The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,100

it gave sanctity, and an endorsement from beyond the grave, to his vow that he would visit the same fate on Barton.

This vow he nursed in the days that followed, allowing no doubt to enter, no lessening of resolve. He felt that he owed his life to the promise he had made in that moment when the mate was passing before him, and this gave him a feeling of dedication he had never known before.

He spent his days at the Gravesend docks, doing what work came his way, sleeping rough. It was here, where the river began to widen, that the slave ships were fitted out. Barton would sign on for a slaver when his Judas money ran out. It was work he knew, the wages were slightly better, he might think to be taken on again as mate.

After twelve days Hughes’s patience was rewarded. There was a ship fitting out, the Indian Prince, that carried the stench of the trade and had the build—high in the stern, so that the swivel guns could more easily be brought to bear on the deck in case of slave revolt, thickened at the rails to make death leaps more difficult. One evening he saw Barton coming down the gangplank, following a man in a long coat and cocked hat, who looked like the skipper. He guessed they were bound on a mission to make up the number of the crew, enlist the men they needed, either by force or persuasion. If this was so, the ship must be ready to cast off her moorings and move out into the Pool.

He waited through that night, saw two men dragged aboard by those that had been hired to do it, saw the return of Barton. At dawn the wind shifted and the tide began to ebb. The ship was roped to her tugboats, her moorings were loosed and she was towed out to the deeper water of the estuary. While she lay there, in the last hour before her sailing, Hughes paid what money remained to him to be rowed out to the ship. He climbed aboard her, gave his name to the bosun and signed on with his mark. It was only now, when the anchor was weighed and it was too late to quit the ship, that Barton came up from below and saw him. Hughes was smiling, a rare thing indeed.

27

Sullivan, once more in possession of his fiddle and bow, shared the cart with three fellow vagrants, who like himself were being passed on to the nearest county border. They were set down just north of the Tees, a day’s walk from Darlington, and from here they went their separate ways.

On the outskirts of Darlington Sullivan came upon a cattle market and a few stalls offering eggs and cheeses for sale. There were a good number of people about and he decided to give them a song or two. He took up a position at a good distance from the compound where the beasts were herded and the auctioneer was shouting, and began with “Ned of the Hill,” a lyric he had always been partial to.

Oh dark is the evening and silent the hour.

Oh who is that minstrel by yon shady tower

Whose harp is so tenderly touching with skill

Oh who could it be but young Ned of the Hill?

And he sings, “Lady love, will you come with me now,

Come and live merrily under the bough.”

Lingering tunes and words of love stopped people in their tracks sometimes, as he had learned early; they could work just as well as a more lilting start. And he liked this song because he could feel at one with the sentiment as he sang; he was the outlaw minstrel, the words of invitation were his and he put a lot of feeling into them.

As the time passed, there was a scattering of farthings on his spread waistcoat, and he kept a close eye on them; it was not unknown for a fiddling man to have his earnings scooped up and fled away with if he got too lost in his music. He was so near his goal now, there had been so many mishaps along the way; he was resolved to be careful, make no mistakes, keep a guard on his money. He was not quite sure what he would do when his vow was fulfilled and his compact with the Holy Mother carried faithfully through. He would then be like the wrestler he had met