I
The meeting between the three young men did not take place on the date or at the place arranged: Stephen had sent word that he would be delayed, and had suggested another venue, which was probably more appropriate for what they had to consider – if a little more suggestive of conspiracy if anyone saw them.
Between Nampara and Trenwith, on the high cliffs not far from Seal Hole Cave, there was a sharp V-shaped declivity in the land, as if nature had intended another inlet and then changed its mind. Sixty-odd feet above the sea the declivity ended in a grassy plateau with the ruins of a long dead mine-working, and a shaft, man-made, driven directly down to the sea. This shaft was about eight feet in diameter, about twenty feet from the cliff edge and surrounded by a low stone wall.
A few years ago when Charlie Kellow was more nimble and more adventurous, and when Paul was still in his early teens, they had made a wooden ladder and nailed it to the side of this shaft so that they could gain access to the splendid little natural harbour created by the rock formation below. Here they had moored and kept their boat, a thirty-year-old lugger of solid but antique construction, and from there had occasionally sailed to Ireland or to France to bring home contraband spirits or silks. Two years ago, however, a fanatic storm had damaged the lugger so badly that they had made no attempt to repair it, and it remained a hulk wedged between rocks not reached by normal tides. Since then no one had used the place, though it was still known locally as Kellow’s Ladder, and always would be.
About half way down the shaft the old miners had driven another shaft, this horizontally, in search of minerals, but after about twenty feet had given up. It was a rough scarred opening from the perpendicular shaft, much picked over at the entrance so that the entrance was quite broad and tall, but a little way in it became the conventional four feet by four feet tunnel by which miners hacked their way in search of gain. It was in this tunnel that, after some discussion, the three young men had decided to cache their spoils. In the time that they had used the cove below, no one else had ever come here – the place appeared to have an unsavoury reputation with the villagers – so there seemed little likelihood of anyone doing so now. Even if they did, the chances of their breaking off half way and entering this tunnel, and then turning over some evil-smelling sacks at the very back of it, was remote. At least it had been agreed that nowhere could the stuff be hidden with less risk of discovery.
They assembled just before dawn, when streaks of light discoloured the east and the wind had dropped. A disparate trio. Stephen with his lion head, cleft chin, wide cheek bones and handsome good looks, rough spoken, open handed, a man to whom action followed impulse, and reflection was more properly to be indulged in only if for some reason action failed; Paul Kellow, slender and dark and as good looking as a stiletto, quietly sure of his importance in the world, a man with few doubts about his own judgement or his own ultimate success; Jeremy Poldark, tall and thin and a little stooping, the only one with genuine brain but at the moment grown errant and unstable, flawed by circumstances that another less feeling man would have taken in his stride.
They went down; and, since recently the ladder had become shaky and some of the rungs unreliable, each man allowed the other to get off at the bottom before he put his foot to the top; they assembled again in the entrance to the cave, then Jeremy lit a couple of candles and stooped his way to the very back where he pulled away a dirty sheet of tarpaulin. Under it were three cleaner sacks, small flour sacks in the first place, each marked in ink with an initial. He brought them towards the entrance to the cave.
‘All’s well. Nobody’s touched them.’
After a minute Stephen went to the sack marked ‘S’ and put his hand in, drew out a few bank notes, some coin, a couple of documents, a ring. He knelt staring at these, ran them through his fingers assaying what he had left. Presently Paul followed suit. Jeremy did not move but stood in the entrance to the cave watching them.
Stephen looked up. ‘How much of yours is gone, Jeremy?’
‘None yet. I told you.’
‘So when are you going to use it?’
‘Soon enough.’
‘If they found out, you’d swing just the same whether you’d spent it or not.’
‘I know that.’
Day was coming now, though in the shaft it would never be anything but half light. Jeremy took a piece of newspaper out of his pocket, unfolded it and began peering at it.
‘What’s that?’
‘You’ve seen it before.’
‘The account? Holy Mary, ye should never’ve kept it. Supposing someone found it!’
‘It would mean nothing to them. And no one ever searches my room.’
In spite of being preoccupied with what was in the sacks they both eventually stood up and began to look over Jeremy’s shoulder.
First there was the news item which read:
Daring Robbery on Stage Coach.
Last week the Self-Defence stage coach, one of the four coaches owned by Messrs Fagg, Whitmarsh, Fromont, Weakley & Co., which ply between Plymouth and Falmouth, was the subject of a daring robbery. Between the time of its leaving Plymouth on the morning of Monday last, the 25th ult. and its arriving in Truro in the afternoon, a breach had been forced between the interior of the coach and the strong box under the driver’s seat; and the contents of the strong box removed. Attempts are now being made to trace the passengers who travelled inside the coach during the journey: a Reverend and Mrs Arthur May; Lieutenant Morgan Lean of the Royal Navy; Mr Arthur Williams Rose, Mr Ord Cadbury and Mr Anthony Trevail.
On the front page of the same newspaper was an advertisement:
One Thousand Pounds Reward.
Stolen from the Self-Defence Stage Coach on Monday, the 25th day of January. The contents of two strong boxes, the property of Messrs Warleggan and Willyams, bankers, of Plymouth and Truro.
Among the property lost are Bank of England Notes of £40, £20 and £10, to the total value of approximately £2,600. All are numbered and dated, and a selection of these numbers is given below. Bank Post Bills payable at Warleggan & Willyams Bank, all at £15 to a total value of about £700. Together with other Bank and Local Notes valued at £850. A bag with 900 Spanish dollars. Another bag containing 360 guineas. Some foreign gold coin. A few small heirlooms, silver and items of jewellery, documents.
A reward of £400 will be offered for information leading to a conviction of the thieves, a further £600 is promised for a recovery of the property stolen.
Then followed the numbers.
Meeting in those cold mid-January days when snow had frequently blown in the wind, the three young men had pored over this advertisement. At first it had appeared that none of the Bank of England notes was usable, since they were all numbered and dated; then Paul had pointed out a tactical mistake Warleggan’s Bank had made. No doubt the notes were all numbered and dated, but if the bank had a record of them all, why did they list only a selection at the bottom of the advertisement? It seemed certain they were listing the only ones they possessed. Seven were listed. These clearly could not be safely used. The others, Paul argued, could.
The Post Bills payable to Warleggan’s Bank were altogether more risky, since evidence of identity would probably have to be given before they could be encashed. After much argument, chiefly with Stephen who wanted to carry them to Bristol to see if he could change them there, Jeremy had burned them; also the seven listed bank notes. It had been agony for them all to see the notes blacken and twist and disappear in flame; but Jeremy had argued that unless the step were taken at once someone – one or other of them – would later be tempted to try to cash one; and that might bring all their other careful precautions tumbling down.
Everything else, as he pointed out, was negotiable and untraceable: guineas, Spanish dollars, gold coin, jewellery and the rest; and these should be divided as equally as possible into three parts at once and hidden away in separate sacks so that there should be no arguments later.
And so it was done.
Of this division Stephen had taken nearly all his share before he left for Bristol, Paul rather more than half his.
Stephen said to Jeremy: ‘I thought it was all on account of a needy purpose you had to make a start at becoming rich! It was to be a beginning, ye said. Well, money will not multiply if it be buried in the earth. Indeed, it is quite likely to rot – the paper part of it. The bags are not damp proof.’
Jeremy’s expression did not change. ‘Let us say, Stephen, that once our pleasant adventure was over there was a little sour taste in my mouth, left as an aftermath. It has not yet quite gone. When it has gone I shall consider how best to spend the money.’
Paul said: ‘Well, I don’t think my father could believe his ears when I told him I could find the money to discharge some of his most pressing bills. At first he was suspicious, could not believe I had won it at the cockpit. I said to him: “My dear father, how do you think I have come by it, stolen it?” He soon accepted my explanation, as who wouldn’t in his situation? There is an old proverb about a gift horse. Gradually I have become his blessed son. Of course I have been careful to release only by little and by little. Now when I go to Truro or Redruth he counsels me anxiously lest I wager more money and lose it.’ Paul’s lips creased. ‘At least, unlike you, my two fellow miscreants, I believe I have done something worthwhile with my money. As a result of it the coaching company of Kellow, Clotworthy, Jones & Co. continues to function, and now, as things are picking up, only at a slight loss. Additionally my father is out and about his business and not languishing in a debtor’s prison. My mother and my sister have not been turned out of their home and their belongings sold for anything they could fetch. The House of Kellow continues on its ordinary and, I hope, ordained way. So give or take a few days of shaking knees and watery bowels both before and after the escapade, I am very glad I indulged in it.’
Stephen said: ‘Does your mother and Daisy swallow this story about the cockpit?’
‘They know nothing of it. I swore my father to secrecy because my mother is over-religious and strongly disapproves of gaming. I do not think they have even asked. They never knew the depths of our predicament and so do not know the measure of their escape.’
Jeremy looked across at the other side of the perpendicular shaft. Earth had lodged in one or two crevices and tiny ferns were growing, and further up, nearer the light, a few tufts of sea pink had flowered. He folded up the newspaper cutting and put it back in his pocket.
‘Did you have any difficulty in Bristol, Stephen?’
‘Difficulty?’
‘In changing the notes. I assume you changed the notes there.’
‘No trouble at all; though I confess I had qualms about the two forty pound bills; but they went through without question.’ He thrust a half-dozen Bank of England notes into his wallet. ‘I wish I’d taken them all now.’
‘And the jewellery?’
‘Well I only took the ring. I sold the diamonds out of it. Got £70. Twas probably not full value.’
‘Less than half I’d guess,’ said Jeremy.
Stephen was staring at him. ‘That’s a handsome stockpin you’re wearing. It was not part of the booty, was it?’
‘Not part of this booty,’ said Jeremy obliquely.
‘Come on, then, what is this you’re concealing from us?’
‘Nothing at all. At least nothing to do with anyone but myself.’ Jeremy picked up his own bag and shook it thoughtfully. ‘But I am much in favour of losing these recognizable pieces. You have two, haven’t you, Paul?’
‘The signet ring, which is worth little. And this brooch.’
‘If I were you I’d prise the ruby out and throw the brooch into the sea.’
‘It might be worth a little melted down.’
‘Safer to let it go.’
‘What has happened to that cup?’ Stephen asked.
‘What cup?’
‘You know – the little one. The loving cup, or whatever it is.’
‘It’s back among the sacks, I suppose. We never actually decided whose share it belonged to.’
‘Tis not worth much, is it?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do with your money in Bristol?’ Paul asked. ‘Jeremy tells me you didn’t buy into a privateer?’
‘No, there was naught I liked the look of. Another time it might’ve been different. But there was one or two men I wanted to avoid – hard lads I had had words with before . . . And more than words.’ Stephen felt his chin. ‘I need a shave. No, Paul, if ye are that interested I brought nearly all me money back again – but all in new money. I think maybe I shall invest it here.’
‘Are you thinking that a privateer out of Falmouth would be more to your taste?’
Stephen looked at Jeremy and half grinned. ‘Not exactly, like. I have a mind to invest in the pilchard fishing. Or in a roundabout way, like, that’s what it’ll amount to. And no one can say – not even the Poldark family can say there is aught illegal in that.’
‘Well, tell us all about it,’ said Paul. ‘It is clear that you are dying to.’
‘I don’t think it matters what my family thinks,’ Jeremy said, ‘if you—’
‘It still matters to him what Clowance thinks,’ said Paul. ‘Eh? . . . Well, I’ll say in front of her brother that she’s a handsome girl and a good catch. I’d try the water myself if she gave me half a hope of finding it tepid. If you marry Daisy, Jeremy, we could maybe have a double relationship.’
Jeremy’s face was quite expressionless. ‘What is this scheme you have, Stephen?’
Stephen was sorting through a few documents left in his bag. He looked up. ‘Earlier this summer I was in St Ives – fishermen there – we were talking this way and that: d’ye know what they got for their pilchards last year? I’ll tell you. Fifteen shillings a hogshead. As one of them said: it did not pay for the salt and the nets. And that in a sore year – when food was bitter scarce all over the county. But d’ye know what some others got? I’ll give you a guess. They got 190/- a hogshead – more than a dozen times as much. Same quality fish caught in the same type of boats.’
Paul said: ‘This is a riddle?’
‘No. Just that some were more enterprising than others. They sold ’em in their natural markets.’
‘Spain?’ said Jeremy.
‘Italy in this case.’
‘What d’you mean – they ran the blockade?’
‘Just that. The French can’t patrol all the ports they own, any more than we can patrol all the high seas.’
Jeremy fingered his bag but again did not untie the cord. He was still reluctant to handle the money, to touch it.
‘Was it one of the export firms – like Fox’s of Falmouth – who broke the blockade?’
‘Nay. As well you might guess. Too scared for their vessels. Nay, twas little men – in their own boats – taking a three month trip and coming home with gold in their pockets – chiefly from St Ives and – they said – Mevagissey and Fowey. Not a dozen in all. But not one was stopped.’
‘And you propose?’
‘To do it on a bigger scale this year. Likely it will be the same conditions – a glut of fish; no one to buy ’em – farmers taking ’em at knock-down prices and using them for manure in their fields. I reckon I can just about afford to furnish out a couple of vessels, make ’em suitable for such cargo, buy the pilchards after curing, pay over the market price to get the best, send the vessels out, maybe go with one of ’em; make a handsome profit that way.’
Paul was listening with his head on one side as if to hear something more behind the words.
‘Are you serious?’
‘No one’s forcing ye to believe me.’
‘And what have you done about it so far?’
‘Nothing. Yet.’
‘And when shall you start?’
‘I shall be at St Ives on Tuesday week bidding for the Chasse Marée.’
‘What’s that in Heaven’s name?’
‘A French prize. She’s not big, but big enough – about 80 ton. Fir built. Equipped in every way. She’s called a fishing boat – and been used as one, ye can see – but her lines are clean. No doubt she’s been used for deep sea work – with the speed to bring her catch in while tis still fresh. But I can see marks on her decks where guns have been fitted. I reckon she’s been used for a little privateering now and then. She’ll suit for the work I want.’
‘What will she take?’
‘What, carry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it will need a little more careful working out than I have yet been able to do; but I would suspect two hundred and twenty-five to two hundred and fifty hogsheads. In that neighbourhood.’
‘Um.’ Paul nodded his head. ‘If you make a gross profit of £8 a hogshead . . . You’ve your crews to pay and feed – but still . . . It looks handsome enough. What do you think, Jeremy?’
‘I think it is likely to take more than three months to sail, say, to Genoa and back. And shall you expect to come home in ballast?’
‘I had thought to bring back salt and wine.’
‘Both contraband,’ said Paul. ‘You said you were turning over a new leaf.’
‘So I am, so I am. No one in Cornwall even pretends to disapprove of contraband, as you call it. Even Captain Poldark, even Dr Enys, they were both engaged in it once upon a time.’
Paul laughed. ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is “turning over a new leaf” for a man wanted for two hanging offences.’
Stephen said harshly: ‘Never forget, Paul, that you’re wanted for one of ’em, and maybe the first one as well. Accessory’s the word they use!’
‘Now, now,’ Jeremy said quietly. ‘Remember: “when thieves fall out . . .”’
After a moment Paul said: ‘Oh, we’re not falling out that bad. A little jesting, eh? I’m grateful to Stephen for what he did in Plymouth Dock. Else I might be a pressed man in the navy.’
Jeremy took a candle and went to put his sack back under the tarpaulin at the distant end of the shaft. He returned with a small metal cup. It had been in one of the bags they had taken from the strong boxes and was of silver, but tiny, little more than three inches broad, with its two handles, by two and a half inches high. Engraved round the rim were the words: Amor gignit amorem.
‘And what shall we do with this?’
There was a pause.
‘Melt it down,’ said Paul.
‘It is so light,’ Jeremy said, ‘it would hardly pay for the firing.’
‘Throw it in the sea,’ said Stephen.
‘It would seem a pity. But I expect you’re right.’
Stephen said. ‘You’re not touching your share, Jeremy. I can see that.’
‘Have no fear. I will in due course.’
‘Come in as my partner. I’m having a fishing vessel built too. A small drifter type of about sixty ton. I put the order in last week. This war cannot last for ever; nor can the conditions we can make use of this year. I say, make the most of ’em. Then when it’s over, trading by sea won’t end. It will expand. Folk who’ve two or three vessels in commission can use those conditions too. And legitimate if need be. If I buy the Chasse Marée I shall be stretched tight for money. Yours would come in very handy. We could start an exporting line: Carrington and Poldark. Carrington & Co. if you don’t fancy it being publicly known. Why not sail to Italy with me this autumn? It will be an adventure, more surely than just going to the Scillies.’
‘I’ll think on it,’ said Jeremy.
II
Later the same day Geoffrey Charles was walking beside the old pond of Trenwith when he saw a small procession wending its way up the weed-grown drive. In the lead by a few paces on an elderly mare was a thin dark man; behind him on two ponies a dark woman in a long grey linen riding cloak and a girl of about twelve, hair in pig-tails, bare legs showing under a dimity skirt.
Geoffrey Charles had been linking his wife, but he lifted both hands to squint into the sun – then he let out a whoop.
‘My love, forgive me, it is Drake!’
He leapt across a narrow angle of the pool, splashed through a few feet of shallow mud and ran towards the convoy. As he neared it, the dark man saw him, called to his ladies and slid out of the saddle.
The men met equidistant from their respective wives. They stopped a few feet apart, then grasped hands. After a moment Geoffrey Charles took the other by the biceps, laughed, and kissed him on both cheeks.
‘Drake, Drake, Drake, Drake, Drake!’ he said, his voice breaking and tears in his eyes. ‘So-o . . . After all these years! I can scarcely believe it!’
‘Geoffrey Charles! I can scarce believe it neither! Indeed I can hardly think tis you, though, you’re looking brave an’ happy. My dear, you sent for me!’
‘Indeed.’ They broke from their affectionate clasp and Geoffrey Charles took a dozen giant strides to help the lady as she dismounted. ‘Morwenna. Ma foi! Ma petite!’ He took her in his arms and gave her a smacking kiss which knocked her glasses askew. ‘And how is my governess? Blooming, it seems! What pleasure to see you again! And Loveday . . .’ He went to the second pony and kissed the girl as he lifted her down. ‘My dear, you have grown so much – grown so much!’
Drake Carne said: ‘In wisdom and in stature and in God’s esteem.’ But he said it with a little smile that took the starch out of it.
‘You still pursue that outlandish Methodism?’
‘After a fashion. But we take it in small doses – not like Sam.’
‘All things should be taken in small doses,’ said Geoffrey Charles, ‘except friendship and love. Come, Amadora, don’t hang back, come and meet my dear friends. Drake, Morwenna, this is my wife, my dearly loved and honoured wife, whom I have brought to Cornwall specially to meet you.’
They shook hands, Drake bowing over the hand, Loveday dropping a curtsy. All was conversation, laughter, chatter as they walked the horses slowly towards the front door. Drake had put on weight; one could not see the bones of his shoulder blades through his jacket any more; his hair had thinned but was still raven black; his face had more colour, but perhaps that was just the zest of the arrival. Morwenna seemed unchanged; short-sighted, shy, withdrawn, just as he remembered her seven years ago when he called in at Looe, just as he remembered her when she first came as his governess nineteen years ago. Loveday had the fine skin and dark hair of both her parents, but was of an age when child charm had gone and the looks of adolescence were yet a little way off.
At the front door Geoffrey Charles produced a whistle. Its shrilling brought a young man trotting round from the back, who raised his eyebrows and grinned at Drake.
‘Well, I’ll be darned,’ said Drake. ‘Tis young Tredinnick! But gracious knows whether tis Jack or Paul.’
‘Jack, sur. Paul’s still wi’ your brother, sur.’
‘I do not have servants as such,’ Geoffrey Charles explained, ‘as yet; I have helpers to whom I pay what they consider a reasonable fee. Jack is here to help.’
‘Aye, sur; that we all do, sur. Glad to see ee, Mr Carne. An’ Mrs Carne too. And Miss Carne, I s’pose.’
‘Please to come in,’ said Amadora, to Morwenna. ‘Geoffrey Charles have so often spoke. This is the way. But you have known this house. You shall remember it well.’
‘I am so happy for you, Mrs Poldark,’ Morwenna said. ‘For you both.’ She looked round the small entrance hall as she entered it. She gave a little shiver.
‘You feel cold? When you shall have ridden so far?’
‘No, no. Far from cold,’ said Morwenna. ‘Very far from cold.’
III
They ate together in the winter parlour, which the young Poldarks were at present using as a dining room; the first night in the great hall had been for fun, for love, for excitement, for the sexual challenge; after that, when they came down to earth, it was too big for two.
Everyone on best behaviour, everyone so obviously wanting to do and say the right thing, Geoffrey Charles more hearty than natural, Morwenna, never a conversationalist, making a tremendous effort to join in, only Loveday excusably silent. Morwenna had wanted to get up and help Maud Tredinnick, Jack’s wife, who waited at table; Amadora concerned for the cooking of the food, which was being done by Ann Bottrell, Ned Bottrell’s wife from Grambler; but to each stirring at the table Geoffrey Charles was adamant. They should sit and wait properly and it should be done. And it was done. And the wine going down with the food was gradually relaxing nerves, easing tensions, making the genuine goodwill flow more naturally.
‘We shall give a big party,’ Geoffrey Charles said. ‘A very big party. I had thought at first it should be a housewarming, when everyone should come to welcome us home. Until we saw “the home”. Then it became quite clear that if we did not wish to run the risk of some guest disappearing through the floorboards or a nervous lady finding a rat anxious to share her fruit syllabub, we should have to wait. So now it may become a house-cooling party – held perhaps a week before we leave. Or a middle-of-the-stay party when we have not grown tired of you all or outlasted our welcome. How long can you remain, Drake?’
‘Here? Oh, I dunno. Did you wish for us to stay very long?’
‘So long as you can. So long as you are happy here. You know how much I would have liked you both – you all – to make this your permanent home, to have cared for it while we were away, to have shared it with us when we eventually return for good. That is all now a cloud-cuckoo dream, I suppose? You are firmly rooted in Looe? . . .’
Drake looked at Morwenna, who did not speak.
‘At present we live in Looe, Geoffrey Charles. It has become our home . . . But that does not mean we cannot see much of you, or of Trenwith, if that be your wish. It is a long trip; we left at four this morning; but if Captain Poldark do approve – I mean the other Captain Poldark – then it should not be impossible to have one home and one – one second home, where you and Mrs Poldark will ever be.’
‘Of course.’ Geoffrey Charles, since he could not reach Drake across the table, patted Morwenna’s hand. ‘It is understood. It has always been a dream of mine . . . you know that . . . You will stay now?’
Morwenna smiled at him. ‘Just as long as you want – as long as you both want.’
‘We should have been here the sooner,’ said Drake, ‘did we not have this sudden order for a new mackerel driver, which come in almost the same day as the letter from you telling us of the great news that you were home. This have delayed me, as twas a rush order, and the young man ordering her wishes for to see her launched in less than two month, which will be a test an’ a trial. But I stayed to see the templates completed an’ the frames marked and sawn. There’s two-three weeks’ work now before they shall think of needing me.’
‘Well, let us enjoy these two or three weeks to begin,’ said Geoffrey Charles. He smiled and ran a finger along the thin line of his moustache. ‘It’s strange: when I knew you last you were becoming an expert wheelwright. Now that has changed and instead you are a builder of boats.’
‘Thanks to the other Cap’n Poldark – Ross. D’ye know after all this time tis quite an effort on my part to call him Ross.’
‘Then we’re in the same case, for although he is really my second cousin I have always called him Uncle, and it needs an effort every time I open my mouth to him to correct myself!’
‘So I think I must tell ’im about the new boat I’m having built for this young man. Was not Clowance engaged to marry a young man called Stephen Carrington? This man is called Stephen Carrington who have come to me in Looe to order the new vessel. I wonder if tis one and the same?’