I was – recognized. Not sure. Is the – upper valley guarded?’

  ‘Don’t know. I’ve been crazed with worry. You could go towards Mellin.’

  ‘They’ll send that way—’ At the entrance to their yard he stopped, listening. The yard was quiet except for a scratching at a stable door where Garrick was waiting to welcome him. ‘They’re coming – down the field now. Are you safe here? They offer you no hurt?’