A particularly bad time in Penzance, for an earlier wind from the E.S.E. had induced a number of vessels to shelter in the Road; then the wind veered to S.W. and blew a full gale, catching them on a lee shore. The few that had been lucky enough to attach themselves to the pier of the harbour were able to warp in, but the rest had to cut their cables and run upon the sand. The few who attempted to weather the gale fared no better. Among those lost was the Gauge, John Aldridge master, from Bideford to Deptford with timber for the navy; she ran on the August rock with five of her men drowned in full view of the spectators on the shore. The Nimble, with Adam Gribble as master, from Cardiff to London suffered a like fate – though with fewer casualties; as did the United Friends, Henry Geach master, from Swansea to Fowey, the William Charles, Edward Amery master, from Jersey to Swansea; the Nancy, Joseph Jolly master, from Bideford to Plymouth; and the Nettle, Arthur Morris master, from Falmouth to Fowey. This did not take account of the vessels wrecked near by.
Nevertheless the lifeboat came under the hammer on the Wednesday, as advertised, and was knocked down to two young men, strangers to the town, for twenty guineas.
Unaware of the connection between any of these events, Ross found himself irritated by the sudden disappearance of his future son-in-law. Stephen had borrowed Will Nanfan’s pony on the Monday – as a change from borrowing Jeremy’s – since when nothing at all had been heard of him. Wilf Jonas, who was expecting him to start work on the following Monday at seven a.m., found himself without his assistant. Clowance told the first lie she had ever told her parents when she informed them that she didn’t know where Stephen was. (But perhaps it was only a half lie, for she was not asked if she knew what he was about, and as to where he was, he might be in Penzance, which clearly was where he had been going, but that was half a week ago.)
What no one particularly noticed was that Paul Kellow had disappeared at the same time as Stephen. It was of course customary for Paul to be away from home and to be away for more than a week at a time, and the Poldarks often did not meet the Kellows for longer than that. Only Clowance, visiting Violet on her sick bed, heard her speculating as to where her rogue of a brother had disappeared to, and accordingly put two and two together.
So the mystery remained, and the first to see the two when they returned was Dwight Enys.
III
On the following Thursday, which was April 30, Caroline had been out riding all afternoon and evening, and came in fresh and glowing to find Dwight already returned and Sophie and Meliora waiting for a bedtime story.
She breezed in, kissed all three of her beloved in turn and breezed out again, resisting the heartrending cries of her young and calling over her shoulder: ‘Supper in fifteen minutes, Dr Enys.’
So he shortly joined her and they ate codfish with shrimp sauce, mutton steaks with frilled oysters, a plain lemon pudding.
She said: ‘You have set your face against coming tomorrow?’
‘Well, Harriet doesn’t really want me! At least, she doesn’t need me. She’s your friend, and they especially desire a quiet wedding.’
‘You know I never like going to functions without you.’
‘I know. But Myners will be with you . . . You must not even go at all if the weather is still bad.’
‘I told her that. Miss Darcy, of course, invited me to spend two nights, but I said no. The ceremony is at noon, which means I should leave soon after nine. Be back about six.’
‘It’s a long day.’
‘You know I like it. I was born to live half my life in the saddle.’
They ate a while in silence.
‘Do you think it will be a success?’ he asked.
‘What, the marriage? My dear, I don’t know. They are such opposites. Yet I suspect that in spite of everything, she has a slight feeling for him, which will help. She has never said so much, but reading between the lines – or, rather, into the pauses – I get that distinct impression. And he is very much taken with her. You know what a really impossible snob George is. Yet it may be more than that . . . Elizabeth was always delicate – a lady in the best sense. Harriet, if I may put it so, is indelicate – a lady in the worst sense – and this surprises and delights him. How long it will last, of course, I cannot tell. At least I do not feel yet to blame for so flagrantly contriving their re-meeting here.’
‘I hope it will work – if only for her sake. Perhaps a little for his. It is not pleasant to see any individual, however undeserving, so much alone as he has been since Elizabeth died.’
The servant took their plates away.
Caroline said: ‘Was the mutton not tender?’
‘Darling, I ate a splendid dinner not many hours ago. Don’t fuss me as if I had just got out of that French camp.’
‘You remind me of that time . . . Well, what has your day been? I dare not comment or you will think I am still applying Malthus to the daily doings of Sawle.’
He laughed. ‘Sawle has been much as usual . . . One or two patients, as usual, slipping away. One new patient I did not expect.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Do you know the Thomases? John, the elder brother. The younger ones are called Art and Music.’
‘Is Music the one in the choir?’
‘Yes. A trifle . . . simple. Though by no means a simpleton. He asked me a couple of months ago if I could help him.’
‘In what way?’
‘He has not developed. The voice and the walk. Other things. It seemed to me a plain physiological defect; it happens sometimes: some malfunction of the blood or of the glands; one can never tell. Some of my colleagues would blame it on the humours.’
‘What did he want?’
‘To know if I could tell him why he was not normal. It is a most unusual sign, for anyone to ask. He has changed much in the last twelve months. Today I asked him why he had changed, and he told me why. He has a fancy for a girl.’
‘Good lack!’ Caroline said. ‘I did not suppose him to have inclinations of that sort.’
‘Nor I—’
‘And who is the fortunate woman?’
‘Ben’s sister. Katie Carter. She is a parlourmaid at the Popes’, where Music works in the stables.’
‘Does she know?’
‘I don’t think so. Though women, if I’m not mistaken, generally do.’
‘I did,’ said Caroline. ‘But then we were of a higher perceptive standard. I hope.’
‘Well, he came to me this afternoon, asked me again. It occurred to me that sometimes – once in a hundred times – it is the mind that blocks development of the body. Something has happened to you in the past, and in return your mind will not accept change, development, responsibility. So you remain – frozen, unable to live an ordinary life. That is how it is sometimes.’
‘And Music?’
‘I don’t know. He came today. To be on the safe side I invited Clotworthy to be present . . . As far as I can tell Music is normal. There is no evidence of atrophy or underdevelopment. Nor is there evidence . . . He told me he walked that way because he had burned his feet as a child; but there was no sign of any scars or burn marks. It again suggests something in the mind.’
‘So how can you help him?’
‘I have given him exercises to do. For the voice. For the calf muscles.’
Caroline took a sip of illegal claret. ‘You may spoil his church voice.’
‘May well. And do no good otherwise. But . . .’
‘Have you spoken to his brothers?’
Dwight paused, spoon over pudding. ‘No. But it is a good thought. I’ll try John sometime. He is the most responsible of the three.’
‘Who knows?’ said Caroline. ‘You may make a man of him yet.’
‘Well, it pleasures him to try. That he should want to do something to help himself is half the battle. If he sets his mind on something – as I am sure he has never done before in all his life – who knows what may be the result?’
Their manservant had coughed behin
d his hand. ‘If you please, sur, there be two young men asking to see you, sur, just arrived at the door. Medical I think tis, sur.’
‘Did they give a name?’
‘Yes, sur, Mr Paul Kellow and Mr Stephen Carrington.’
‘Paul!’ said Caroline. ‘This is strange. Shall we not ask them in for a glass of wine?’
‘If it is medical,’ Dwight said, rising from his chair, ‘perhaps I should see them first. Will you excuse that? Then if they are so minded they can drink with us afterwards.’
Downstairs in the hall the two young men were seated on chairs, looking fatigued. Paul had a stained bandage round his head and another round his right wrist; Stephen had a leg held stiffly in front of him.
After a few minutes mud-stained and blood-stained clothes lay on the dispensary floor.
Dwight said: ‘You came all the way from Plymouth like this?’
‘Not in one day,’ said Paul. ‘We left Plymouth yesterday and slept at Falmouth. We had to go to Penzance today to pick up our ponies, and as there is no coach on that road we had to travel by wagon; and so we have rid home this evening. It has been a sore ride.’
‘Well,’ said Dwight, wiping his hands. ‘This musket wound of Carrington’s is the most in need of attention; but the ball passed through the fleshy part of the thigh and there is only a slight inflammation. Musket balls, if they don’t carry anything in with them, are usually sterile. I’ll dress it and you can see how it is tomorrow. When was the wound made?’
‘Monday eve,’ said Stephen. ‘Paul’s injuries too.’
‘His are not serious,’ said Dwight. ‘Those heavy bruises and cuts on the head will in all likelihood give you no trouble after a couple of days’ rest. This sprained wrist also . . . You have been in a fight?’
Stephen laughed. ‘That’s what ye might call it, I reckon. I’ll give Plymouth a wide berth in future.’
‘Amen,’ said Paul.
Dwight wrapped up a piece of bandage and put it away.
‘We was up in Plymouth on business, Dr Enys,’ said Stephen. ‘Simple, innocent, honest, commercial business, when we meet some gentlemen who strove to persuade us to join His Majesty’s navy.’
‘Press gang?’ said Dwight.
‘Press gang. Correct in the first instance. Well, Dr Enys, that was not in my mind, nor in the mind of Mr Paul Kellow here. They said yes and we said no; and this disagreement led to a show of arms and a show of resistance. Hence these wounds we’ve suffered. Hence His Majesty be short of two sailors, such as he would greatly have liked. But I dare swear that certain members of the press gang are also suffering bruises and injuries as well.’
Dwight laughed. Now that they had been somewhat cleaned up, there was an air of gaiety about these young men, as if their adventure, now the danger was past, had stimulated them. That or something else.
‘I’ll give you a mixture of Peruvian bark,’ he said. ‘Take it three times a day until the wounds are healed. In the meantime, my wife would wish you to drink a glass of canary with us.’
IV
It had in fact been a desperate and bloody encounter.
Stephen had taken Paul with him, not so much for the twelve pounds he was able to ‘borrow’ from the cash-box as because Paul was well known in certain quarters in Penzance, and if Stephen’s bona fides were called in question Paul could no doubt find people to vouch for him, and this might be in other ways than for the colour of his gold. When in fact, after standing for half an hour in the dusty parlour of the Union Hotel with two dozen other assorted men of varying degrees of respectability, the lifeboat had been knocked down to them, something still had to be done beyond paying for the vessel. Arrangements had to be made either for her semi-permanent storage in the harbour area – with payment in advance – or she had to be taken elsewhere, to some more lively port where there would be a better chance of a quick re-sale.
‘The weather was good,’ Stephen said, telling it all later to Clowance. ‘There was this lull after the gales, so I looked around. One or two likely lads were hanging about the harbour, hands in pockets, holes in breeches, chewing plug. So I say to Paul, the place to sell this vessel is Plymouth. They’ll build up the deck, rig her out, and she’ll be useful for all manner of work. Someone will snap her up there, I say, it’s just a morning’s sail for us, or a few hours’ muscle if the breeze takes off. And you’ve friends in Plymouth too, Paul, I say, who’ll know the ropes. These likely lads, they’d not be above crewing for a guinea. If there’s no change in the sky by morning . . . So he says, why not? and this is what we did.’
‘And you re-sold her?’
‘It took near on four days – longer’n I’d expected – to find the right interest. But we did in the end. Two youngsters went with us; as it turned out we had no need to row; I paid them a guinea each and their fare home. They were full of joy. Did not stay, of course. Took wagons back to Penzance next day, so they came to no harm. No harm at all. Wish it’d been the same with us, but oh, well, it has worked to nobody’s disadvantage as it has turned out.’
‘How did you become involved with the . . .’
Stephen’s face clouded, then he grunted and smiled. Fundamentally an honest man – that is, honest in his personal relationships – he had no wish to tell Clowance anything but the stark truth; yet he knew he must tell it with tact.
‘I reckon I was to blame. More to blame, that is, than Paul. When we’d been paid the money and counted it and made sure it was all there and settled up and rubbed our hands with glee, I say to Paul, avast, we’ll travel home in style, let’s book on one of your rivals and go home first thing in the morning. So we went round to the Royal Hotel and found the Self-Defence was leaving at eight a.m. for Truro, with connections to Hayle and beyond. We’ll go the whole way, I say, and spend another night maybe at Penzance, I say, pick up our ponies and ride home! So Paul says, agreed. Did you know they’ve given up almost the same routes, him and his father and their partners?’
‘What routes?’
‘Those we took home.’
‘Well, no, I didn’t.’
‘Well, it is the same except that their coaches started from Torpoint. The route hasn’t paid, and Paul was watchful to see how their rival worked from Plymouth. It is Paul’s view that passengers prefer to go aboard at Plymouth and cross the river on the coach; sooner that than cross for themselves and board a coach starting from the other side. That’s as maybe, and it don’t concern me, except that Paul wanted to spend the night at the Royal and the evening there too, talking to folk and finding out what he could. Well, you know me – or do you? I hope so, m’dear. I’ve never disguised from you that I do things on the impulse of the moment, like – small bit reckless – unruly, as you might say. And I was happy at the deal I’d done! So though I was content to lie at the Royal I thought the evening would be tedious and I better preferred an inn I’d heard tell of in Plymouth Dock. I thought to go and have a mug of ale, and so Paul agreed.’
‘And find two girls?’ Clowance suggested.
Because in fact that never had been in his mind he was able to look more shocked. ‘As God’s my judge! If you’ve no better feeling for me than that!’
‘A little,’ said Clowance, patting his hand, but feeling warmer, more reassured for his indignation.
‘Well . . . we were there no more than an hour when the door burst open and seven or eight press men rushed in. Two officers. For a couple of minutes all was riot, but the gang had muskets and it looked a lost cause. Can you imagine how I felt?’
‘Go on,’ she said quietly.
But here he had to go carefully. His mind went over the memory of that scene. The low-raftered taproom, the mugs and glasses on the bar, the two sweating tapsters, a one-legged man on a stool in the corner playing his accordion, two mangy dogs that had crept in, a group of sailors from a frigate, a blind man keeping time to the sing-song with his empty mug, two drunks in a corner asleep on the sawdust; noise and smoke and heat and the untuneful voic
es. And then the sudden invasion, the snapping off of the song, the shouts, the quick rush round the taproom to cut off escape, the officers’ voices, shouted commands; two or three scuffles, one involving Paul who shoved back at one of the press gang, protesting he was a gentleman, and got beaten over the head for it.
‘Go on,’ she said again.
‘I never been pressed. You know that, Clowance, don’t you. Though more than once I been near. I never been caught – not ever since that first time with the apples. It is not a pretty feeling to be caught. Now here was I, this night of all nights, with a bag of gold in me pocket – half of it belonging to you, half of it taken unnecessary and in me pocket with the rest. And . . . you waiting; that was worst of all. You waiting. If I gave in this time I lost all!’
He winced as he moved his leg.
‘When I was aboard the Unique we was always fair game then. The men who sail in privateers are most often the best sailors, see. The Navy never picks up landlubbers if it boards a privateer. I tell you, we would often dread the sight of a British frigate more than we would a French. But I’ve never been caught. Now . . . Well, the inn was crowded – luckily for us. It took time to line up the men they’d captured, see what they’d got in their net. Behind me was the door out of the taproom into the parlour beyond. One sailor with a musket guarded it. You know that knife I carry?’
She stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘Yes . . .’
‘It doesn’t need to be opened, you know, it is on a spring as it draws out of its sheath. Well, I had to give it to him . . . Paul was next me nursing his broken head, but as the sailor went down I pushed Paul ahead of me through the door. The others of the gang couldn’t shoot, else they’d have hit the other men in the room. We went through that door and the room beyond like death was after us. As it was. They started shooting when we got out – I got this then; twas lucky it did not stop me running. That part of the town, by the river, is a maze of alleys. We turned and twisted, no breath left. Tis funny how you’re not a coward till you start to run. Then your liver turns to water . . . It did to me, all those years ago, running from the pit. I felt as if I was running away from that coal-pit all over again . . .’ Stephen shifted his position once more. ‘They did not follow far – else they would have lost the rest of their haul. Somehow we found our way to a pump. I tore a piece off me shirt, stopped the bleeding, tied it; Paul was not so noticeable then as he is now – the cuts and bruises have come out – we patched ourselves up, decided to brazen it out and claim our room at the hotel. Nobody noticed. Wednesday we caught the coach. I’ll confess I was relieved to see the end of Plymouth. They might well have searched and found us.’