The Quality of Mercy

21



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.

“I secure his person as the property of Mr. Lyons,” he said in loud tones.

Ashton saw two rough-looking men pressing behind, obviously hired for the occasion. Evans struggled to free his arm, but the captain held on to it. Newton’s face was red and congested-looking, and veins stood out at his temples. A sort of reciprocal rage of violence was aroused in Ashton, and he felt a sharp impulse to strike at the arm that was still holding Evans. Fortunately for him—he would have stood small chance in a physical conflict with the captain—he heard Stanton’s voice immediately behind him: “Threaten to charge him with assault if he does not immediately release the man’s arm.”

“This man has been discharged by the court,” Ashton said. “There is no charge against him, he is free to leave. That document you are brandishing has no validity here. The issue of property must be decided in another court. Remove your hand from his arm at once, or I will issue an immediate summons of assault against you. There is no shortage of witnesses.”

He saw the fury in the captain’s eyes, saw the convulsive clenching of his jaw.

“Remove your hand from his person at once,” Ashton said.

Newton struggled with his rage some moments longer, then released Evans’s arm. “God damn your liver and your eyes,” he said. He turned away and his hirelings turned away with him, leaving Ashton swept by an exhilaration he had scarcely known himself capable of.

It was this release of triumphant joy that he began with when later that day he was telling Jane what had happened in the courtroom. “He had brute written all over him,” he said. “A brute of a slaving skipper. God help those unlucky enough to be subject to him when he is master of that small world of a ship—not so very small either, when we think of the hundreds of poor souls shackled below decks. I must confess that I felt a great surge of triumph when he was forced to let go of Evans. I felt that I was acting as God’s minister to see justice done, justice and mercy.”

“They are not often combined,” Jane said. She smiled at her brother with full affection. He had told her of his visit to the prison the day before, and now his account of events in the courtroom and the part he had played had aroused an ardent admiration in her, so completely were they in accord with her idea of how a man should bear himself in such circumstances, or a woman either, for that matter; she liked to think that she would have acted and spoken in the same way. “I am proud of you, Frederick,” she said, “and I am proud to be your sister.”

“Oh well, it was only for a few minutes, you know.” His tone was deprecating, but he was deeply pleased by her words and by the look on her face as she said them. “Just for those few minutes, I felt I was carrying out God’s wishes and his purposes. All the same, it is a most amazing thing that in this England of ours, nowadays so abounding in refined legal argument, with a new generation of penal theorists who claim to rest their policies on humanity and common sense, a man can be hauled off to prison, committed on a false order of custody and kept under lock and key for an indefinite period without any charge being made against him.”

He paused and shook his head, with the rueful smile common to him. There were degrees of corruption, as there were of all moral states. The venality of the keepers at the Poultry Compter, who would sell a man into captivity, seemed deeply criminal to him as compared to that of the starveling turnkeys he had encountered on his visit to Newgate Prison when he had gone there to speak to the surviving crew of the Liverpool Merchant.

“It is there we should begin,” Jane said. “It is there we should try to mend things. Not with theories and philosophies and adding wise books to the stacks of them already written, but seeing the wrongs and abuses where they are and striving together to mend them.”

“Yes,” Ashton said, though with some hesitation. It was a favorite theme of his sister’s—her face had lit up with enthusiasm as she spoke. But he had never been altogether in sympathy with it. Like trying to stop a flood with your hands, he thought. You needed a law that would block the source. In the meantime, of course, people got drowned.

“But even more amazing,” he said, “and almost defying belief, is that there and then, in the presence of the chief magistrate of the City of London, in his residence, in his court, after he had just declared a man free to go, this same brute of a ship’s captain, with two hired ruffians at his shoulders, should dare such a thing, should dare such open defiance. You will not believe it, but we had to ask the mayor to provide us with an escort for Evans so we could get him away from the premises of the court without his being waylaid and carried off by those waiting outside.”

It had shocked him yet again, this blindly tenacious sense of property in another human being on no more grounds than that the skin was of a different color. It went far deeper than any question of value, the price Evans would fetch if brought to the slave market. Bolton and Lyons between them had already spent a good part of this on bribes and rewards. It was the presumption of absolute right, the sense of outrage when this—to them—natural order of things was disputed.

Jane had been out somewhere; it was only now that he noticed this by her dress—he had been too occupied with his account to notice it before. At once, by some obscure association of ideas, he thought of Erasmus Kemp. The two would not have met since the evening of the reception at Bateson’s house; Jane was not one to make assignations, and Kemp would know that visiting her at home was the only way of being granted a private conversation. She had not referred to Kemp since that evening, but Ashton remembered how they had disappeared together, how they had shut themselves away. The very absence of comment, in one so open and frank as Jane, was significant—or so he reasoned.

“I am glad that I was able to become acquainted with Mr. Kemp,” he said. “It is good to have a face and form for one’s adversaries.”

“Yes, I suppose he must be regarded as an adversary.” The word had no weight in her mind; there was only his face, the blaze of the dark eyes fixed on her own. As if he could only explain, only express himself, as if his purposes only seemed real to him while his gaze was locked on hers. As if only she could meet his need. He was everything her brother detested, everything she too should detest. A man who had founded his fortune on the sugar plantations, on slave labor. But he wanted to change, he wanted to build, to create, to improve the lot of common people …

“A lot of force in him,” Ashton said. “I am not sure what kind of force it is. I would hesitate to call it moral. He seems equally intense in the pursuit of his financial interests as in the sphere of personal feeling. Not a man to sacrifice his time except on issues important to him, perhaps I can say dear to him. He was set on conversing privately with you, so much was clear to see.”

“It is true that he paid me particular attention.”

“Indeed, yes. That is to put it mildly.”

“He asked me if he might call when he returns from Durham.”

“And how did you answer him?”

“I consented to it.”

“I have been thinking … you know he is a very important figure in the Admiralty case that is pending—it is to be heard very shortly now. In fact it is he who has instituted the charges of mutiny and piracy. If it could be put to him that it is close to your heart, that you would be happy for a judgment favorable to our cause … If he could be persuaded to declare some change of mind, some new order of feeling—he has had time to consider and so on, he sees now that a charge of piracy cannot be sustained, as the negroes were not property, and those surviving much outnumbered the crew. He might even be brought to state the belief that the killing of the captain was justified, and even lawful, as it put a stop to a process of murder. In short, if he knew it was your wish, he might be prevailed upon to withdraw the suit and make a public statement of his reasons for so doing. Think what attention such a statement would receive, what a great triumph it would be for us, for the cause of abolition. Of course there is the evidence of eyewitnesses, but in the absence of a plaintiff, in the absence of anyone calling for a judgment, the case might founder—yes, it might founder …”

He had been walking back and forth, possessed by the splendor of this vision. Now he stopped and looked at her, perhaps becoming aware of her silence, the absence of approbation. He saw a look on her face he could not recall ever having seen there before, a look in which there was no slightest indulgence for him. His sister was regarding him coldly, as one might look at a stranger, someone for whom there was no kindness.

“Do you really think that I would ask such a favor, such a large favor, on the strength of the acquaintance I have with Mr. Kemp, an hour of conversation, less than an hour? Do you not see that to ask such a thing of such a man as he is, as I sense him to be, or indeed of any man …”

The ugliness and unseemliness of her brother’s suggestion, coming so soon after her admiration for him, threatened her composure now, and her voice trembled as she continued. “Do you not see that it would mean, seem to mean, offering something … promising something in exchange? You are asking me, to serve your turn and without even any surety of the result you desire, to claim a right of property in him and thereby to put myself in his hands. How can you be so careless of your sister’s dignity? How can you be so coarse and selfish?”

“Selfish?” he began. “Selfish when I have at heart the liberation from bondage of many thousands, whose faces I do not even—”

But she swept out of the room without waiting for him to finish.