The Angry Tide (17 page)

The great victory of the Nile invigorated and revived England as nothing else in the war, and following the illuminations, the bell-ringings, the dancing in the streets, came other news which seemed to portend a turn in the long lonely struggle. General Buonaparte and his veteran army were bottled
u
p in Egypt by British sea power, and the French grip of the Mediterranean was suddenly loosened and immobilized. Turkey, having disliked for some time the way in which
the
French had overrun their Egyptian province, now decided to declare war. India was safe, and smaller nations no longer went in such fear of the conqueror. On a more personal note, it seemed that General Buonaparte's wife had been deceiving him in his absence and he, having only just learned of her perfidy, wrote a fiercely furious letter to his brother which the British captured, and this was published in full in the London
Morning Chronicle.
It was the talk of the town, to set beside his opponent, Admiral Nelson's scandalous dalliances with the wife of the British Ambassador in Naples.

Ross had recentl
y talked to two emigres newly escaped from France after the latest of the many abortive loyalist risings. They spoke of Paris as a city without order, filthy and decrepit, with refuse choking the streets and everyone dressing alike in shabby, nondescript clothes; though there was still wild gaiety and licentiousness in the salons and the theatres. But under the gloomy picture they naturally wished to paint, he detected a reluctant admission that conditions were not so severe for ordinary people as they had been. Metal coins had been introduced and had helped to check inflation; there had been a good harvest; there was food enough: bread, meat, butter, wine. And people under the Directory were less afraid to speak their minds. The war was not over yet.

Dwight spent Christmas at Nampara. There was an inner iron to this rather delicate man that enabled him to sustain the misfortunes that life beset him with. Caroline had not come to say goodbye to the Poldarks: she said she was too full up; so Dwight had ridden to tell them after she was gone. There had been no hint of criticism in his tones when he gave them the news; there was none in theirs when they received it. Ross thought, however, of a time when there had been a break between these two people before and he had gone to London to fetch Caroline back. Perhaps it would come to that again. But then, he thought, he and
Demelza
were separating more often. Was it a good thing? At least he could not this time interfere in other people's lives with such conviction.

For Christmas
Demelza
had a party that for a time made her heart glad. The Blarneys arrived from Falmouth - or Flushing where they had now moved to: Andrew, very grey, but looking sturdy and well, still making the perilous Lisbon voyages but home for a month for repairs to his packet; Verity, plumper but prettier than she had been in her twenties, as if life and love, coming to her a little late, had brought a late bloom; Andrew, their five-year-old son; and al
so James Blarney, Verity's step
son, who had lost two fingers in a skir
mish off Brest and part of one e
ar at St Vincent, but was his noisy, jolly, swashbuckling self and determined to make the most of a brief leave. For the Christmas dinner
Demelza
had commanded both Sam and Drake to be present, and, since she seldom commanded anything of them, they in some surprise came.

It was the sort of party she had not quite been able to assemble before. Sometimes she and Ross had been alone; once, the first of all, they had spent at Trenwith; once with the Blarneys in Falmouth; once with Caroline here alone while Dwight was a prisoner in France. But this was the best so far. Three young children at the table, eight adults; and all people whom she loved and could talk with and understand; people who had no barriers betw
een each other, at whom and with
whom you could smile and be totally at case. Sam and Drake were reserved to begin with, feeling themselves as she had once felt; but they soon found the company too cordial to resist. They even drank a glass of wine each and listened and talked with the best.

James Blarney was the great success. While it was still daylight he played lions with the children, a
nd when it was dark he told the
m stories of wil
d days of sea and storm and battl
e that held them goggle-eyed. His relationship with Verity was ext
raordinary; more like a lover th
an a step-son, but all so good-tempered that he made a joke of it.
Demelza
hoped Jeremy would grow up like that - though not to go to sea.

On
the day after Christmas Day th
ey gave a children's party, consisting of Jeremy
's friends. Apart from three Treneglose
s from Mingoose, these were offspring of the miners and farmers around. A dire consequence of prosperity was that
the
Poldarks could no longer release twenty-odd children in the newly rebuilt and redecorated library, so the old parlour was cleared of most of the furniture and they were given their head in that. Again James was worth his weight in gold; but both
Demelza
and Verity joined in everything. The two Carnes, of course, had only been visiting for the day, and Dwight had gone home after breakfast; so Ross and Andrew Blarney escaped for a long walk on the cliffs and talked of war and peace and ships and weather and the condition of the world.

Blarney had hearcd
that General Suvarov had recentl
y been reappointed head of the Russian army; he was the only one with the sort of dynamism that might yet match the French. There was, of course, no war between Russia and France, but if something was not intended, why was there now a Russian army as far west as Bavaria? The Congress of Rastatt was dragging on, but did anyone believe it would achieve anything? The French armies in Europe were wasting away. Very soon the old coalition against France, which had totally disintegrated t
wo years ago, would begin to reform.

And all because of Nelson's victory, said Blarney. Well might they make him Lord Nelson of the Nile and the Duke of Bronte. It was the importance of sea power demonstrated to perfection. Let us keep our armies out of Europe and tighten the stranglehold by sea.

In their walk they had n
ow reached Trenwith land - Warle
ggan land as it was today. A fence had been erected all round it, not quite blocking the cliff path but allowing a five-foot gap to the edge of the cliff. It was not yet a wall: George would get round to that in due course.

They stopped, and Ross put his hand on the fence. 'Enemy territory.' 'Still, Ross? It's a pity.'

'
Demelza
wanted to invite Geoffrey Charles to our party yesterday, but I knew we should only meet with a rebuff.'

Blarney scanned the horizon with a professional gaze. Two sail only, hull down, over St Ann's way. 'We shall call in on the way home, Ross. Verity wants to
see
her nephew - and of course Elizabeth, and she thought it better to pay the visit as we were returning.'

'Very proper. First things first.'

The fence had been put
up
four years ago, and some of the wooden posts had been too green for their purpose. At this point, nearest the sea, the rain and the salt-laden wind had caused rot round the collar of the wood where it went into the ground. Ross noticed some play in the post he was holding. He moved it experimentally backwards and forwards a few times and then exerted his strength on it. The post cracked. Ross pulled it towards him, breaking the two side struts so that a gap appeared in the fence about six feet across. With raised eyebrows Andrew Blarney watched Ross go to the next post and try to treat it in the same way. This one was tougher, but by pulling with all his force he broke it. In a few minutes six of the posts were down, leaving
an
enormous gap in the enclosing fence. Sweating with the effort, Ross picked up the broken posts and cross-pieces and threw them over the cliff. Gulls rose screaming.

He smiled grimly at Blarney. ‘I
wonder no one has done this before.'

'There are gamekeepers?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Then I think we should go.'

'Perhaps it would be wrong to provoke a disturbance.' Ross threw a last piece of wood over the edge. 'This being the season of good will.
’

Blarney looked at him and perceived where in Ross precisely the good will began and ended. Sometimes he was not a comfortable man to be with; and just now the pent-up rebelliousness in him was very near the surface. It came near but never quite went over the edge of unreason.

As they returned to Nampara the youn
g were just leaving. James Blam
ey in his shirt-sleeves had got some elastic
and was using his part-fingere
d hand as a catapult.
Demelza
and Verity were tousle-haire
d and exhausted; Clowance was sucking a sweetmeat, her face smothered in sticky sugar; Jeremy had be
come too excited, and Jane Gimle
tt was taking him to bed. Ross felt ashamed. Was he too old to play his proper part? Blarney was fifty; that was a different matter. He went to Demelza.

'Have you survived it, love?'

She looked at him in surprise. 'Of course, Ross. Twas all lovely. It is all part of life - of having children - of growing up.' 'I know,' he said, 'I should have helped more.'
‘
You do your part. That's all that matters.' 'Do I? Not always. Not always'.

Clowance was clutching his legs and clamouring to be picked up. He hoisted her into his arms; she was still fat; and suddenly her
enormous, hair-streaked, toffee
-stained face was very close to his. She kissed him, leaving a great stain behind.

'Papa, you wasn't here.'

'No, my dear, I was lazy. I'll take you both out tomorrow.'

'Where, Papa, where?'

'I don't know. Somewhere.'

'Even if it rains?'

'It won't rain if I tell it not to.'

'Ooh, that's a fib,' said Clowance, opening her eyes wide at him.

'True enough. You're just like your mother; you
see
right through mc.'

'Ross, that's not true either,' said Demelza. 'Well, halfway.'

Verity said: 'I agree: she sees through the dark part to the nice part.'

Before the
y left, Verity came on Ross alone in the library and said: 'My dear, it's been such a lovely time. Thank you for having us. It has been refreshing to be with you both again.' 'For us, too.'

'Ross, you are happy in your new life?'

'My
new
life? Oh, you mean in Parliament
...
I'm not sure. I'm content to allow it to run for a year or two more. If I felt I was being of some value, cither to the country or to the county by being there, then I think I should be happy.'

'And your own life - with
Demelza
?'

He met Verity's eyes and then glanced down at the books he had been arranging. 'What makes you ask?'

'My dear, for the usual reason, because I want to know.' 'Did you suppose there should be some special reason for
the
question?'

'Not unless you tell me so. But we have often shared each other's troubles and perplexities in the past.'

'So you think there is some trouble or perplexity? Has Demelza said as much?'

'Of course not. She never would. But I detect - or fancy I detect -some element of - of strain. I
think
..
.' She patted his arm and turned over a book or two on the table herself. 'For instance you, Ross. You
are
more - unquiet than I have seen you for many years. It's as if
the
old wildncss that you used to show - as if some of it has come back. From the days before you even married Demelza.'

He laughed. 'Perhaps it is that the leopard cannot change his spots. Put him in a satin coat and knee-breeches and he behaves with all the circumspection expected of him. But such behaviour docs not last indefinite. Every now and again his nature rebels against it and he wants to go out killing lambs. Do leopards kill lambs? Well, you understand what I mean.'

'Yes
...
oh, yes. I understand. If that is a
ll, then I understand. But is th
at really to do widi your life with Demelza? I should not have thought that at all contrary to
Demelza
's own spirit.'

He said: 'You probe too deep.'

'Perhaps I'm the only one with the right.'

'The right?'

She smiled
at
him. 'Well, then, the only one who dares.'

Ross said: 'We should meet more often, Verity. It is monstrous that a mere eighteen miles should separate us so completely. Come again and bring young Andrew. He's a fine boy.'

Verity said: 'Seeking perfection, Ross
...
in life it's dangerous, for it makes
the
less than perfect seem less than enough. Time is not indefinite. This year I was forty
...'

Ross put some books on a shelf. They were old books, and on the new shelf they looked shabby.

'Do you know when I was born, Verity?'

'You? Serious? I know roughly. Don't you?'

'No, I can find no record. I was christened late in January '60, but whether I was born in January 1760 or in December '59 I have no idea.'

'I have always thought myself eight
een months older th
an you.' 'You still look about twenty-four.'

'Well, thank you. Sometimes, I confess I feel one, sometimes the other. But I make the utmost of all the good that comes. With both my men in danger
...'

'My dear, I know that must be hard for you.'

'I'm not talking of myself, Ross, but of you. The lack of compromise in many of the Poldarks. Really, it was Francis's downfall.'

'And could be mine?'

She smiled again. 'You know I don't mean that. You know very well what I mean.'

'I know very well what you mean,' said Ross. 'But one or two things have happened, Veri
ty. Oh, I know they are small th
ings - small to set beside the great - and they
are
best forgot on both sides, and indeed many times
are
forgot. But now and then you do not have all the control of your feelings that you should have - and then thoughts and feelings surge
up
in you like - like an angry tide. And it is hard, sometimes it is hard to control the tide.'

Chapter
Three