Warleggan

by Winston Graham

  ‘No, none, of course. But you—’

  ‘Go in then. I’ll hide in the library – in the cache. Safe enough there.’

  ‘You can’t get . . .’

  ‘Yes – round the side. I have the key.’

  ‘But is it safe? . . .’

  ‘Must risk it.’

  In a moment he had disappeared from her side. She heard the running footsteps. She hastily slipped back into the house – stumbled through the dark kitchen and into the hall. The soldier swung his musket on her, surprised and then angry.

  ‘Where’ve ye been? How did ye get down?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘By the back stairs.’

  He said: ‘What back stairs? Ye never told me! Why did ye—’

  ‘Well, I’m back! Is that not enough!’

  The soldier too heard the running feet on the cobbles and again lifted his musket. Vercoe and his assistant Bell burst in on them.

  ‘Put your musket down, man!’ Vercoe said in a quarterdeck voice. He was blazing with anger. ‘One of your kind has took pot shots at us already!’ He turned to Demelza. ‘Where is Captain Poldark, ma’am?’

  ‘In St Ives, I believe.’

  ‘Then you believe wrong! I was wrestling with him on the beach not ten minutes gone. Has he come in here, trooper?’

  ‘Nay. No one’s come in here but you.’

  ‘We last seen him making this way. He’ll be somewhere about the house, never doubt!’

  ‘You’ve no right to come breaking in here!’ Demelza protested, finding relief in anger. ‘What right have you to trespass on our property? My husband will hear of this! Why, if—’

  ‘He surely will! And soon, I trust—’

  ‘How do you know ’twas him? Is it daylight outside? Did you speak him by name? Of course not! I tell you he’s from home and—’

  ‘Look ee, ma’am,’ said Vercoe, controlling his anger. ‘’Twas Captain Poldark I seen on the beach or his brother an’ twin. I’ll beg your pardon if I’ve the need to, but I don’t suppose it likely . . . An’ what’s that blood on your gown?’

  ‘Blood?’ she said, looking at the smear. Her stomach twisted. So Ross was hurt. ‘It came from my wrist. I grazed it against the wall just now. See—’

  Vercoe made an impatient gesture. ‘You’ll give us permission to search the house?’

  ‘If I did not give it, you would take it.’

  ‘Well, mebbe. The law must be served. Will you please go in the parlour with the servants.’

  ‘No I surely will not! You may force yourself into the house, but you may not order me about. I shall come with you!’

  Before Vercoe could argue about it, there was the sound of more footsteps in the kitchen and another trooper appeared. With him, half dragged and half led, was Dwight Enys, a bloodstained rag about his head. The soldier had caught him in the process of feeding the bonfire, and had knocked him out.

  In the cove the pitched battle in the dark had died down. Seven of the smugglers had been captured, of whom two were wounded and one killed. A soldier and an excise man had been wounded. But owing to the premature alarm, the others had escaped. What was worse, the cutter had been able to weigh anchor and haul off from the lee of the land before the government cutter, standing rapidly in from the north-east, had been able to head her off. Shots had been exchanged, but the One and All, built in Mevagissey especially for the Trade, had run clean away from the government ship.

  The smuggler killed was Ted Carkeek. He left a widow of twenty-one and two young children. The soldier wounded was Captain McNeil. Someone had shot him in the shoulder. An inch or so lower, and he would have companioned Ted.

  He was almost the last to reach Nampara House, where by orders his men had forgathered with their prisoners. He came into the parlour holding a rough pad to his shoulder. The parlour was already part hospital, with Dwight, paper-coloured from loss of blood, trying to help those who were worse off than himself. As McNeil surveyed the scene and exchanged a word with his corporal, Vercoe and Bell and Demelza came down the stairs.

  ‘Well?’

  Vercoe shook his head. ‘No, sur. Captain Poldark’s not here, though I’ll swear he was on the beach!’

  ‘I’ve still three men posted: they may bring him in. You’ve tried the cellars?’

  ‘Yes, they’re empty.’

  ‘No contraband?’

  ‘None.’

  McNeil met the angry flash of Demelza’s eyes. ‘Ross is in St Ives,’ she said. ‘I’ve told these men. And I told you.’

  ‘I should be happy to believe you.’

  ‘You’re wounded,’ she said. ‘Your coat – all that blood . . . I’ll get Dr Enys.’

  ‘When my work is done.’ He turned to Vercoe. ‘We must comb the cottages round. You’ve examined the outhouses of this place, the stables, the library?’

  ‘The stables. Not the library. ’Twas locked. I left that till you came.’

  ‘We’ll go now, then.’

  Demelza felt as if this time her face must betray everything.

  ‘The library?’ she said, when they turned to her. ‘I – have the key somewhere . . . But your wound, Captain McNeil.’

  ‘Will keep a little while. It is not the first time I have been blooded.’

  They went through into Joshua’s old bedroom, Vercoe and McNeil, and Bell carrying a lantern. With fumbling fingers Demelza unlocked the door to the library and went in. The long shabby room showed up, never used for its named purpose, full of mining samples and boxes of lumber and two desks and an iron safe. As soon as the lantern followed her in, she knew he had come as he said he would. The metal trunks which normally stood above the trap door had been moved.

  She stood against the door, not able to trust her legs. while the men went round the room. Vercoe carried a musket belonging to one of the troopers. He looked like a hunter after game. And the game was gone to earth.

  First they examined the things in the room itself, opening the desks and the boxes, looking for contraband. After a moment or two she followed them halfway, watching them from the centre of the room. Then quite close to her she saw a spot of blood. It was tiny and already drying. She moved a little and put her foot on it, rubbed it into the boards.

  But she might have known it was no use. Something in Vercoe’s words or the way he spoke them had forewarned her that this was to be no ordinary search. They began to examine the floor.

  So the informer had done his work.

  They had come to the metal trunks, and Vercoe had seen the joins in the floor boards. He knelt by them and motioned Bell to bring forward the lantern. Demelza said: ‘I want you—’

  Malcolm McNeil straightened up and looked at the girl who had come up behind him. He said: ‘I think you would do well to leave us.’

  She shook her head, not trusting her voice any more. He gazed at her a second longer, and then made a gesture for the two gaugers to continue.

  Vercoe had found a spade and was forcing it into the narrow nick of the floor boards. With a squeal of strained wood they began to come up, for they were being lifted from the wrong side. After a minute he got his hand under the lifted boards, and Bell, putting the lantern down, knelt to help him. The trap door came up and the cache was open. McNeil took a step forward.

  From where Demelza stood she could not see in. The room was humming and drumming about her ears. Rectangles of wall and roof began to dissolve into the uncertain geometries of faintness and nausea. All three men were around the hole, like jackals about a fallen beast, like hounds at the kill. For a few seconds they were involved in the general unreason of failing eyesight, of distortion and instability. Then she put out a hand and with a great effort steadied herself against a chair.

  She did not know who would speak first, whether it would be Ross or one of his captors; but in fact it was McNeil, and all he said was: ‘Well . . .’ and made a gesture to Vercoe. Vercoe grunted.

  Then no one spoke again and no one stirred. At last she forced her l
imbs to move. She looked down.

  The cache was empty.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At three o’clock the following afternoon, having been granted his freedom on recognizances of £20, Dwight rode in at the gates of Killewarren. If there had been need for subterfuge before, the time for it was over.

  For a while he could get no answer either to his rings or his knocks; but eventually the door was opened by the footman Thomas who had often shown him in before. He raised his eyebrows at sight of Dwight’s bandaged head and bruised face.

  ‘I’ve called to see Miss Caroline Penvenen.’

  ‘She’s gone, sir. This forenoon with her uncle.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘They’ve left for London. House be closed, sir, except for the servants. I don’t know when they be coming back. A month may be.’

  Dwight was unable to think what to say. ‘What time did they go?’

  ‘Just after ten. They was both anxious to be off, so they decided to dine on the way.’

  ‘Was any message left, do you know? I had expected one.’

  The man stared at him doubtfully. ‘Not as I know. But I’ll ask the housekeeper if you’ll step inside.’

  ‘I’ll wait here.’

  The man was gone several minutes and then brought back a sealed letter. ‘Miss Penvenen gived this to the housekeeper, just as she was leaving. No address. Just Dr Enys. I suppose she knew you’d call, sir.’

  Dwight turned away from the house and, ignoring the man’s talk, stood by his horse fumbling with the seal.

  The letter was dated: ‘9 a.m. Sunday, the third of February, 1793.’

  Dear Dwight,

  I am leaving with my uncle for London within the hour, a move which cannot surprise you after the fiasco of last night. Need I tell you of it? Your servant will already have given his account.

  I waited. Oh yes, I waited like a dutiful Bride, you will have been gratified to know, for nearly two hours, while my coachman and my maid yawned their heads off – and no doubt snickered behind their hands and your servant made so many excuses that I wondered at his invention.

  But at the beginning he had told me all it was really necessary to know.

  It is for the best this way, Dwight. Certainly far better that it should have happened now than later. I have known of your unhappiness for more than a month. Ever since we agreed to elope I have seen the struggle going on, the fight between your infatuation for me and your real love, which is your work in Sawle and Grambler. Well, your real love has won, and won so triumphantly – on the very day when I might most have expected to occupy your mind – that I am quite put to Rout.

  Now you need not worry about it any more: you need give up nothing but me, and that you have already done. Perhaps it is for the best in more ways than one. We know so small a part of each other, I of you and you of me. No doubt we should have learned more in Bath, and then it would have been a little late.

  So this is goodbye, Dwight. Do not fear I shall come to Cornwall to disturb you again. Not by two hundred miles. Thank you for the lessons you have taught me. They at least will not be forgotten by

  Your sincere friend,

  Caroline Penvenen

  At five o’clock that afternoon, just before the first dusk, six men waited on Charlie Kempthorne in his cottage at the head of Sawle Combe. Their faces were as grim as their mission merited; but they found no one to welcome them. Charlie Kempthorne had gone, taking with him his easy smile and his cough, and a bag of silver he had saved and hidden under the floor. He had also taken his wedding clothes, which he had been making himself, and his Bible and such of his more recent purchases, like the cups and saucers and the mirror, as he could carry.

  All he left was Lottie and May crouching terrified in a corner of the room upstairs. When they could be persuaded to speak, they said their father had given them a silver piece each and had gone at daylight, warning them not to stir out of doors for fear of their lives. They did not know where he had gone. Frustrated and angry, some of the men wanted to burn the cottage and beat the children; but moderate views prevailed, and word was sent to St Ann’s to the aunt of the little girls to come and claim them quickly.

  Charlie also left behind his wife-to-be. Dwight’s interference had broken two romances. Rosina, at first incredulous, presently found in her memory small factual proofs. She had never really loved Charlie, but after a while she had responded gratefully to his admiration and attentions. It needed an emotional somersault now to realise and to condemn; for a while it was more than she was capable of and she went about in a daze, knowing hurt but not hate, answering the questions put to her flatly and without interest. Only occasionally a spark of anger showed when someone’s question seemed to suggest that her own innocence could not be as complete as it seemed.

  The six men who had called on Charlie did not give up their efforts at the sight of an empty cottage. They believed he would not move very fast or be able to travel without leaving a trail. News travels far in country districts, and the informer is the most hated of men. They thought they might catch up with him yet.

  At seven o’clock that evening Ross came out of the cache where he had been hiding without food or water for eighteen hours – and in air that no one unused to the bad air of mines would have been able to tolerate for a quarter of the time. He had forced himself to wait until full dark, knowing that other men could be as patient as he. When he climbed up into the library, his eyes – so long accustomed to darkness – were able to pick out the window, the articles of furniture, and the door into the garden. He tried this, expecting it to be locked; but it was not and he stepped into the fresh air. There were lights in the house, but before he would approach it he made a cautious detour of the outbuildings and the surrounding garden and stream. Then he approached the house and looked in at each of the lighted windows. All the troopers had gone.

  So at last he went in to Demelza, who for eighteen hours had been wondering what had become of him and had been imagining that the blood from his knuckles had been escaping from some untended artery.

  The cache, having been dug to Mr Trencrom’s specifications, had a false side moving on a central swivel, with a secondary and larger cache beyond. It was a not uncommon device among the more intelligent of the smuggling fraternity of Cornwall, but it was one that seldom failed to deceive.

  The men who had done this job, being all miners except for one farmer and one carpenter, had completed the work with exceptional thoroughness and skill. They had made the second cache large enough to conceal a considerable amount of contraband, but Ross had not supposed when he watched it done that it would ever be used to conceal himself.

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter One

  Dwight’s intervention, if it had not done everything that was intended, had saved Mr Trencrom’s cargo. The One and All put back to the Scillies for two weeks and later landed her goods in three separate lots at different points along the coast. It had also saved Ross, for Mr Trencrom looked after his friends. Those who had been caught on the spot he could do nothing to help, but those who were luckier received his able support. Ross was informed that when the case of Black Saturday came up at the Quarter Sessions at the end of the month, a farmer and his son from Gwithian would be produced who would swear that Captain Poldark had spent the night of the second of February at their farm.

  A week or so after the fight a surgeon called Wright came to stay with Dr Enys and helped him on some of his cases. A few days afterwards Dr Enys left for London.

  Later Dwight was sorry that he had been so precipitate, that he had not waited until after the sessions, but at the time he felt he could delay no longer. He had bribed Caroline’s London address out of Thomas and had written twice giving her on each occasion – lest one letter should go astray – his full account of the adventures of the night and his reasons for acting as he did. Knowing her to be fundamentally reasonable, he had expected that her letter of farewell – written in understandable heat
and haste – would sooner or later be retracted and that they could eventually make new plans. He had hung on day after day and had said each night, I’ll wait until tomorrow, and then at last had dropped everything and gone.

  So in the event, with a journey of five days each way and the sessions compelling his return, he was left with only one day in London to make his apologies and bring about a reconciliation.

  It was enough had Caroline been half willing. They were staying with Mr Penvenen’s sister Sarah, and Dwight called twice and twice was refused admittance. Then in the evening, reasoning that her uncle was likely to be behind the refusal, he called a third time, knowing her in, and tipped a footman to take up a private note to her. He waited impatiently until the footman returned with a reply which ran:

  Dear Dwight,

  Yes, I received your letters. I am glad that the choice you made was of salve to Ross Poldark and the other smugglers. But the choice – your choice – was made before ever you knew this man was an informer. So it cannot affect mine. Do you not see that? I am very, very sorry. It is better for us both that it should be so.

  Caroline

  Early the following morning he made a final effort to see her, but it was useless and so he came home.

  While the Quarter Sessions were pending, the coastal district of Sawle and St Ann’s had more urgent and imminent things to concern it than the new war with France. The bench of magistrates, it was known, had been chosen to represent impartiality, but many considered it had been chosen for its partiality for the letter of the law. Its chairman was the Revd Dr Halse, who had always been known for his severity on the bench, and it was not long before the free traders caught were summarily tried and convicted. Four of them received twelve months’ imprisonment and two, Ned Bottrell and a man from St Ann’s, were sentenced to transportation for ten years. These were savage sentences for Cornwall, where smugglers even when they were convicted usually got off light, and feeling was high by the time Dwight Enys came before the bench.