The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,86

and went to stand at the bar and take the oath. He related how Captain Philips, conceiving it to be his duty, had come to his London house and told him of the finding of the vessel in the wilderness of southern Florida, and of the strangeness of the ship’s position, so far from the sea and hidden from sight. The news had come as a shock to him. For twelve years he had thought the ship lost at sea with all aboard her. The loss of the ship had brought ruin to his father, who was hoping to recoup his fortunes by selling the slaves in Jamaica and returning with a cargo of sugar to sell on the Liverpool Exchange. His father’s death had followed soon after the loss of the ship. On the strength of the news brought by Philips, he had thought it probable—indeed, almost certain—that men who had taken such care to cover their tracks must have intended to take refuge in that waste and remain there. And since they could not have gone far on foot in such country, he had felt sure that the survivors would not be very distant from the place where the wreck had been found. He had decided to mount an expedition, track the miscreants down, bring them to justice.

He was aware of only one person in the courtroom as he spoke, and that was Jane Ashton, who was sitting above in the gallery, looking down at him and listening to his words. No one else there mattered much to him. He believed it was just that these remnants of the crew should be hanged for their crimes, and he hoped for a verdict to that effect. But this hope, though held with deepest sincerity, took second place. The important thing was that Jane should understand his motives, appreciate the stern and heroic part he had played.

It was inevitable that this bid for her blessing should bring about certain omissions and distortions in his account of things. He stressed the high and lonely mission of justice that had taken him so far and cost him so much. He made no mention of the hatred of his cousin Matthew that had so impelled him, nor of the urge for action he had felt, the need to escape from the general unhappiness of his life at that time, of which the hatred had been merely a symptom, as he judged it now. Naturally he did not try to relate, then or in his later accounts to Jane, that he had been responsible for his cousin’s death, that he was still trying to fend off remorse for this, a remorse which he felt should be resisted, as it threatened to nullify the justice of his cause. Nor did he make any reference to the fact that his father had made unwise investments and would still have been bankrupt even if the ship had come safely home. But he was aware of no falsehood as he spoke. It was the truth of himself, purified of obscuring dross, that he was offering up to her.

And she, listening to the conviction that rang in his voice in that hushed courtroom, thought him entirely truthful, also very distinguished in his bearing and altogether splendid in his dark blue velvet suit. Until that moment the proceedings of the court had seemed largely theatrical to her, the judges in their bulky crimson robes and heavy wigs sitting on their high platform, several feet above the common mortality of the court, the opposing counsel with their gestures and glances, as if they were reciting parts. But when Erasmus Kemp started to give his evidence, these actors looked dusty and shoddy beside him. So strong was this impression that she did not pause to ask herself, though she was to do so very soon afterward—with the appearance of the next witness, in fact—quite how the accused men had merited such a relentless pursuit, why they should be required now, after all this time, to render up their lives, and in what way they could be thought to have benefited from their misdeeds. They had spent the years as fugitives in that desolate place.

No doubt was cast on Kemp’s account; the facts were clear and they were not in dispute. He was followed by Barber, the ship’s carpenter, who was brought into court still shackled. And it was the wasted frame of this man and his shuffling gait and the clanking of