The Twisted Sword by Winston Graham
He looked forward to telling old Uncle Cary what he had done. Five years ago, Cary had been scathing in his denunciation of the speculation which hadn’t come off. Now, though no doubt grumpy and grudging, as was his nature, he would have to admit the brilliance of the manoeuvre. Nothing spoke so convincingly to Cary as money.
George was also looking forward to seeing Harriet again. In the euphoria of Thursday he had bought her a present, a diamond brooch. It was second-hand and a bargain, but he had paid, if not more than its worth, more than he had intended, and occasionally this little worm of self-criticism came to disturb his sense of wellbeing. But at least Harriet, who loved jewellery, could not fail to be pleased.
He must be careful not to appear to boast to her about his coup; indeed he knew it would be better if he did not mention it at all – if he could possibly forbear. Harriet did not pretend to despise money – indeed, she liked it – but it was not central to her philosophy; it was only valuable to her for what it could buy; and he knew if he told her of his successful speculation she would only congratulate him in an absent-minded way, looking cynically amused as she did so, and change the subject.
He wondered if Harriet had heard yet about Jeremy. The first casualty lists had been issued on the 4th July, and his name had been on it. George supposed the whole county would know about it now. Personally he was going to shed no tears; he never had liked the tall, gangling young buck: typical Poldark with his arrogance and his pride. The women were rather better – at least Clowance was – but the men were all the same. More fools they for going in the army and trying to be heroes. It seemed no time at all – though it was actually getting on for twenty years since Ross himself had performed some so-called dare-devil rescue of Dwight Enys and others from a French prisoner-of-war camp and so had become a nine-days’ wonder and the hero of the county. Well, now his son was gone, and bad luck for him and for his contriving a baronetcy for his son to inherit – though George had heard there was another son barely weaned yet; they bred like rabbits on the North Coast. That miner’s brat with the stupid name; she’d had half a dozen at least.
But talking of breeding; there was his own wife pregnant now, bearing his son, who, with blue blood in his veins, would live to inherit all his mercantile wealth and possessions. What should they call him? George had a fancy for the name of Hector – or Nicholas; but no doubt Harriet would have ideas of her own. He believed it would be about Christmas or January; Harriet was typically vague. It was still a long time to wait. Pray God the child wasn’t premature . . .
The carriage turned in at the gates of Cardew, and George’s eye looked about with critical appreciation, admiring the elegance and extent of his own property but scanning it for any evidence of indolence or neglect. When it came to the big pillared entrance of the mansion, one of the coachmen jumped down and opened the carriage door. At the same moment the door of the house opened and two footmen stood there to greet him. It was a warm afternoon and the coach had been stuffy – it needed to be well cleaned inside with a carriage soap and thoroughly brushed out.
He stretched his legs and his back, glad the journey was over; nodded to his servants and went into the hall. Harriet was crossing, followed by her two boarhounds. She looked up in surprise. Castor growled, and she put her hand on his muzzle to restrain him.
‘Why, George,’ she said. ‘Good-day to you. You’re soon back.’
IV
During the momentous days of late June, while the fate of empires was being decided, Stephen was cruising in the Channel hoping to settle some of the problems in his own life.
It seemed the Adolphus was out of luck. Fishing vessels and a few tiny trading schooners – the latter just worth seizing but Stephen would not touch them; he was looking for bigger game. The weather was changeable, mainly sunny, almost calm; but then the wind would take off from an unexpected quarter and blow hard, so the crew was kept busy making and shortening sail. Twice they sighted larger vessels but Carter, who had been in the navy, was quick to recognize them as British warships. Then in a flurry of a brief squall they came suddenly in sight of a French frigate and had to run for their lives. The Adolphus crowded on all the sail she could and soon was heeling right over, white water along her lee rail, dipping and spouting into the short seas. It was an anxious two hours until nightfall.
Stephen had laid in a generous supply of stores: biscuit, beef, pork, peas, coffee, tea, sugar, flour, pepper, salt, lime juice; and he reckoned they had enough to last a good two weeks. Fresh water might force them in a bit earlier, but he began to hear rumblings of dissension among the crew. It was not, he discovered, discontent with his captaincy, but, with too much time on their hands, they were quarrelling among themselves.
Jason, who was his informant on most things, explained to him that there was a bitter rivalry between men from Falmouth and those from Penryn, and they were dividing into two camps with about a third of the crew uninvolved in either. One day Stephen heard a group of them shouting and jeering.
‘Old Penrynners up in a tree,’ they shouted
‘Looking as wisht as wisht can be.
Falmouth men be strong as oak
Can knock ’em down at every poke.’
To which the men from Penryn shouted a more obscene rhyme back.
Looking at them, weather-beaten, long-nosed, hard-faced men, Stephen wondered that they could be such childish fools as to support a rivalry between two towns which were only a couple of miles apart. He’d been careful to lock up all the cutlasses and muskets he had brought and had appointed a man called Hodge as armourer.
Hodge was a little fat squab of a man, swart and jowly, but a bundle of energy and efficiency. Stephen soon saw him as the most valued member of the crew and began to consult him more and more. In his forty years he seemed to have done and been everything, and his experience as a sailor helped Stephen to fill the gaps in his own knowledge. Thank God he happened to come from St Ives.
But there was no knowing how many private knives were carried in secret places or how long it would be before the feud turned into a bitter battle. Jason also told him that they had brought rum aboard: he did not know where it was stored but some of the crew had access to it over and above the daily ration.
So it was a relief on the seventh day to sight what looked like a promising sail.
A beautiful still dawn, with a pearly sun rising out of the early mists, turning them lemon-yellow and then to a grey scarf washed with scarlet. Yet as the sun rose it never came to full health. Anaemia set in, and the mist became light cloud chasing the colour from the sky. The gulls, which were always following Adolphus, rose and flapped and cried and settled again into the darkening water.
It was about noon that the look-out reported the sail. Stephen, who was not fond of heights, sent Carter up and then Jason. Soon you could see the sail from the deck.
‘She’s only got one mast,’ said Jason, disappointed, ‘but she’s carrying a heavy sail.’
Ten minutes later Carter came down. ‘Reckon ’tis a French chaloupe. She’s just put out two headsails; means she’s seen us and altered course.’
The manoeuvring of the last few days had robbed Stephen of any idea where he really was, particularly as related to the French coast; but the drift of the Adolphus had been continually west, so it seemed likely that there was a great width of the Channel about them.
‘Size is she?’
Carter pulled at his bottom lip. ‘Bigger’n you’d expect. A hundred ton maybe.’
‘Armed?’
‘Likely.’
‘What with?’
‘Could not say. Nothing big.’
‘Sure she’s French?’
‘Well, she’s flying the French flag.’
‘Jason,’ said Stephen. ‘Go get the French flags. See if we can reassure her.’
V
They pursued the chaloupe all day while the day went off. The sun disappeared about some other business, and cloud gathered and a light rai
She was a strange-looking vessel to English eyes – very heavily sparred with an immense mainsail and a main boom very long and thick. She was steered by a long tiller, had high bulwarks and a wide stern. She should have been clumsy to handle, yet in fact moved well through the water and seemed to answer her helm readily. Her name, it seemed, was the Revenant.
Two of Stephen’s six-pounders had been fitted as bow chasers, and when the distance warranted he told his gunners to try a shot or two in the hope of bringing down her mainsail, since it was clear that his friendly French flag was not inducing the master to slacken pace. It was then he began to regret not having let the gunners have more practice during the week at sea. (Powder and cannon shot were very expensive.) First the balls dropped far short; then they winged into the air and only a distant plopping indicated where they had fallen. Almost at once a gun replied from the other vessel. Stephen recognized it as a French long four-pounder; it could not reach them yet but could do damage at closer quarters. If only his own damned gunners could aim straight. He ran forward and saw to the next discharge himself. He might not be a first-class navigator but he had had some experience with cannon.
The Frenchman’s best hope of escape was the weather. There was a handy, steady south-westerly breeze but the rain was thickening into mist, and visibility was closing in. It would be a disaster to lose touch now. Hodge was the only man who could speak fair French so Stephen sent him up into the bows with a hailer, telling them that the Adolphus was friendly and saying that his captain wanted to speak with their captain as he had news of Bonaparte.
The only answer to this was a heavy thump in the bows and splinters of wood flying up through the air. Stephen cursed and lowered the sight of his cannon, ordered them to fire. The cannon reared on the deck, two stabs of flame lit the grey afternoon, but the brig had dipped at the wrong moment and both shots ploughed harmlessly into the sea.
Close to, the Revenant was quite a handsome vessel, well cared for and every way in good shape. She was sailing heavy and probably carried a full cargo. Of course she would have to be boarded, and that was what the crew was waiting for – eagerly crouching behind the elmwood bulwarks. They looked a villainous lot, and he hoped sight of them swarming up over the side would persuade the Frenchman to strike and thus save damage and bloodshed. The Revenant with her equally high bulwarks could prove a nasty customer if defended stoutly.
Jason was beside him. ‘You’re firing too low, Father! What range have those guns? If we could smash their rudder . . .’
‘Do not forget we want to capture this ship,’ said Stephen, ‘not sink her.’ Another shot whistled over their head and tore a clean hole in their gaff mainsail. The Adolphus slewed as the sail split, until Carter at the helm brought her up again. ‘Now back to your place and no more talking.’ Stephen was leading one boarding party, Hodge the other. Jason was in Hodge’s party. Carter was remaining in charge of the Adolphus.
At much closer range now the two six-pounders fired and this time the shot found their mark. The great mainsail, carrying the full thrust of the wind, was suddenly in flapping tatters. The larger balls and the double shot had done far more damage to the Frenchman’s sail; the Revenant yawed, and the two vessels closed. Muskets began to fire, and some misfired in the damp and the rain. One ship ran alongside the other with a grinding crump, grappling irons were thrown, men were over and jumping down onto the deck. There was some fighting but it was half-hearted. The man at the helm looked like the Captain, and grouped around him were a half-dozen others, cutlasses out, pistols firing. But one man fell and then another and the Captain raised his hands.
Stephen let out a yell of triumph – it had all come just as he had planned it; a splendid prize! But there was another yell close beside him and a rough hand pulled at his shoulder, tugging him round. On the Revenant’s larboard bow something else was looming out of the mist. She was far bigger than either of the contestants: two decks, three masts, a rakish bow. There was ice in Stephen’s stomach as he recognized the French frigate which had chased them on Friday.
Chapter Two
I
It was luck that they got away at all – the luck being that the Adolphus had grappled the Revenant on the starboard side, so that the French chaloupe was between the Adolphus and the frigate and the frigate could not fire at the English ship without hitting the Revenant.
A panic retreat for Stephen’s men – up and over the side, and back to their brig, hacking at grappling irons that failed to come free, Carter bringing over the helm as the last man dropped aboard. Both ships had been travelling at a modest speed when they came alongside. Carter made skilful use of the sail already set, and they had the weather gage. Quite quickly they slipped into the mist as the frigate sent a broadside after them. Some of it landed, and one man, from Truro, was killed, a second lost his leg. Then they were away.
There was still an hour or so’s daylight left, and it all depended on whether the mist would clear at the wrong moment. But it stayed, heavy and morose. Stephen wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around. The bitterest disappointment of his life. A prize of real value, virtually surrendered, prospect of a return to England in triumph with a rich reward – and then all to be dashed from his hands. Presumably the frigate had been attracted by the firing. They were damned lucky not to have been captured.
And then Stephen looked around for Jason and found he was not there.
II
‘We’ll follow them,’ said Stephen. ‘No choice.’
‘I seen ’im with Jago and Edwards. They went forward and got cut off in the strowl. There’s the three on ’em missing. They’m prisoners now, I’ll lay a crown.’
‘Follow ’em?’ said Carter. ‘’Tes easier said than done in this misty wet. Like as not we’ll find the frigate instead.’
‘It is clearing,’ said Stephen between his teeth. ‘Look, the sky’s light where the sun’s setting. We’ll follow. All through the night, if need be.’
Rain ran down their faces as they stood by the helm peering into the light fog. A pink haze flushed the mist astern of them; the rain might well lift with the onset of evening. But that was only one of their problems.
‘Where are we?’ said Stephen.
‘Dear knows,’ said Carter, ‘unless the stars d’come out. And then ’twill only be at best guesswork so far as the land d’go. But I’ve a fancy we’re nigh in to the French coast.’
‘I didn’t think so. What makes ye say that?’
‘Notice them two French fishing boats coming up as we was going to board the chaloupe? They was crabbers. They’d not be far off the coast.’
‘Near Dinard, d’ye reckon?’
‘Not so far’s that. More like Cap Fréhel.’
‘The Revenant came from St Pierre,’ said Hodge. ‘’Twas on the tiller.’
‘Where is St Pierre?’
‘Just north of St Malo. I know it well. Upon times when we was running goods to Roscoff we’d come east to St Pierre instead. ’Twas quieter and prices was better.’
Stephen walked up and down, up and down. So far they had been cruising more than a week and now were being sent empty away. And he had lost Jason. To his own surprise this counted for more than anything else.
‘Think you could find St Pierre?’ he said to Hodge.
‘Maybe if the fog d’clear.’
‘It would depend upon you and Carter,’ Stephen said. ‘I’ve not a great knowledge of this coast, but I know it’s rocks. And the tides are lethal. But I’ve a fancy to follow the Revenant in.’
Hodge took out his watch. ‘If we’re near Cap Fréhel, as Mike says, we could be off St Pierre by midnight. So long as we don’t fall foul of the frigate again we could run in and see how the land lies.’
III
At one o’clock in the morning they ran in to see how the land lay.
St Pierre was a fishing village, not unlike its opposite fellows in Cornwall. A horseshoe harbour with stone-built cottages climbing steeply up the granite hillside behind. A harbour wall, a tidal inlet, a church tower showing against the skyline. Even at that time in the morning there were a few lights.
The weather was not unsuitable for a raid. Thick fine rain still borne on a light sou’westerly breeze. The moon had just risen and, though obscured by clouds, prevented the harbour from being altogether dark.
The Adolphus, in total darkness, had dropped anchor just inside the harbour wall. They went in the two jolly boats. Fortunately the sea was light, for each boat was crammed to the gunnels with men. There was hardly room in them to row. Each man carried a cutlass. Stephen had forbidden muskets, even pistols. ‘They may squirt us,’ said Stephen. ‘They won’t be able to shoot us tonight.’
But apart from the soaking damp, the essence of the adventure was silence.
There were only three ships in the tiny harbour and they could easily pick out the Revenant as the largest and because of its unusual trim. Farther up were a dozen rowing boats stranded in the sand. A light in a cottage. A light in the Revenant, somewhere below decks. A swinging lantern as someone moved along the quay.
On Stephen’s direction they did not come alongside the chaloupe but paddled slowly past it, and each boat attached itself to a weed-grown iron ladder going up the harbour wall. One man was left in each boat. Stephen led the rest up to the cobble-stoned quay.