The Quality of Mercy: A Novel

by Barry Unsworth

  Just beyond Chesterfield, heading north on foot, he had fallen in with another wayfarer, a thickset, shaven-headed man, and had confided to him the story of the stolen buttons.

  “Lookin’ at it another way,” he said, “the weather is improvin’ day by day, an’ where is the need for a coat like that?”

  “That’s right, that’s what I allus say, look on the bright side,” his new companion said. “You can’t win every bout, you will get beat sometimes an’ lose the purse money, but you ain’t lost it cos you didn’t have it without you won the match.”

  “My feelin’s exactly,” Sullivan said. “Then there is the further argument that a coat like that, whether equipped with buttons or not, will tend to cramp the style of a fiddlin’ man, an’ reduce the power of his music.”

  He had pawned the coat in Peterborough before leaving, together with the bag in which he had been carrying his fiddle and bow; these were slung over his shoulder now, as they had been when he walked out of Newgate Prison. His old shirt and trousers had also been in this bag, but the pawnbroker had not been interested in these.

  “He tried to make out that a coat that has lost its buttons has thereby undergone a grievous loss in its value. I wasn’t born yesterday, I said to him, I am a traveled man, I said, I know somethin’ of commerce, an’ it is obvious to me that you are exaggeratin’ the importance of them buttons for your own purposes. Buttons is a variable thing, I said, buttons can be gold, they can be silk, they can be cloth, but a good stout coat is not subject to changes of quality.”

  In the end he had obtained five shillings on coat and bag together, more money than he had possessed since the day of his 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 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 ei
ther 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 and the pursuit of a greased pig—there was a guinea for the man who succeeded in catching the beast and keeping hold of it. He was looking for a bit of ground that would be quiet enough for his fiddling and singing to be heard and open enough for a crowd to gather. This was not easy to find; the field was thronged, and the general jollity was increased as people had recourse to the beer stall. Not far from this there was a cockfight in progress, with a great shouting of bets and cries of encouragement to the bloodstained adversaries. He saw at a distance the wrestler with a crowd before him, but he kept away.

  Finally he found a quieter area, where a game of skittles was going on, and near this a raised platform, on which a very fat and smiling man in a wide-brimmed black hat sat at a table before a row of bottles containing a reddish liquid. Below the platform, at the foot of the three steps up to it, a youngish man in the kind of white cotton apron worn by apothecaries was shouting in a high-pitched, slightly cracked voice. The words came from him with the unfaltering flow of long habit, and Sullivan paused to listen.

  “Come forward, ladies and gentlemen, do not hold back, we shall be moving on within the hour and your last chance of obtaining a cure for all human disorders will be gone forever. Our much-famed Hypodrops, if taken for three days in succession, will infallibly cure hypochondriac melancholy in men and vapors in women, so as never to return again, and that by striking at the very root or true cause as well as remedying the effects of these perplexing maladies and all their variety of symptoms, all the diseases we poor mortals are afflicted with—vicious ferments in the stomach, flatulent or windy disorders, gout, giddiness, impediments in locomotion, dimness of sight, swollen veins, kidney stones, choked lungs. Only two shillings and sixpence the bottle, chemically prepared from the most valuable specifics in the mineral, vegetable and animal kingdoms … The man you see behind me is the world-famed Dr. Ebenezer Muir, his Hypodrops are in demand by the crowned heads of Europe, to you for this occasion he is offering this universal cure for only two-and-six a bottle …”

  People came forward, among them a number who were visibly ailing, hobbling on crutches or half blind. The shouter mounted the steps for the bottles and took the money. The smiling, immobile man at the table kept a very sharp eye on the coins that were changing hands. All the takings found their way into a black leather bag that lay on the table before him.

  Sullivan moved some distance away and took up a position with his back to the table and the inventor of the Hypodrops and the one employed to do the shouting. He took off his waistcoat, spread it on the ground before him and dropped coins to the value of one-and-six or so—half his remaining stock—into the middle of it, as an indication of where people should lay the hoped-for offerings. He took up his fiddle and played a reel, with all the verve he could summon. There was nothing like a reel for attracting attention. Before long there was a small knot of people gathered before him. When he judged the number sufficient, he embarked on “Tarry Trousers,” playing first the air and taking some short dance steps as he played. It was a song he knew well, belonging to the dockside taverns of his other life, before the slave ship, before the days in Florida. After some minutes he lowered his fiddle and sang the first verse:

  Yonder stands a pretty maiden.

  Who she is I do not know.

  I will court her for her beauty.

  She can answer yes or no.

  His voice was pleasing, a slightly husky tenor, not very strong but sweet in tone. From childhood on he had been a singer, and had often enough kept body and soul together through the gift; many of the words he used in talking came from his memory of songs.

  A countrywoman in a bonnet came forward and dropped a coin to join the others on the outspread waistcoat, and Sullivan smiled and ducked his head in thanks—there was always a first one needed to set the others on to it. The song he had chosen to start with had the rhythm of a jig, and this was not by chance: if he could get people dancing, he stood to finish off with a pocketful of pennies.

  My love wears the tarry trousers,

  My love wears the jacket blue,

  My love plows the deep blue ocean …

  He broke off to play the tune again. The crowd was getting bigger; one or two more coins landed on the waistcoat. He was raising the bow when the man in the white apron who had been shouting the virtues of the Hypodrops approached from behind and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Doctor Muir requests you to go further off,” he said. “Your music is drowning out my pitch—the people cannot hear me.”

  He looked younger, now that he was close, and he had a general air of unhappiness.

  “A singin’ man has as much right here as a shoutin’ man,” Sullivan said. “More, as the sound is more agreeable. The doctor has not purchased the intoire field, I suppose.”

  “No, but we were here first. Those who come late must find their own places.”

  Sullivan considered for a moment. He could not emerge with any advantage from this disagreement. The other would stay there and argue the matter, and in the meantime the people who had gathered would drift away; one or two had already done so, the others would follow. “I’ll go, then,” he said. “We are losin’ custom while we stand here.” As he was about to take up his waistcoat and the coins lying on it, he asked the question that had been vaguely in his mind since arriving. “Why does the doctor not do his own shoutin’?”

  The young man hesitated and seemed at first not disposed to reply. Then he said, “Well, I’ll tell you, I don’t care who knows, I am fair sick of it, he pays me next to nothing and keeps all for himself. The reason he don’t do the shouting is that he has no breath, his lungs are gone, as soon as he makes any effort he starts gasping and wheezing. If they knew that the inventor of Hypodrops, the wonder-working universal panacea for which he is charging two shillings and sixpence a bottle, cannot raise his voice above a whisper and cannot get to his feet without breathing heavy, they would add to his ills by breaking his bones. Mine too—the one shouting is just as much in danger. It is only watered-down beetroot juice and minced-up sloe berries and a bit of sugar. There, I have told you, and I am glad of it. I will leave him, he can stew in his Hypodrops. He has started making me wear this apothecary’s apron, so as to look more worthy of trust. I have told him it is dangerous, but—”

  Suddenly he broke off and his eyes widened as he looked over Sullivan’s shoulder. “I knew it,” he said, and he turned and began to run.

  Sullivan had no time to gather up his belongings. Three men armed with staves jostled him violently aside, trampling on his waistcoat and the coins lying there. Doctor Muir was slow in movement even when highly alarmed, and he had only just succeeded in getting to his feet when they were upon him. Sullivan
saw him go down, saw the heavy sticks rising and falling, heard the smash of breaking glass. The constables would be on the scene before long; he might be taken and questioned. He grabbed the waistcoat, took up what coins he could see—they were few—and fled in the same direction the doctor’s assistant had taken.

  He lost no time in getting clear of the fair and setting off on the road that led toward Doncaster. He was hardly out of the town, however, when he was hailed from the yard of an inn and recognized William Armstrong sitting there with a pot of ale before him. The wrestler beckoned and shouted an invitation to join him in a drink.

  “I had best be pressin’ forward,” Sullivan said.

  Armstrong heard the reluctance in this and repeated the offer, and Sullivan had not the fortitude to say no a second time, feeling the need for a good draft after the fright he had had. When he was seated with a tankard before him, he told the wrestler about the fracas he had run from.

  “I will niver forget that man,” he said. “One minute sittin’ there smilin’, watchin’ the money come in, next minute gettin’ his bones broke. He will stay in me mind as an example of shiftin’ fortunes just round the corner.”

  “That’s right,” the wrestler said. “You can never tell what kind of a hold to take, you have to live day by day.”

  “An’ there is somethin’ else in it. It is a difficult matter to get across, but when I saw him go under with them fellers rainin’ blows on him, what struck me as the most calamitous was that he could not make a sound above a whisper—he was beaten out of his senses with no voice to him. That man will niver get his bones together again after the beatin’ they gave him.”

  “I have known it before,” Armstrong said. “It is the apothecaries of the town that sets them on, because they lose their trade. So you didn’t do well with the fiddlin’?”

  “I started off well enough, but it all came to nothin’. It was me own money that I put down, so I am worse off than I was before.”