The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,60
and felt safer. Getting to Durham had by now assumed the character of a divinely guided mission. His solemn vow, the grace of his escape from prison, that marvelous encounter by the wayside, the scrapes and vicissitudes of his journey so far—small misfortunes designed to teach him, by the mercy of his recovering from them, that he was watched over—all this combined to give the destination of Billy’s birthplace a significance that no other destination had ever had for him. His life on land had been spent in dockside Liverpool, where the boat from Ireland had set him down, and then as a fugitive in the wilderness of southern Florida. He had never before been north of the Humber, and had not the remotest idea of what life in a pit village might be like.
“Durham, is it?” the wrestler said. “Well, you have a good way to go yet. It is not often that I meet a man who is travelin’ under a vow. I think I see a means to help you on your way.”
“What would that be now?”
“I have three shillin’ in my pocket at this present time. I am keepin’ them safe. Two shillin’ of that will be my stake when I gets to the fair. Anyone who comes forward will have to match that stake, winner take all. So with every bout I win I double my money, do you see? Now I don’t put it all back in the pledge, I keep a shillin’ out every time, so if I lose—an’ there is no man that can win every bout—I still have my stake money, I can try again somewhere else. If I start with two shillin’ an’ there are three challengers an’ I win all three of the bouts, I will end up with fifteen shillin’ in my pocket, includin’ the money I have put by. You are a man that knows something of commerce, an’ I think you will agree that it is a handsome profit. Now here is my idea. Let’s say you trust me with sixpence. Keepin’ the same course of three bouts, instead of sixpence you would have four shillin’ at the end of it.”
“Well, it is a temptin’ offer, I am not the man to deny that,” Sullivan said. “In the language of commerce we would call it a good reward on the investins. But there is a snag in it of very considerable proportions.”
“What might that be?”
“You might lose the first bout an’ then me sixpence goes up in smoke.”
“It is not often that William Armstrong loses a bout, particularly the first one, when he is still fresh. But you haven’t understood the finances of it. I will do the same with your money as I do with my own, keepin’ a bit back every time. So you will still have your sixpence whatever happens. You can make it a shillin’ if you like. I’ll tell you what, you can mull the matter over while we are steppin’ out together. No hard feelin’s either way. William Armstrong bears no grudges.”
There was no further discussion between them concerning this proposition, and in fact Sullivan had scarcely gone another mile before he decided against it. A man could be robbed twice and it could be set down to his trusting nature. But a man who allowed himself to be robbed three times in a row was a fool and deserved no better. Besides, he was hungry and felt the need to rest his feet for a while. The thought of pork pies and ale—though why this particular combination he could not have said—had been steadily gaining in radiance, and he did not welcome the idea of postponement.
He therefore, when they came up to a roadside inn of promising appearance, announced his intention of going inside for a bite to eat and an hour or two of rest. His companion was eager to press on, wanting to cover as much of the distance as he could so as to get some hours of sleep in the early morning and be freshened up and restored to full strength for the wrestling. So the two parted here, with mutual assurances that they would seek each other out at the fair.
It was approaching midday on the following morning when Sullivan arrived at the small town of Redfield-on-Trent and made his way to the fairground, which was on a field by the river. He passed stalls selling gingerbread, paused to watch a ladies’ smock race