Penmarric (56 page)

It was small wonder that Jared Roslyn had disowned an offspring who flourished so embarrassingly only a few miles from the working-men’s club he had founded for the miners who lived in Zillan parish.

I crossed the yard toward him. “Good morning,” I said curtly. “What do you want?”

I saw no reason to be polite to him. It would have been foolish to speak as if we were old friends.

His glance flickered over me from head to toe. His dark eyes were hard but no longer hostile. “A word with you,” he answered, equally direct in his manner. His voice, deep and Cornish, surprised me for some reason; perhaps I was merely surprised to hear him speak. “We needn’t trouble your mother. It’s you I want to see.”

I felt more baffled than ever. “Just a moment,” I said abruptly and turned to tell the Turner girls in the kitchen that my mother could stay out of the way. After they had scurried off round-eyed to find her, I asked Jared Roslyn into the house and led the way through the kitchens and hall to the parlor. He followed me without a word, and as I closed the parlor door behind us I remembered that the house had been his home once and that he had probably loved it then as much as I loved it now.

“How can I help you, Mr. Roslyn?” I said, spurred to a reluctant courtesy. “Please sit down.”

“I’ll stand.” He had gone to look out of the window but now he turned to face me. There was a short silence as our glances met. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said at last “Good things mostly.”

I was so surprised I was speechless. This was the very last observation I would ever have expected to hear from him. I was still staring at him blankly when he added, “It takes guts not to follow the crowd. I don’t know why you haven’t enlisted and I don’t care. I don’t hold with wars. Men should live in brotherhood and not murder each other in violation of the Commandments. Besides, you’re needed here—now. In a way it’s a miracle you’re still here, but then God moves in mysterious and wonderful ways. I’m beginning to see His Hand in this and His Providence.” He spoke simply with complete sincerity. In spite of the fact that I had outgrown religion a long time ago and went to church only to please my mother, I was impressed. After a moment he said, “You look like your mother. I might have married your mother once long ago. A pity I didn’t. I could have done with a son like you.”

It seems ridiculous to admit it now but I was touched, even moved, by what he said. My father had never said anything to suggest he did not regard me as a nuisance, a cross he had been assigned to bear as part of his parental duties. Everything I had done had been wrong, foolish and misguided in his eyes, even if it had not been positively bad. Yet here was this stranger whom I had been brought up to dislike, and he was saying he had heard good reports of me and that be wished I could have been his son instead of my father’s.

“I’m glad you’ve heard good reports of me,” I said uncertainly, still taken aback by his words, “but how could they be of interest to you?”

He said, “We have a mutual interest, I think.”

“Mutual interest?”

“Sennen Garth.”

There was a silence. We stood there, just he and I in that house where he had lived long ago, and I realized that here at last was my ally, someone who understood, and he was talking of the mine, my mine, Sennen Garth, which I longed to transform into the greatest mine of the Cornish Tin Coast.

“I’ve had many a tussle with your father over that mine,” he was saying. “The first time was when he closed it down after he had moved to Penmarric. Many good miners were out of work, there were, with starving families. Those were bad days. I led deputations to persuade him to reopen it, but he was stubborn as a dozen mules. He was young then—two or three years older than you are now maybe. Very polite he was, but stubborn. Unreasonable. Once he’d made his decision there was no deflecting him.”

“He’s always refused to reopen the mine,” I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth. “He’s mean with his money and won’t take a risk, but I know there’s tin there, Mr. Roslyn, I know it because I’ve seen the old maps and I’ve been down the Levant and I
know.
There’s a lode under the sea, running westward—”

“I’ve talked to miners who said the same thing. Now listen to me, boy, and listen carefully. Have you ever thought that this war may be the saving of Sennen Garth? You read your newspapers, no doubt—you’ll know we’re short of tin. If we could interest the government in the mine—if we could persuade them there’s plenty of tin still there in the ground—”

The sudden comprehension so overwhelmed me that I felt dizzy. “Christ Almighty.”

“Hold your tongue, boy, blasphemy won’t open the mine any more than your father will. Now listen to me—are you listening? I’ve got a number of depositions from men who used to work at Sennen Garth twenty years ago before your father closed it. They all testify that there’s tin still left in the mine and probably more below the lowest level—after all, your father didn’t close the mine because it was worked out; he closed it because it wasn’t a money-making venture any more, because he wasn’t prepared to invest more money to make it a money-making venture, and because he’d as lief live with the mine closed for good as having to provide a livelihood for honest working men. I’ve also got a deposition from the men of the Levant about the possibility of there being a rich lode under the sea, and I’ve got a deposition from a young mining expert from Redruth called Alun Trevose who gives it as his opinion—being impartial—that the Government would find it well worth their while to investigate the possibilities of reopening Sennen Garth. I’ve got any number of depositions. Now all I want is someone to present that case to the Government. I could present it myself and go to London and do my best, but I’m not a miner and I’ve no technical knowledge should they want to question me. I’ve talked it over with the miners, men who live in St. Just and Zillan, and they all mentioned your name. You’re known to love the mines like a miner; you’ve been down the Levant often enough. Everyone speaks more than highly of you.”

I was dumbfounded. My face began to burn with pleasure.

“Of course you’re young,” said Jared Roslyn, “and just a boy in some ways, I dare say, but the miners I spoke to thought of you as a man who could act like a man and think like a man as far as the mine’s concerned. You’ve also got one great advantage, be it unjust or not; you’ve been reared as a gentleman. You’ll know how to talk to the Government and they’ll listen to you more readily than they’d listen to a Cornish working man. Well, there it is. Will you go to London for us and present our case?” And as I began to stammer he added, “You’d best think it over. I don’t want to be accused of rushing you into any rash judgment. I’ll be at the Working Men’s Club in Zillan tonight—come over after eight and give me your answer, if you will.”

“You needn’t wait till eight for my answer.” I was so excited I could hardly speak. “I don’t need time to think it over. I’ve been thinking about that mine for over twelve years. I’ll go to London for you and get that mine opened and, by God, I’ll find that tin and strike that lode if it’s the very last thing I ever do.”

“Warcraft was his specialty and everything else was sacrificed to indulging it.

It was no use his enemies taking refuge in castles, for Richard would detect a weakness in even the most allegedly impregnable of them and exploit it with precocious skill.

—King John,

W. L. WARREN

I
NEEDED MONEY THEN
, not much, just enough for my fare to London and to pay for my meals and my hotel. Also I had discovered that my best suits, which I had put away in the wardrobe on my return to the farm over three years ago, no longer fitted me. I had filled out; hard work had made me muscular and the material of my jackets now strained across my shoulder blades and refused to meet across my chest. My mother had money saved, but I hated to ask her for anything, and nothing on earth would have induced me to go crawling to my father. In the end I approached Jared. He was astonished to hear I had no money, I suppose because he believed that anyone who spoke as I did should have too much money for their own good.

“Look,” I said bluntly, “I’m a working man, just as you are. The farm makes enough profit to enable me to live very simply, and now I no longer have to ask my mother for a share of my father’s maintenance payments, but I only have seven pounds of my own in the bank and nothing more, so if you can’t help me I’ll have to borrow from somewhere else, and frankly I’d rather borrow from you than from a professional moneylender. And don’t suggest I borrow from my mother. She’s supported me financially for long enough and I don’t want her to support me any more.”

He didn’t ask me why I couldn’t approach my father. He knew, just as everyone knew, that my father and I were estranged. Instead he said with reluctance, “I haven’t much money to spare myself, but I wouldn’t want to see you in debt to the moneylenders. I’ll talk to my brother Joss. He married a rich woman and has only one child to provide for. He’ll lend me the money.”

So I got the money and had a new suit made and after Christmas I went to London to see our member of Parliament. He said he would look into the matter. I said that wasn’t good enough. He became annoyed, but when I reminded him of my father’s power in the Duchy and how many votes he could influence he said he would speak to the Minister. I hung around a few days longer, wishing I was back in Cornwall and wondering how they were managing without me at the farm; I had never liked London, and London in wartime was even more depressing than when the world had been at peace. Peace now seemed a thousand light-years away. “I give the Germans exactly six months!” Marcus had declared before leaving Cornwall to enlist, but he, like so many others, had been hopelessly optimistic.

The war was dragging on. All the action had taken place within the first four months and now matters had reached a stalemate—or so it seemed, although since information was scarce rumor was rife and it was hard to know what was really going on. However, it was generally agreed that the British Expeditionary Force under Sir John French had done well after crossing to France in August; it had reached Mons in time to thwart the Schlieffen Plan and prevent the Germans reaching Paris; it had forced the enemy back across the Aisne, and presently at Ypres it had halted the German advance to the Channel. But now in December both sides had paused to replenish their supplies and it was hard to forecast what might happen next. Both sides were evenly matched and there was no hint that a clear-cut victory was just around the corner.

I was made more aware of the war while I was staying in London. In Cornwall it was easy enough to think of the conflict being confined to France, but in London I was conscious that the war had reached across the Channel to lay drab, dank fingers upon a city which had been until so recently the most brilliant, most opulent and most colorful capital in Europe. Men in uniform, unending speculation on the war, rabid Germanophobia, new rules and regulations, a drop in the quality of food and service—the war permeated everything. It was a gray, grim winter in a gray, grim city and I grudged every moment I was kept waiting by those incompetent politicians.

While I was waiting I heard a rumor of compulsory enlistment if the recruiting campaigns did not measure up to expectations, but the news was a false alarm. Patriotism ran so high that everyone was in a fever to enlist, and no one suspected then that the war would be so lengthy and the casualties so high that compulsory enlistment would become necessary. I relaxed. It was not that I was unpatriotic. I would have defended Cornwall to the last ditch if the invaders had tried to advance across the Tamar, but I saw no point in rushing off to France to fight a bunch of foreigners who were causing trouble because some fool had got himself shot in Sarajevo. I had my own wars to fight anyway. I hadn’t the time to run around France killing Germans when I was needed in Cornwall to fight the battle for my mine. Besides, why shouldn’t the French fight their own battles? If they’d had more backbone Britain wouldn’t have been dragged into the war and I wouldn’t have been placed in such an embarrassing position.

I was just thinking I would have to send home for more money when I heard that the high-ranking civil servant who advised the Minister on matters such as my mine would be willing to give me an appointment, and presently I went to Whitehall with my member of Parliament to see him.

He was an ill-tempered aristocrat with a dissolute mouth and eyes weary from worry and overwork.

I tried not to show how nervous I was. Making a great effort, I kept my voice forceful and began the concise speech I had prepared for the occasion.

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted me irritably, his hands twitching the copies of the miners’ depositions before him, “but who owns this mine?”

“A man called Mark Castallack, sir.”

“Castallack? The historian?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at me oddly. “Didn’t you say your name was Castallack too?”

“Yes, it is. He’s my father.”

“Your father! Good God, why on earth didn’t you say so!” He gave me a conspiratorial smile as if to say, “So you’re one of us after all.” When I refused to return his smile and waited politely for him to continue, he was somewhat taken aback. It took him several seconds to think of what to say next. “What is your father’s present position in regard to the mine?” he inquired distantly at last “Was he a shareholder before the old company became defunct? I assume it was once a company with capital, shares and so forth.”

“Yes, sir, it was.” I was glad the interview had become more formal again. The atmosphere of a cozy chat would hardly have helped me to state my case succinctly. “However, the Penmars—my grandmother’s family who owned the mine—were never content to be just landowners taking a percentage of the dues. They were adventurers—speculators and shareholders, that is—as well as landowners, and they were the moving force in floating the old company and seeing it established. They owned two-thirds of the shares, and even when the company was wound up they of course remained the landowners. For the last couple of years I’ve been trying to persuade both my father and various well-known adventurers to reform the company, but my father’s not interested in spending his money in that way and the adventurers these days seem to be wary of the old mines, especially after what happened at the mine East Wheal Rose in the Eighties—although there are plenty who say Wheal Rose was closed just when the greatest wealth of all was within reach … But to return to Sennen Garth, there’s no doubt that it’s still a rich mine. First of all there’s tin left in the old workings. No one denies that. Second, there’s tin beneath the lowest level of the old workings. No one seriously denies that either. Third, the greatest wealth of all can most probably be reached by extending the mine out under the sea, just as they’ve done at Levant and Botallack. In those depositions you’ll find expert mining opinion which reinforces this probability. Why, you may ask, in these circumstances does the mine remain closed when it obviously has such a great potential? Sir, that’s a fair question and I’ll tell you the answer. It’s because considerable capital investment is required and investors are fighting shy of the Cornish tin mines because economists in London—who know nothing of Cornwall—have been spreading a rumor for a long time that the Cornish tin industry has moved into an irreversible decline. It’s the attitude that’s to blame, sir, not the facts. If the Government now backs Sennen Garth, you’ll revive not just my mine but the whole Cornish tin industry. You’ll give the investors faith and you’ll get your tin. You can’t miss! And as far as Sennen Garth is concerned, it would really be a very simple operation. All you would have to do would be to get a new engine, drain the bottom of the mine—”