The night had worn on, but they dozed only now and then, still exchanging the occasional comment, the quip, the reminiscence. As dawn came nearer they talked more seriously about themselves, about Cornwall, about the Poldarks.
Geoffrey Charles had taken the death of his mother hard. Ross remembered him as a pale-faced youth calling to see him in London one afternoon and saying that this happening, this loss, had changed his attitude towards his future. He was no longer content to go to Oxford, to be groomed pleasantly for the life of an impoverished squire in the extremest south-west of England. To be under the tutelage of his stepfather, whom he disliked, for the sake of his mother, whom he deeply loved, might be acceptable. The former without the latter was not. He wanted to make his own way in the world and felt he could ask no more favours of Sir George Warleggan. His immediate wish was to leave Harrow as soon as he could and join the Royal Military College at Great Marlow as a cadet. Ross had tried to persuade him otherwise; he knew enough of the army himself to see the difficulties of a young man without personal money or influence; he also knew Geoffrey Charles’s already expensive tastes and thought his nephew would find the life too hard. Although three years at Harrow had toughened him, he had been much spoiled and cosseted by his mother when he was younger, and some of that influence still showed.
But nothing would change his mind. It seemed to Ross that the real driving force was a wish to distance himself from Cornwall and all the memories that Cornwall would revive. He had to keep away, and distaste for his stepfather was only a partial reason. So the thing had gone ahead. It had meant a good deal of correspondence with George – which was difficult – but at least they had avoided a meeting. George had been quite generous, offering his stepson an income of £200 a year until he was twenty-one, thereafter to be raised to £500. Geoffrey Charles had wished to spurn it; Ross had bullied him into a grudging acceptance.
‘I’m not thinking solely of myself in this,’ Ross had said, ‘in that the more you receive from him the less you’ll need from me! But George – George owes something to your mother – and your father – and it is elementary justice that he should discharge it.’
‘To ease his conscience?’
‘I have no idea what will ease or disarray his conscience. To take this allowance from him would seem, as I say, a form of elementary justice in the widest sense. If it eases his conscience I am happy for his conscience. But it is much more a matter of an equitable arrangement arrived at for all our sakes. Certainly it would have pleased your mother.’
‘Well, if you feel that way, Uncle Ross, I suppose I’d better fall in.’
So in that bitter February – bitter in all senses – of 1800. In time, of course, Geoffrey Charles had recovered his high spirits. He had taken to his new life with a will – even during the year of temporary peace – and George’s allowance, which came to him fully in 1805, had not prevented him from running into debt, so that Ross had twice had to bale him out of dangerous situations – the last time to the amount of £1000. However, it had not impaired their relationship.
Geoffrey Charles yawned and took out his watch, peered at it by the light of the stars.
‘Just on four, I think. In a few minutes Jenkins should be round with another hot drink. We should break our fast before dawn because I suspect they will be at us in the first light. Before that I want to introduce you to a few of my friends.’
‘I cut no pretty sight in this civilian suit.’
‘I’ve talked often about you to my closest friends, Anderson and Davies. In your own quiet way you have become quite a figure, y’know.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Well, judging from letters I sometimes get from England. Your name crops up now and then.’
‘Letters from whom?’
‘Never mind. Incidentally, you have scarce told me anything of Cornwall.’
‘You haven’t asked.’
‘No … Not from lack of interest … But sometimes, when one is bent on the business of killing, a whiff or so of nostalgia is not a good thing.’
‘Tell me about Wellington.’
‘What d’you want to know that you don’t already know? He’s a cold fish, but a great leader and, I believe, a brilliant soldier.’
‘It’s not the general opinion in England.’
‘Nor always among his own men. Even here there are Whigs enough who see no hope of defeating Napoleon and greet each withdrawal we make with a nod as if to say, “I told you so.”
‘The English,’ Ross said, ‘are weary of the long war. The distress in the North and the Midlands is acute. The government seems to spend as much thought to putting down revolution at home as to defeating the French.’
‘The English,’ said Geoffrey Charles, ‘frequently make my bile rise. When we got home after Corunna we were treated as if we had let our country down and run away! They spoke of John Moore with contempt, as if he had been a bungler and a weakling! I dare say if he had not died they would have had him up for a court martial!’
‘Many are arguing different now,’ said Ross. ‘Defeat is never popular, and it takes time to judge all the circumstances.’
‘They sit on their fat bottoms,’ said his nephew, ‘your fellow MPs do, swilling their pints of port and staggering with the aid of a chair from one fashionable function to another; they issue impossible instructions to their greatest general; and then when he dies in attempting to carry them out they rise – they just have strength to rise – in the House and condemn him for his inefficiency, at the same time complimenting the French on their superior fighting skill!’
‘It’s said that Soult has put up a monument to him in Corunna.’
‘Well, of course, one military commander appreciates another! That is an act of courtesy that the English cannot pay to their own – if he should happen to die in defeat instead of – like Nelson – in victory.’
Ross was silent. This son of his old friend and cousin, Francis, a rake and a failure, whom he had sincerely loved (by a woman he had also loved) had grown and changed in mind as well as body since they last met. Ross had always had a softer spot for Geoffrey Charles than could be justified by the relationship. This meeting confirmed and strengthened it. He could hear Francis talking; yet the sentiments were more like his own.
‘And Wellington,’ he prompted again. ‘As against Moore?’
The younger Captain Poldark rubbed fretfully at his injured jaw. ‘Old Douro is a great man. His troops will follow him anywhere. But Moore we loved.’
The batman arrived with another cup of steaming coffee.
‘So, as we’re in the mood now, tell me about Cornwall. You say my favourite aunt is well.’
‘On the whole, yes. Sometimes of late she suffers from a blurred vision but it passes if she spends an hour or two on her back.’
‘Which she will not willingly do.’
‘Which she does not at all willingly do. As for the children … Jeremy is now but an inch shorter than I. But I believe most of that growing took place a while ago. When did you last see him?’
‘I did not return to Cornwall after Corunna. I was so angry that our retreat – and Moore’s generalship – should be looked on in the way it was looked on that I threw out the thought of going down there and having to justify what in fact needed no justification … So, it must be all of four years – Grandfather’s funeral, that was it. Jeremy must have been about fifteen. He was as tall as I then, but even thinner!’
‘He still is.’
‘And his bent, his way in life?’
‘He seems to have no special wish to join in the war,’ said Ross drily.
‘I don’t blame him. He has a mother, a father, sisters, a pleasant home. I trust you don’t press him.’
‘If this struggle goes on much longer we may all be forced to take some part.’
‘Levée en masse, like the French, eh? That I hope will not happen. But I would rather that than we gave in to Napoleon after all these years!’
Ross cupped the mug, warming his hands on the sides while the steam rose pleasantly into his face. Something was rustling in the undergrowth and the younger man stared at the bushes for a moment.
‘We have many noxious things round here,’ said Geoffrey Charles. ‘Snakes, scorpions…’ And then: ‘If we negotiate with Napoleon now it will only be like last time over again – another truce while he gathers breath and we give up our overseas gains. I know this campaign is unpopular, but it’s vital to keep it in being. Is it not? You should know. The government is so weak that one loses all confidence in it. If only Pitt were back.’
‘I think the government will persist while the old King lives.’
‘That’s another hazard. He’s seventy-odd, and they say he’s recently been ill.’
The sound of drums made rattlesnake noises distantly from the French camp.
‘And Clowance?’ asked Geoffrey Charles, as if aware that time was growing short. ‘And your youngest, little Isabella-Rose?’
‘None so little now. Neither of them. Clowance is almost seventeen and becoming somewhat pretty at last. Bella is eight, and very dainty. Quite unlike Clowance at that age, who was something of a tomboy. Still is.’
‘Takes after her mother, Captain.’
‘Indeed,’ said Ross.
‘And Drake and Morwenna?’
‘Bravish, though I’ve not seen them for a year. They’re still at Looe, managing my boat-building works, you know.’
‘It was a good move, getting them away, and I’m grateful for the thought. They had too many memories around Trenwith. Dear God, to think at one time I intended to settle down at Trenwith as a country squire and to employ Drake as my factor!’
‘You still may do the first, if this war ever finishes.’
‘Something must be done about this Corsican, Uncle. It’s appalling to think after all this time the fellow is only just turned forty. The trouble with genius – whether good or ill – it starts so young. Have they any more children?’
‘Who? Drake and Morwenna? No, just the one daughter.’
A messenger came hurriedly through the dark, picking his way among the sleeping figures. He passed close by them but went on and into the tent fifty yards away.
‘Message for Craufurd, I suppose,’ Geoffrey Charles said. ‘I suspect we should break our fast now. That drumroll is spreading down in the valley.’
‘I have not much ammunition,’ said Ross. ‘I could do with a mallet also, for I had not expected to fire as much as I now hope to do.’
‘I’ll get Jenkins to get them for you. We don’t have such things, but the 95th are close by. Thank God, we’re well equipped as to firelocks and the like. And a fair supply of ball for the cannons.’ Geoffrey Charles sat up and massaged his boot where his foot had gone to sleep. ‘And while we’re about it, about this talk of bullets, perhaps I should inquire after the health of a man who certainly deserves one, though he’ll take good care never to come within range … I’m speaking, of course, of Stepfather George.’
Ross hesitated. ‘I’ve seen him once or twice in the House of late, but we avoid each other, and altogether it’s better that way. Nor do I often see him in Cornwall. I hope the days of our open conflict are over.’
‘I haven’t seen him since ‘06, when Grandfather died. The same day, no doubt, I last met Jeremy. It was mistywet and a very suitable day for a wake. George looked a thought pinched then, growing old perhaps before his time.’
‘He took your mother’s death hard, Geoffrey.’
‘Yes. I’ll say that for him.’
‘As we all did. You know I was – more than fond of your mother.’
‘Yes, I did know that.’
‘Although I’d seen little enough of her since she became Mrs Warleggan, she left – a great gap in my life. Her death – so young – left some permanent emptiness. As I know it did with you. But George surprised me. For all that occurred, all that happened in the past, I can never think anything but ill of him; but his sorrow and dismay at your mother’s death was surprising to me. Perhaps I shall not ever think quite so ill of him again.’
‘Well … He has certainly not remarried.’
‘I have to tell you,’ Ross said, ‘that since Mr Chynoweth’s death Trenwith has been neglected. As you know, after your mother’s death, George made his permanent home at his parents’ place at Cardew, but he maintained a small staff at Trenwith to look after your grandparents. I don’t imagine he visited them more than once a month, just to see things were in order. When your grandmother died I believe nothing changed. But after Mr Chynoweth went George virtually closed the house. The new furniture he had bought for it in the ‘nineties was all taken away to Cardew, the indoor staff disappeared. So far as I know, much of the grounds are overgrown. The Harry brothers live in the cottage, and I suppose see to the house and grounds as best they can. Harry Harry’s wife may do something too, but that is all.’
‘And George never comes?’
‘I think he would not be George if he never came. He turns up, they say, from time to time to make sure the Harrys cannot altogether relax; but I don’t think his visits are any more than about three-monthly.’
Geoffrey Charles did not answer for a while. The stars were appearing and disappearing behind drifting cloud or fog.
‘I suppose the house is legally mine now.’
‘Yes … Well, it will be when you come home to claim it. I feel guilty in not taking more active steps to see to its condition; but so often in the past my intrusion on the property has led to bitter trouble between myself and George. While there were people to be considered, such as your great-aunt Agatha, or your mother, or yourself – or Drake – I felt bound to interfere. But where a property only is concerned…’
‘Of course.’
‘Much of the fencing that George put up has gone, either with the passage of time, or villagers have stolen it for firewood; but on the whole I gather very few of them venture on the property. They have a healthy respect for the two Harry bullies, and maybe a certain feeling that in due course it will be occupied by a Poldark again and so not treated too rough. But the house is in bad repair. Clowance went over the other day.’
‘Clowance? What for?’
‘She’s like that. I was home at the time and I scolded her for taking the risk of being caught trespassing. But I think I could as well have saved my breath. Of course she was upset that I was upset, and appreciated the reason. But she tends to be impulsive, to act by instinct rather than reason—’
‘Like her mother?’
‘—ah – yes, but not quite the same. At the back of everything Demelza did – all the times she did apparently wayward things – and still does! – there’s a good solid reason, even though in the old days it was not a reason or a reasoning I could agree with. Clowance is more wayward in that respect than Demelza ever was, because her behaviour seems to be on casual impulse. She had no reason for going over to Trenwith, she just took it into her head to go and look at the house, and so did.’
‘At least she was not caught.’
‘That,’ said Ross, ‘unfortunately was Clowance’s defence. “But, Papa, no one saw me.” “But they might have,” I said, “and it might have led to unpleasantness, to your being insulted.” “But it didn’t, Papa, did it?” How is one to argue with such a girl?’
Geoffrey Charles smiled in the darkness. ‘I appreciate your concern, Uncle. If I am ever out of this war, or have a long enough leave, I’ll get rid of those two Harrys and Clowance can wander about Trenwith to her heart’s content … She said it was in bad condition?’
‘You can’t leave a house four years, especially in the Cornish climate, and not have deterioration. Of course …
‘What were you going to say?’
‘Only that little if anything has been spent on Trenwith since your mother died. While your grandparents were alive George maintained the place with the minimum of upkeep; so in a sense it is ten years’ neglect, not four.’
‘So it’s time I was home.’
‘In that sense, yes. But this is where you belong now. If we can with our small resources harness the Spanish and Portuguese efforts to resist, it ties down a disproportionate part of Napoleon’s strength. And even his resources are not inexhaustible. It has been a desperately wearying trial of strength and endurance. D’you realize that Clowance can never remember a time when we were not at war with France? Except for that one brief truce. No wonder we are all weary of it.’
‘Weary but not dispirited.’
It looked as if fog was thickening in the valley. Unless it dispersed before dawn it would be of great value to the attacking side.
‘Look, Geoffrey Charles, meeting you in this unexpected way has brought home to me more acutely my neglect of your affairs—’
‘Oh, rubbish.’
‘Not rubbish at all. I am particularly culpable because, nearly thirty years ago, a similar state of affairs occurred in an opposite direction. I came back from the American war when I was twenty-three. My mother had been dead a dozen years or more but my father had only just died. But he had been sick for a while and the Paynters were his only servants, and you can imagine how ill they looked after him. Your grandfather, Charles Poldark, did not get on too well with his brother and seldom came to see him … I would not want you – when you come back – to return to the sort of chaos and ruin I returned to.’
Geoffrey Charles said: ‘Hold hard, there’s Jenkins. I’ll go and tell him your requirements. Let’s see your rifle.’ This was examined. ‘A good weapon, Captain, that I’ll wager you did not pick up in Oporto.’
‘No, Captain, I did not.’
‘What is it exactly?’
‘A rifled carbine, with Henry Nock’s enclosed and screwless lock. You see the ramrod is set lower in the stock to make it easier to withdraw and replace when loading.’
Geoffrey Charles frowned at the mist. ‘Some of the sharpshooter regiments have got the Baker rifle. Not us yet. We still handle the old land pattern musket. It serves.’
There was silence for a while.
Ross said: ‘In the American war thirty years ago there was a man called Ferguson – Captain Ferguson of the 70th – he invented a breech-loading rifle. It would fire six shots a minute in any weather. It was a great success … But he was killed – killed just after I got there. I used one. Splendid gun. But after he was killed nobody followed it up. Nobody seemed interested.’
‘It’s what one comes to expect of the army,’ said the young man. He bore the rifle away and soon came back with it. ‘That is attended to. Breakfast in ten minutes. Then I’ll introduce you to my friends.’
‘By the way…’
‘Yes?’
‘Regarding your stepfather. You said he had not married again.’
‘True. Has he?’
‘No. But I received a letter from Demelza shortly before I left. In it she says that there is a rumour in the county that George is now – at last – taking an interest in another woman.’
‘Mon dieu! Who is she?’
‘Unfortunately I can’t remember the name. It’s no one I know. Harriet something. Lady Harriet something.’
‘Ah,’ said Geoffrey Charles significantly. ‘That may explain a little.’ He scuffed the ground with his boot. ‘Well … I suppose I should wish him no ill. He was my mother’s choice. Though they lived a somewhat uneasy life together – undulating between extremes – I believe she was fond of him in her way. So if he marries now at this late age – what is he? fifty-one? – if he marries again now I can only say I hope he is as lucky a second time.’
‘He won’t ever be that,’ said Ross.
A few minutes later they were called to breakfast: a piece of salt beef each, a dozen crumbly biscuits – perhaps with weevils but one could not see – and a tot of rum. Ross met the other men who were Geoffrey Charles’s friends. They were light-hearted, joking, laughing quietly, all eager and ready for the mutual slaughter that lay ahead. They greeted Ross with deference, and a friendliness that deepened when they learned he was not content to be a spectator of the battle.
While they were eating a spare, dour figure on a white horse, followed by a group of officers, rode through them. There was a clicking to attention, a casual, dry word here and there, and then the figure rode on. It was Viscount Wellington making his final tour of the front. He had nine miles of hillside to defend, and his troops were spread thin. But they had the confidence that only a good leader can impart to them.
Ten minutes after Wellington had passed, the drums and pipes of the French army began to roll more ominously, and, as the very first light glimmered through the drifting mists, forty-five battalions of the finest seasoned veterans in Europe, with another twenty-two thousand men in reserve, began to move forward in black enormous masses up the escarpment towards the British positions.