Demelza

by Winston Graham

  “The keys,” said Ross. “Come with us or we’ll go ourselves.”

  The jailer wiped his arm across his nose. “Where’s your authority? Ye must have authority—”

  Ross took him by the collar. “We have authority. Get the keys.”

  In about ten minutes a procession started through the cobbled alleys toward the summit of the hill, the ragged jailer in the lead carrying four great keys on a ring. Faces watched them go.

  As they climbed above the town the sunset flared and the sun dipped and was gone.

  The cowherd had driven in his cows and the ruin looked shadowy and silent. They reached the iron gate and passed through it under the stone arch, the jailer leading the way with slowing steps toward a moderate-size square building in the center of the green.

  The man’s lagging footsteps came to a stop. “It be overlate to enter in. Ye maun show me the authority. There’s fever in plenty. Yesterday one of ’em died. I’m not sure which ’twas. My mate—”

  “How long since you were here yourself?”

  “Nay, but the day before. I would ha’ been over today, but for me mother an’ ’er bein’ ill. I sent over the food. Ye maun show yer authority—”

  There was a sudden burst of cries, growing in tone and number, animal not human, barks and moans and grunts, not words. The prisoners had heard them.

  “There,” said the jailer, as Ross drew back. “Ye see. ’Twould be unfit fur self-respectin’ gents to go nearer. There be fever—”

  But Ross had moved back to look for a window and saw one set high in the wall on his right. The building was two-storied, and the window was to provide some light and ventilation for the dungeons on the first floor. It was not three feet long and less than eighteen inches high, being set with thick bars. The cries and shouts came from there but echoed hollow, and it was clear that the window was out of reach of the inmates.

  “Open the door, man,” Ross said. “Here, give me the keys!”

  “Not that way!” said the jailer. “It ain’t been opened that way since they was put in. Come you up to the chapel above and I’ll open the trap door where the food goes down. Tes a danger for fever, even that, I tell ’ee. If ye’ve a mind—”

  Dwight said, “It will be dark in ten minutes. We have no time to lose if we wish to see him today.”

  “See here,” said Ross to the jailer. “This gentleman is a surgeon and to see Carter at once. Open this door or I’ll crack your head and do it myself.”

  The jailer cringed. “It be as much as me job’s worth. Damn. ’Ere, I’ll open of it… Mind, I take no blame, fever or no…”

  The great door was unlocked and opened against their pressure, groaning on rusty hinges. Inside it was quite dark, and as they entered, a terrible stench hit them. Ross was a man of his age and had traveled in rough places; Dwight was a doctor and had not neglected his duties—but it was new to them both. The jailer went outside again and hawked and spat and hawked and spat. Ross caught him by the scruff and pulled him back.

  “Is there a lantern here?”

  “Iss, I reckon. Be’ind the door.”

  Trembling, he groped among the refuse and found the lantern. Then he scratched at his tinderbox to get a spark for the candle.

  Inside the prison, after all the noise, silence had fallen. No doubt they thought more felons were to be added to their number.

  As his eyes grew used to the dark, Ross saw they were in a passage. On one side the window let in the faint glimmer of the afterglow. On the other were the cells or cages. There were only three or four, and all of them small. As the tinder rag at last caught and the candle was lit, he saw that the largest of the cages was not more than three yards square. In each of them there were about a dozen convicts. All down the cages terrible faces peered between the bars.

  “A pest spot,” said Dwight, walking down with his handkerchief to his nose. “God, what an offense to human dignity! Are there sewers, man? Or any medical attention? Or even a chimney?”

  “Look ’ee,” said the jailer by the door, “there’s sickness an’ fever. We’ll all be down ourselves afore long. Let us go out an’ come again tomorrow.”

  “In which cell is Carter?”

  “Save us, I dunno. I dunno one from t’other, s’elp me. Ye’d best find him yourself.”

  Pushing the jailer with his quavering lantern before him, Ross followed Dwight. In the last and smallest cage were a half dozen women. The cell was barely big enough for them to lie down. Filthy, emaciated, in rags, like strange devils they screeched and skirled—those of them who could stand—asking for money and bread.

  Sick and horrified, Ross went back to the men.

  “Quiet!” he shouted to the clamor that was growing again.

  Slowly it died.

  “Is Jim Carter among you?” he shouted. “Jim, are you there?”

  No answer.

  Then there was a rattle of chains and a voice said, “He is here. But in no fit state to speak for himself.”

  Ross went to the middle cage. “Where?”

  “Here.” The demons of the pit moved away from the bars, and the jailer’s lantern showed up two or three figures lying on the floor.

  “Is he—dead?”

  “No, but t’other one is. Carter is with the fever bad. And his arm…”

  “Bring him to the bars.”

  They did so, and Ross gazed on a man he would not have recognized. The face, wasted and with a long straggling black beard, was covered with a blotchy red rash. Every now and then Jim stirred and muttered and spoke to himself in his delirium.

  “It is the petechial type,” Enys muttered. “It looks to be past its height. How long has he been ill?”

  “I don’t know,” said the other convict. “We lose count of days, as you will understand. Perhaps a week.”

  “What is wrong with his arm?” Enys said sharply.

  “We tried to check the fever by letting blood,” said the convict. “Unhappily the arm has festered.”

  Dwight looked at the delirious man a long moment, then stared at the speaker.

  “What are you in this place for?”

  “Oh,” said the other. “I do not think my case can interest you, though at a happier meeting I might entertain you for an idle hour. When one has not the benefit of a patrimony, one is sometimes forced to eke out one’s livelihood by means that your profession, sir, prefers to keep in its own ranks. Natural that—”

  Ross had stood up. “Open this door.”

  “What?” said the jailer. “What for?”

  “I am taking this man away. He needs medical attention.”

  “Aye, but he be servin’ a sentence, an’ nothing—”

  “Damn you!” Ross’s mounting anger had bubbled over. “Open this door!”

  The jailer backed against the cage, looked around for a way of escape, found none, and his eyes again met those of the man confronting him. He turned, fumbled with the great keys, unlocked the door in haste, stood back sweating.

  “Bring him out,” said Ross.

  Dwight and the jailer went in, their feet slipping over ordure on the damp earth floor. Happily Jim was not one of those chained to another prisoner. They picked him up and carried him out of the cage and out of the prison, Ross following. On the sweet grass outside they laid him down, and the jailer went stumbling back to lock the doors.

  Dwight mopped his forehead.

  “What now?”

  Ross stared down at the wreck of a human being stirring in the half dark at their feet. He took great breaths of the beautiful fresh evening air, which was blowing like the bounty of God over from the sea.

  “What chance is there for him, Dwight?”

  Dwight spat and spat. “He should survive the fever. But that meddling fool in there…though he did it for the best. This arm is mortifying.�
��

  “We must get him somewhere, under cover. He can’t survive the night out here.”

  “Well, they will not have him at the White Hart. As well ask them to house a leper.”

  The jailer had locked up his prison again and was standing by the door watching them with an envenomed gaze. But he was coming no nearer.

  “There must be a shed somewhere, Dwight. Or a room. All men are not inhuman.”

  “They tend to be where fever is concerned. It is self-preservation. Our only resort, I should say, is a stable somewhere. A little from the prison would be better, lest the jailer makes an early report on our doings.”

  “There may be a hospital in the town.”

  “None that would take such a patient.”

  “I’ll be all right, Jinny. They won’t catch me,” came in a husky voice from the figure at their feet.

  Ross bent down. “Give me a hand. We must get him somewhere, and at once.”

  “Avoid his breath,” said Dwight. “It will be deadly at this stage.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Jim was laughing while they undressed him. It was a peculiar cross-grained broken sound. Occasionally he would begin to talk, but it was senseless stuff, now in conversation with a prisoner, now with Nick Vigus, now with Jinny.

  They had found a store barn—some relic, from its architecture, of the early history of the town—and had taken possession, turning out the chickens and the bullock cart and the two mules before informing the farmer who owned it. Then a mixture of bribery and threats had withstood his anger. They had bought two blankets from him and two cups and some milk and some brandy. They had lit a fire at the end of the barn—the farmer had come back to shout about it, but, being terrified of the fever, had done nothing more.

  So Dwight made his examination by the light of two candles and the smoky glimmer of the fire. Ross had taken the last of Jim’s clothes and flung them outside, and he came back to find Enys gingerly touching the boy’s poisoned arm. He lifted one of the candles and looked at it himself. Then he straightened up. He had seen too many cases like it in the fighting in America.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well, I must take that arm off if he is to stand a chance, Ross.”

  “Yes,” said Ross. “And what chance is there then?”

  “Somewhat less than an even one, I should say.”

  “There is not much to commend it. He loses his arm and the poison begins again.”

  “Not of necessity.”

  Ross went to the door and looked out into the darkness. “Oh, God,” he said. “He is in too poor a shape, Dwight. Let him die in peace.”

  Dwight was silent a moment, watching the delirious man. He gave him brandy and Jim swallowed it.

  “He would feel little, I believe. I am not happy to let him go without a chance.”

  “Have you done it before?”

  “No, but it is a straightforward thing. Merely a matter of common anatomy and common precaution.”

  “What precautions can you take here? And what have you here to do it with?”

  “Oh, I could get something. The precautions are to prevent loss of blood or further poisoning. Well, a tourniquet is simple and…we have a fire and plenty of water.”

  “And the fever?”

  “Is on the wane. His pulse is slowing.”

  Ross came back and stared at the emaciated beaded figure.

  “He had a year or two of happiness with Jinny. They had that together before one thing after another went wrong. He never had health in the best of times. He will be a cripple, even if he survives. Yet I suppose we must give him the chance. I would like to wring someone’s neck for this.”

  Dwight got up. “Notice how our own clothes stink. We should do better to burn them after this.” He looked at Ross. “You can help me with the operation?”

  “Oh, I can help you. I am not likely to faint at blood. My queasiness is at this waste of a young life. I could vomit over that, and would quick enough if the magistrates were here who sent him to jail… When has it to be?”

  “As soon as we can assemble ourselves. I will go and find a barber surgeon in the town and borrow some things of him. I will also call at the White Hart and bring my own bag here.”

  Dwight picked up his hat and went out.

  Ross sat down beside Carter and filled up the cup with brandy. He intended to get as much down the sick man as possible, and he would take some himself from the other cup. The nearer they all were to being drunk the better. Enys was right. Everything stank from that visit to the prison: the boots on his feet, his gloves, his stock, even his purse. Perhaps his nostrils were wrong. Celebrations for the king’s recovery, indeed! All those preparations of the previous day and prior week seemed cut off from that night by the gulf of Launceston Jail.

  “’Ere, steady on,” Jim said and coughed loosely. “I can ’old me own, I can, and well enough.”

  Jim could hold his own. The tattered scarecrow lying on the blanket with fever in his veins and poison creeping up his arm, that bearded derelict of a young man could hold his own. No doubt, so far as he had conscious will, he would try for Jinny’s sake as he had done in the past. As he had done in the past. It was the crucial test.

  Great shadows stirred and moved on the wall behind them. In the flickering firelight, sitting among the straw and the chaff and the feathers, Ross bent and gave the boy another drink of brandy.

  • • •

  On the morning of the twenty-second Ross was still away and Demelza had spent a sleepless night. At least she thought it sleepless, although she had, in fact, spent the time in a succession of dozes and sudden wakenings, fancying she heard the beat of Darkie’s hooves outside her bedroom window. Julia had been fretful too, as if aware of her mother’s unease, though with her it was no more than a sore gum.

  Demelza wished she could have a sore gum in place of her own gnawing anxiety. As soon as light came, she was up and chose to revert to her old custom of going out with the dawn. But that day, instead of making up the valley for flowers, she walked along Hendrawna Beach with Garrick at her heels.

  There was a good deal of driftwood left by the tide, and she paused here and there to turn something over with her foot to see if it was of special value. She still sometimes had to remember that what would have been well worth the salving a few years before had become beneath her station to bother with.

  As the light grew she saw that they were changing cores at Wheal Leisure, and a few minutes later several figures came on the beach, miners who had finished their eight hours and were doing a bit of beachcombing to see what could be carried home to breakfast. The sea had not been generous of late, and every tide the beach was picked clean by the searchers. Nothing too small or too useless. Demelza knew that this winter even the snails in the fields and lanes had been gathered to make broth.

  Two or three small, wiry men passed her, touching their caps as they went, then she saw that the next was Mark Daniel, and he did not seem interested in the harvest of the tide.

  Tall and stiff, with a mining pick over his shoulder, he plowed his way across the soft sand. Their paths crossed, and he looked up as if he had not noticed her.

  She said, “Well, Mark, how are you going along? Are you comfortable-like in your new house?”

  He stopped and glanced at her and then looked stolidly out over the sea.

  “Oh, aye, ma’am. Well-a-fine. Thank ye, ma’am, for the asking.”

  She had seen very little of him since the day he had come to beg the land. He was thinner, gaunter—that was not surprising, for so was almost everyone else—but some new darkness moved at the back of his black eyes.

  She said, “The tide has left us nothing this morning, I b’lieve.”

  “Eh? No, ma’am. There are them as say we could do with a profitable wreck. Not as I’d be wishing hur
t to anyone…”

  “How is Keren, Mark? I have not seen her this month, but, to tell the truth, there is so much distress in Grambler village that makes us seem well placed. I have been helping Miss Verity with her people there.”

  “Keren’s brave ’nough, ma’am.” A somber gleam showed. “Is Cap’n Poldark back yet, if ye please?”

  “No, he’s been away some days, Mark.”

  “Oh… It was to see he I was comin’ this way. I thought as he was back. John telled me…”

  “Is it something special?”

  “It can bide.” He turned as if to go.

  She said, “I’ll tell him, Mark.”

  He said hesitatingly, “You was a help to me last August, and I ain’t forgot, mistress. But this—this is something better only spoke of between men…”

  “I expect he’ll be here before morning. We have an invitation in Truro for tomorrow…”

  They separated, and she walked slowly on along the beach. She ought to be getting back. Jinny would be at Nampara, and Julia was still restless.

  Some seaweed crunched behind her, and she turned to find that Mark had followed.

  His black eyes met hers. “Mistress Poldark, there’s bad things being spoken of Keren.” He said it as if it were a challenge.

  “Was that what you wanted to say?”

  “There’s tales bein’ spread.”

  “What tales?”

  “That she be going with another man.”

  “There are always tales in these parts, Mark. You know that the grannies have nothing else to do but whisper over their fires.”

  “Aye,” said Mark. “But I’m not easy of mind.”

  No, thought Demelza, neither should I be, not with Keren. “How can Ross help you?”

  “I thought to have ’is view on what was best. I thought he’d know betterer than me.”

  “But is—is there any man specially spoken of?”

  “Aye,” said Mark.

  “Have you said anything to Keren? Have you mentioned it to her?”

  “No. I ha’n’t the heart, mistress, I ha’n’t the heart. We’ve only been wed eight months. I builded the cottage for she. I can’t put myself to believe it.”