Andrew lowered his arm. 'Verity, I beg of you to reconsider…' He caught sight of her face. 'Oh, my dear, please…'
She pushed past him and plunged into the crowd.
The movement was so swift and reckless that neither of the others was quick enough to follow.
Then Blamey went shouting, 'Verity! Verity!' over the heads of the people who separated them, and Demelza followed.
But even that second was enough to set people between them, and he with his greater strength, fighting ahead to catch Verity, soon widened the gap until Demelza lost sight of him.
Demelza was above average height, but they were all tall men ahead of her and she pushed and turned and craned her head to no purpose. Then as they neared the bottleneck of the bridge she had no room or strength to look for the others; she could only fight for herself to avoid being diverted and pushed into the river. Men and women were squeezed upon her from all sides, elbows and staves poking and pressing and jerking; the great crowd animal seized her breath and gave her nothing in return. For moments they were stationary, shouting and sweating and cursing; then, suddenly silent, they would surge one way or another. Several times she lost her foothold altogether and went along without using her legs, at others she stumbled and had to clutch at her neighbours to save herself from going under. Quite near her a woman fell and was trampled on by the crowd. Then another fainted, but she was picked up and dragged along by a man beside her. Beyond her sight there were splashings and screamings and the clash of staves.
Even past the bridge the very narrow street gave no good outlet. Near its objective, the crowd was getting angrier, and its anger took more of the air, consuming it in great waves of heat and violence. Lights and spots danced before Demelza's eyes, and she fought with the others for room to live. At last they were out of the worst press and bearing down Coinagehall Street. The crowd was making for the big corn warehouses which stood beside the creek.
Captain Blamey was away to her right - she saw him suddenly - and as she began to recover she tried to fight towards him.
The press grew again, bore her forward and slowly brought her to a standstill, surrounded by angry sweating miners and their women. Her good clothes were too conspicuous.
Before the big doors of the first warehouse citizens and burghers of the town were gathered to defend the rights of property. A fat, soberly clad man, the Citizen Magistrate, was standing on a wall, and he began to shout soundlessly into the great growling noise of the mob. Beside him was the corn factor who owned the warehouse, a fat man with a habit of blinking, and two or three constables of the town. There were no soldiers about; the justices had been taken by surprise.
As Demelza pushed her way towards the corner, where Blamey was, she saw Verity. He had found her. They were standing together against a stable door, unable to move farther for the crowd of people about them.
The magistrate had turned from reason to threat. While all that could be done would be done, that did not mean that those who broke the law would not be punished according to the law. He'd remind them of the trouble at Redruth last month when one of the rioters had been sentenced to death and many thrown into prison.
There were cries of 'Shame!' and 'Cruel an' wicked!'
'But we want no more'n what's right. We want corn to live by like the beasts o' the field. Well, then, sell us corn at a fair an' proper price an' we'll go home wi' it peaceable. Name us a price, mister, a fair an' proper price for starving men.'
The magistrate turned and spoke to the corn factor beside him. Demelza pushed her way between two miners, who glared at her angrily for the disturbance. She had thought to cry out to catch Verity's notice, but changed her mind.
The justice said: 'Mr Sanson will sell you the corn at fifteen shillings a bushel as a concession to your poor and needy families. Come, it is a generous offer.'
There was a growl of anger and dissent, but before he replied the little miner bent to consult with those around him.
At last Demelza got within speaking distance of her friends, but they were separated from her by a handcart and a group of women sitting on the handcart, and she did not see how she could get nearer. Neither Andrew nor Verity saw her, for their gaze was towards the parley at the doors of the warehouse, although it might never have been happening for all they took in.
'Eight shillings. We'll pay ye eight shillings a bushel. Tis the very top we can afford, an' that'll mean hardship an' short commons for all.'
The corn merchant made an expressive gesture with his hands before even the magistrate turned to him. There was a roar of hostility from the crowd, and then suddenly in the silence which followed Demelza heard Andrew's voice speaking low and quick.
'…to live, my dear. Have I expiated nothing, learned nothing in these empty years? If there's blood between us, then it's old and long dry. Francis is changed, that I can see, though I've, not spoken to him. But you have not changed, in heart you have not.'
There was another roar.
'Eight shillings or nothing,' shouted a miner. 'Speak now, mister, if it's to be peace, for we can 'old back no longer.'
Verity put up a gloved hand to her eyes. 'Oh, Andrew, what can I say? Are we to have all this again… the meeting, the parting, the heartache?'
'No, my dear, I swear. Never the parting…'
Then it was all lost in the roar that greeted Sanson's obstinate refusal. The little miner went from his perch as if a hand had plucked him, and there was a great surge forward. The men on the steps of the granary put up a show of resistance, but they were leaves before a wind. In a few minutes tinners were hacking with their staves at the padlock on the door of the warehouse, and then quickly the doors were open and they surged in.
Demelza clung to the handcart to stop herself being carried towards the warehouse, but then men seized the handcart to load it up with grain, and she had to give way and press herself against the stable door.
'Demelza!' Verity had seen her. 'Andrew, help her. They will knock her down.'
Verity clung to Demelza's arm as if Demelza were the one who had forsaken it. The tears had dried on her face, leaving it streaky and uncomely. Her black fine hair was awry and her skirt torn. She looked unhappy - and painfully alive.
Those inside the warehouse were passing out sacks of grain to those who were waiting for them, and mules, which had been held in the background, were already coming down the street to be laden with the booty. The warehouse, drawing all towards it as a gutter will draw water, was thinning out the people near Demelza and Verity.
'This way,' said Blamey, 'there is a good chance now. Better than later, for maybe they will start drinking when the corn's away.'
He led them back to Coinagehall Street, which was clear of the tinners. But the townsfolk were out in their numbers, talking nervously together and discussing how best to prevent the looting from becoming widespread. The miners had come into town on a fair grievance, but appetite feeds an appetite and they might stay.
'Where are your horses?' asked Blamey.
'We were to have eaten with the Pascoes.'
'I'd advise you to defer it to a later day.'
'Why?' said Demelza. 'Could you not dine there too?'
Blamey glanced at her as they walked round Middle Row. 'No, ma'am, I could not, and though no doubt their bank building is strong and you would be safe inside it, you would later face the problem of leaving it to ride home, and the streets may not be safe by then. If you dine with the Pascoes, then be prepared to stay the night.'
'Oh, I could not do that!' said Demelza. 'Julia would need me, an' Prudie is so wooden.'
'Andrew,' said Verity, her steps slowing, 'won't you leave us here. If Bartle sees you the news of this meeting may reach Francis, and it may seem to him like a deliberate, a – a…'
'Let it,' said the seaman. 'There may be other rioters about. I have no intention of leaving you until you are safe out of this area.'
Bartle was in the stables, and while the horses were being saddled they sent a messenger to the Pascoes. Then they were up and away.
There were no rioters in Pydar Street, but people had come out of their houses and were gazing apprehensively down the hill. Some carried sticks themselves.
At the top of the hill the way was too narrow to ride three abreast in comfort, so Demelza, taking things into her own hands, first told Bartle to go a little ahead to see if there were any pickets or rioters and then spurred her own horse forward to join him.
Thus they rode home in silence, two by two, under the lowering sky. Demelza tried to find a little conversation with battle, while at the same time straining her ears for sound of talk behind. She did not catch it, but a little took place, a few low words now and then, the first signs of green in a desert after rain.
JUD HAD BEEN fairly behaved for so long that Prudie overlooked the signs of a change. The settled domestic life of Nampara - so unlike old Joshua's regime - had had a pacing effect on her own impulses and she had come to think that the same was true of him. Ross left early in the morning - he was away three and four days a week now - and when Demelza was out of sight Prudie settled herself in the kitchen to brew a dish of tea and talk over the week's scandal with Jinny Carter, overlooking the fact that an hour ago she had caught Jud taking a sup of gin while he milked the cows.
Jinny, in an odd way, had come to fulfill for Prudie much the same function that Demelza had done; in short, she now did most of the rough work of the house and left Prudie to potter and to brew her tea and gossip and complain of her feet. When Demelza was about it wasn't quite as easy as that, but when she went out things settled into a very comfortable groove.
Today for once Jinny had been talking of Jim, of how thin and ill he had looked, of how she nightly prayed that the next eight months would slip away so that he might be free to come home. Prudie was glad to hear that she had no thought of leaving her work at Nampara. There was to be no more going down the mine for Jim, Jinny said. She had made him promise he would come back and work on the farm. He had never been so well as when he worked here and they never so happy. It wasn't mining wages, but what did that matter? If she worked they could make do.
Prudie said oh, there was no tellin', things was upsy down and it might be that them as worked on a farm would soon be earning more than them as went below, if half she'd heard tell of copper and tin was true. Look at Cap'n Ross, galloping about the countryside as if Old Scratch was at his coattails, and what was the use? What was the good of trying to puff life into a cold corpse? Better if he saved his smith's fees and looked to his own taties.
During this Jinny was in and out the kitchen three or four times, and on her last return wore an anxious look on her thin young face.
'There's someone in the cellar, Prudie. Truly. Just now as I were passing the door...'
'Nay,' said the other woman, wiggling her toes. 'You're mistook. Twas a rat maybe. Or wur it little Julia a-stirring in 'er cot, an? Go see, will ee, and save my poor feet.'
'Couldn' be that,' said Jinny. 'It were a man's voice - grumble, grumble, grumble, like an old cart wheel - coming up from the cellar steps.
Prudie was about to contradict her again, but then with a thoughtful look she pulled on her slippers and rose like the side of a mountain creakily out of her chair. She flapped out into the hall and peered through the cellar door, which opened in the angle made by the stairs.
For a few seconds the murmur was too indistinct to catch any words, but after a while she heard:
'There was an old couple an' they was - was poor.
Tw - tw - tweedle, go tweedle, go twee.'
'Tes Jud,' she said grimly to the anxious Jinny. 'Drownin' his guts in Cap'n Ross's best gin. 'Ere, stay a breath, I'll root en out.'
She flapped back to the kitchen. 'Where's that there broom 'andle?'
'In the stable,' said Jinny. 'I seen it there this morning.' Prudie went out to get it, Jinny with her; but when they came back the song in the cellar had stopped. They lighted a candle from the kitchen fire and Prudie went down the stairs. There were several broken bottles about but no signs of Jud.
Prudie came up. 'The knock-kneed 'ound's wriggled out while we was away.'
'Hold a minute,' said Jinny. They listened.
Someone was singing gently in the parlour.
Jud was in Ross's best chair, with his boots on the mantelpiece. On his head, hiding the fringe and the tonsure, was one of Ross's hats, a black riding hat turned up at the brim. In one hand was a bottle of gin and in the other a riding crop, with which he gently stirred the cradle in which Julia slept.
'Jud!' said Prudie. 'Get out o' that chair!'
Jud turned his head. 'Ah,' he said, in a ridiculous voice. 'C-come in, good women all, good women all, g-good women. Your servant, ma'am. Damme, tis handsome of ee to make this visit. Tedn what I'd of expected in a couple o' bitches. But there, one 'as to take the rough wi' the rough; an' a fine couple of bitches ye be. Pedigree stock, sir. Never have I seen the likes. Judgin' only by the quarters, tis more'n a fair guess to say there's good blood in ee, an' no miss-ment.' He gave the cradle a prod with his riding crop to keep it rocking.
Prudie grasped her broom.
"Ere, dear,' she said to Jinny, 'you go finish yer work. I'll deal with this.'
'Can you manage him?' Jinny asked anxiously.
'Manage 'im. I'll mince 'im. Only tis a question of the cradle. We don't want the little mite upset.'
When Jinny had gone, Jud said: 'What, no more'n one lef '? What a cunning crack ye are, Mishtress Paynter, getting' quit o' she so's there'll be less to share the gin.' His little eyes were bloodshot with drink and bleary with cunning. 'Come us in, my dear, an' lift your legs up. I'm the owner 'ere; Jud Paynter, eskewer, of Nampara, mashter of hounds, mashter of cemeteries, Justice of the Peace. 'Ave a sup!'