The Quality of Mercy (23 page)

They took the path that led downward, toward the beck. From somewhere on the other side of the narrow valley they heard the voices of children. Elsie was having some difficulty in walking now, on this steepest part of the slope. She had hesitated over the choice of shoes and finally, not thinking they would be going into
the Dene, chosen the only pair she possessed with raised heels—Italian heels they were called, she had no idea why. She was walking in front of Michael—the path was too narrow for them to walk side by side—and she feared she might seem ungainly to him. But he, able now for the first time to look as much as he liked at her, was too much taken with the carriage of her shoulders and the sway of her hips to pay much attention to the way she set her feet. This too she sensed might be the case, but the thought did not make her less eager to reach easier footing.

As they drew near the beck the ground leveled out. There was a gleam of sunshine on the wet stones, and they saw a green leaf, fallen before its time, go drifting by, edged with bright specks of foam. They followed the stream as it curved sharply and ran through a broad sweep of fern and tall grasses with plumy, bluish heads. There was a blaze of yellow from the kingcups that grew along the wet border, following the line of the curve.

“My father has always wanted to own this piece of land,” Michael said. He had never shared this knowledge of his father’s wish with anyone before—it was like admitting Elsie into the family. “For a market garden, tha knows, to grow vegetables and fruit. About two acres, it is, two an’ a bit, all on this side of the beck.”

Elsie looked about her. “It feels different,” she said. It was completely still here, out of the breeze that had been in their faces as they walked. “It feels warmer,” she said. “A never marked it in arl the times a used to come here.” She paused, seeking for words. “Mebbe a did mark it. When tha’s little, tha sees things, then they gan out of yor mind, but tha dinna truly forget them.”

“Just an idea of his,” Michael said. “A mean, he never had a chance of gettin’ it.” He pointed up the slope. “Nay shortage of water, the beck never dries.”

She looked up to where he was pointing and saw the glint of water as it came down to feed the stream. There was a drift of bluebells alongside the spring and a rowan tree in flower.

“Everythin’ here comes out early,” he said. “Tha sees butterflies
here before tha sees them anywhere else. He said so once. An’ dragonflies, he said. He comes down here on his own, tha knows, just to stand an’ look.”

They looked at each other in silence for some moments. Then he said, “Would tha like to sit down for a bit?”

“Yes,” she said, and her eyes rested steadily on him. “If tha wants.”

“A wanted to bring you to this bit of ground,” he said. “A wanted to tell you … there is nowt I canna tell you. A long time a was watchin’ out for you, every mornin’ a was waitin’ to see you. Seein’ you in the mornin’ was like a light a took down with me, down the pit.”

“A was hopin’ tha’d speak,” she said. “But tha needed a good batterin’ first. Walker done us a good turn. Without him we might still be just lookin’ at each other an’ lettin’ the days gan by.”

They went some way up from the stream to where the ferns grew thickly. Elsie sat very straight for a while. Then she untied the strings of her hat, which were knotted in a bow under her chin, and took it off and laid it beside her. Below the hat was a mobcap drawn tight across her head, and when she loosened this and took it off, her fair hair, which had been contained in it, fell round her shoulders.

“That’s better,” she said, smiling. “My head was feelin’ hot.”

“All of me is feelin’ hot,” he said.

Whether her balance was precarious and easily upset by his hands on her shoulders or whether he pushed her gently down was not something that occupied the mind of either. Hidden among the thickly growing ferns on this so much desired piece of ground, they lay embraced together.

On a rainy morning not long after the insurance ruling, Ashton’s manservant knocked at the study door to tell him that a man had come to the house declaring himself to be the bearer of a message for Mr. Frederick Ashton. He had been asked to wait outside, and the door had been closed on him, he being of a ragged and unkempt appearance and also very wet.

Ashton went down into the front hall and opened the door to the man, who was waiting in the rain at the foot of the steps. “What is it you want of me?” he said.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, am I lookin’ at Mr. Frederick Ashton?”

“You are.”

“I been entrusted with a message, personal for Mr. Ashton, from a negro man, name of Jeremy Evans.”

Ashton was long to remember the man’s starved looks and the rank odor of his wet clothes and the sudden leap of hope that came with his words. “Come up the steps,” he said. “Here, under the lintel, out of the rain. Where is he, where is Evans?”

“He is in the Poultry Compter, sir.”

“What, in prison? Is there some charge against him?”

The man smiled a little at this. Water from his drenched hair ran down into his eyes, but he made no move to clear them. “There is many ends there with no charge agin ’em. There was no charge
brought agin me, properly speakin’. Suspicion, they calls it. I was passin’ by, I had nothin’ to do with any fightin’ or woundin’, but they took me in along with the others, they kept me locked up till someone spoke to say who it was that done it. They let me out this mornin’. Evans managed to get some words to me in passin’. It had to be Mr. Frederick Ashton, but he didn’t know where you was. He told me the house he was taken from. I went there first. I been goin’ round in the rain since early mornin’. Evans told me you was a gen’rous gentleman.”

“I am very grateful to you for this information.” Ashton took out his purse and counted five shillings into the man’s palm. “I hope you will find the means to get close to a fire and dry yourself before you catch a chill.”

“Thank you, sir. Evans spoke true of you. I will eat before I dry—they doesn’t give you much in the way of vittles.”

Ashton did not wait to watch him through the gate but went immediately for hat and cape and boots. Within ten minutes he had found a hackney coach and was on the way. The prison was in Marylebone Road close to the junction with Chapel Street. Progress was slow—the rain had brought out more vehicles than usual.

On arrival he was led by a jailor to a kind of office, dank and malodorous, adjacent to the cells. After he had waited for several minutes with mounting impatience, an assistant keeper arrived, and Ashton at once demanded to see Jeremy Evans.

“There is no one of that name committed here,” the man said, with a slow shake of the head.

The denial steadied Ashton and brought a more deliberate process of calculation to him. It meant, of course, that this man, and almost certainly the head keeper too, had been bribed to conceal Evans’s presence here. They would know there were no grounds for his detention, and so the safest course was to deny knowledge of him.

“Fellow, you are lying,” he said. “You have been paid to lie, is
it not so? I have it on good authority that Mr. Evans is here. You will fetch your superior to me, or I will see that you have cause to regret your part in this.”

He spoke with the voice of his class, in the tone and with the assurance of one used to being listened to. His cape was open to show the manner of his dress beneath. He saw on the keeper’s face the usual unhappy doubt of the corrupted underling confronted by an authority which, though indeterminate, was inimical to him and threatening and far larger in scope than that which he was accustomed to wield over the wretches in his charge.

“Go and fetch him now at once.”

The man hesitated a moment longer, then turned and went without further words. This time the wait was longer, but Ashton was no longer prey to impatience. His purpose was clear to him and he was intent on it.

The head keeper was an older man, bulky, bald-headed and wigless, with a look of ill temper. It seemed to Ashton that he had been aroused from sleep, or some state of torpor.

“What is it, what is it?” he said. “I am much occupied, sir, I have little time for visitors.”

“You have time enough for brandy—one could get drunk from the breath of it on you.” Ashton could not keep the contempt out of his voice. “I will tell you what it is soon enough,” he said. “You are keeping here, in unlawful custody, a man named Jeremy Evans. I know you have been paid to do so and I know by whom. This is not a private prison, you are answerable to the public authority for the way it is conducted. I intend to see this man and talk to him, here and now. If you deny this to me, I will bring an action against you and against those who brought him here and laid false charges and against whoever it was that signed the order for custody, if ever such an order was made. I will see you hounded out of office, sir.”

“You cannot obtain an order for his release without you bring a writ, you nor any man else.”

The words were sullen, but it was no more than a token defiance that they expressed; even as he spoke he nodded to his assistant, who at once left the room.

“Have no fear, I shall apply for the writ without delay,” Ashton said. “And if you deliver him now to any who come without a writ signed by a magistrate in proper form, you will live to regret the day, I promise you.”

When, some time later, he saw a black man enter, accompanied by the assistant keeper, it came to him with a strange effect of shock and temporary bewilderment that he would not have known that this was Evans, knew it only now that he saw him led here under guard. The night of his rescue from the ship it had been dark, the violent altercation with the captain had taken up his attention, others had released Evans from his bonds and brought him back to shore. Not once had he looked the man in the face. Now, as their eyes met for the first time, he was perplexed to think of all the concern he had felt, the importance of this man to him, the sense of failure and defeat at his disappearance, the hope this day had brought—all for a man whom he could not have picked out among a crowd of others.

“I am Frederick Ashton,” he said. “I shall get you out of here, you may rely on it.”

Evans’s eyes were deep-set and luminous in the strongly marked face. There was the bruise of a heavy blow, still unhealed, on his forehead and right temple. He made a movement toward Ashton as if to take his hand, but this was roughly checked by the keeper.

“Take your hand from him,” Ashton said sharply. “You have no rights in him.” He went some steps toward Evans and held out his hand, which the other took in both of his.

“Have you committed any offense, that you should be brought here?” Ashton asked.

“No, sir, none. Three men come to the house at a time when the house is empty, not those same who take me the first time. Only one comes to the door, says he has a message from you, sir. Then
the others come at me from the sides, take a hold of me at the door. I fight with them.” Evans raised his head and straightened his shoulders. “I don’ go easy,” he said. “I fight with them. But it is too many for me. I try to shout, but one of them hits me about the head with a stick. I lose my senses, don’ know where I am.”

“What, they dragged you like that through the streets, half conscious as you were, and nobody intervened or even inquired into the matter?”

“Nobody, sir, no. People think black man slave run away.”

“What a famous example of humanity,” Ashton said. “And these fine fellows here locked you up without question—except regarding the price. Before I can obtain your release I shall need an order for it, signed by a magistrate. It will be an order for your immediate appearance in court to answer as to whether you have done any wrong that would justify your being kept imprisoned. Once we have established that you have no charge to answer, you will leave the court a free man. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, and heaven bless you. I ask it in my prayers.”

“You are a Christian, then?”

“Yes, I been baptized.”

“That very probably will help us,” Ashton said. “The courts are more favorably disposed to those who are not heathens. I am sorry you will have to stay longer in this foul place, but it should not be more than a few days.”

“I will not mind it. I know you do not forget me.”

Ashton saw that tears had come to Evans’s eyes. “I am your friend,” he said. “Keep it in mind that I am working for your release. On no account must you leave this prison unless you are accompanied by me.” He turned to the head keeper. “When I come for him,” he said, “I will inquire of him, not of you, how he has been treated in the meanwhile. I advise you to bear this in mind.”

On this, Evans was led back to his cell and Ashton took his leave, not ill satisfied with the result of his visit. He went immediately to the Lord Mayor’s chambers to lay the information that a
Jeremy Evans was confined at the Poultry Compter without any warrant.

He did not have long to wait. The writ was issued the following day. Charles Bolton and Andrew Lyons were commanded to produce before the Lord Mayor at his chambers the body of Jeremy Evans and to show cause for the taking and detaining of him. The action was heard at Mansion House in the presence of the Lord Mayor himself. The cause of detention of Evans was stated to be that he was the slave and property of Lyons, by purchase from Bolton, who had held him in Jamaica as a slave; that when brought to London he ran away from the service of his master but was recovered and detained until a ship was ready to return him to the West Indies.

The Lord Mayor, having listened to Ashton’s claim of imprisonment without warrant, as voiced by his lawyer, Horace Stanton, took very little time to ponder the matter. No evidence had been produced that Evans was guilty of any offense, and therefore his detention was unlawful. He was discharged and declared free to leave the court.

He had scarcely finished pronouncing this judgment and Evans, with Ashton at his side, had just come to his feet, preparatory to leaving the courtroom, when a man strode forward and seized Evans by the arm, announcing his identity as Captain William Newton of the
Arabella
, the slave ship designated to transport Evans to Jamaica. In his other hand he waved the bill of sale certifying to the purchase of Evans by Andrew Lyons.