The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,59
escape from prison. Some of it had gone in the course of the days it had taken him to get this far. But he still felt affluent and was planning to treat himself to pork pies and ale when he got to a likely-looking tavern. He said nothing of his resources to the man beside him, having suffered twice already through being too forthcoming. And the man asked him no questions of that sort, asserting merely that pawnbrokers were an unholy tribe.
“You goin’ far?” Sullivan asked.
“There is a fair at Redfield, startin’ tomorrow, if I can get there.”
“You are a wrestlin’ man, as I understand it?”
“That is so. William Armstrong, at your service. Strong by name an’ strong by nature. What I does is challenge any man in the crowd to come up an’ try his luck. Who gets the best of three falls takes the purse. All comers, any style, Irish, collar-an’-elbow, free-for-all. Strong young fellows, they are lookin’ for some easy money an’ the chance to show off for the girls.” He shook his head and smiled a little. “Not many gets to try a third fall,” he said.
“Where does the pledge come from?”
“I allus keeps a shillin’ or two about me to begin with.”
“Well, I wish you luck tomorrow.” It had occurred to Sullivan, while listening to the wrestler, that he could make for the fair too and maybe increase his stock by providing a bit of music. “Redfield is north from here, isn’t it?” he said.
“That’s right, it’s on the Doncaster road. About twenty miles from here.”
“Well, this is turnin’ out providential,” Sullivan said, gladdened by this prospect of adding to his capital. He had no slightest idea of geography or distances, but thought he must be past the halfway mark by now. “All the same,” he said, “it is strange how things will get repeated as the years pass. I had a coat with brass buttons once before, years ago now, an’ the buttons was cut off an’ stole from me.”
He paused with momentary caution; but he was elated, speech came readily to him, as always, and the farther he got from London, the less likely he felt it that anyone should discover that he was a man on the run, or care who he was and where he was making for. So long as he remembered to leave out the name of the ship and all reference to Florida and the settlement … “Yes,” he said, “I was pressed aboard a slave ship bound for the Guinea Coast, an’ a man named Blair was pressed along of me—neither of us had any choice in it. We knew each other before, havin’ sailed together, but that time it wasn’t on a slaver—we would niver have signed on for a slaver. I was wearin’ a coat with brass buttons when we went aboard, an’ it was took off me back on the grounds it was verminous, which was an outright falsehood. I niver saw that coat again, but I know the buttons was cut off it, I know that for a fact, an’ I know who done it—it was the bosun. Haines was a bad man an’ he come to a bad end, an’ I thought me buttons was gone for good, but twelve years later I tripped over me own feet an’ fell down in a ditch, an’ there was one of the buttons just under me nose, not by chance but by a blessin’ that was intended. It was the very place where Haines met his end at the hands of the Indians, it must have fallen from him then. I was guided to it with the purpose of restorin’ me faith in justice. That button was a mark of grace an’ I gave it to a dyin’ man who had been the doctor on the ship, intendin’ it as somethin’ for him to hold, somethin’ to see him through, if you take me meanin’. What became of it after that I niver knew. Billy Blair was dead by then. It is because of Billy I am on the road now. I made a vow to meself that I would find his folks an’ tell them what end he had made. They are minin’ people in the County of Durham, an’ that is where I am headin’.”
It was a story he had told at various times to various people in the course of his journey, amplified and embellished as he drew farther from London