Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [305]
Erasmus, not having heard any question, had failed to understand his cousin’s words. Half mechanically he had clasped the hand extended to him and he was still holding it some minutes later when Paris caught his breath and struggled forward again and died. After a little while he released the hand and crossed it with the other one over the chest and closed the eyelids over the pale eyes. He stood looking down at the dead man’s face. All marks of pain had gone from it. Paris wore a look of patient obstinacy as if, eyes closed, he were memorizing his arguments. On the blanket before him, where he had dropped it, lay a smallish brass button. After hesitating a moment Erasmus leaned forward and picked this up. Then he left the cabin and made his way above.
He stood for a while at the forward rail of the quarterdeck. It was a clear morning, rather cold, but sunny. The bayonets of the soldiers on guard glinted in the sunshine. He looked down at the slaves huddled amidships. One or two glanced at him but most kept their eyes sullenly or listlessly turned away. From somewhere in their midst a baby was crying fitfully. He noted the differences in skin colouring among them and thought with some disgust of the promiscuous relations that must have prevailed in the settlement. They had lived like animals there … Negro and mulatto, men, women, children – they had little more distinction in his mind than cattle might have done. They were in prime condition, however, and would fetch best prices at Charles Town. A good number of infants among them – they would have to be sold with the mothers. This was not usual and he was not sure how far it would affect the price. Like so much else, it depended on the temperament of the buyer. Some would regard it as an investment, others grudge the outlay on feeding … It occurred to him now that there might be bastards of his cousin’s among these children. With this thought the image of the dead man’s face came back into his mind. What had Paris said at the end? It had not made much sense – he had been talking to himself. Something about hope.
Erasmus glanced to either side of him at the unruffled expanses of the sea. The sky was cloudless. To eastward there still lingered the faint stains of sunrise. He knew land could not be far distant on the port side, but there was no sign of it; sea and sky met in a clear line. On a beach as vast as this sea to the memory of childhood, Paris had lifted him, swung him clear of the ground. It had not been to cheat him of victory – he knew that now, perhaps he had always known it – but to save him from defeat. It had been an act of kindness, perhaps even love. Only superior strength had enabled his cousin to do it. No one since then had been strong enough. And now there was no one at all. Paris was dead and could save him from defeat no longer. Ever since the morning that Captain Philips had come with his story of the beached ship, the thought that Paris might still be in the world had given his life meaning and purpose. Sarah had done that once. What was there now? He had thought his defeat lay in not delivering Paris to the hangman; but he knew now that the more terrible thing was not to have kept his cousin alive …
In the stress of this knowledge he clenched his fists, as his habit was. As he did so he felt the edge of the button press painfully against his fingers – he had been holding it all this while. He opened his hand and looked at it closely. An odd thing for a dying man to hold on to. Erasmus might have thrown it into the sea, but it occurred to him that it was a kind of gift, though accidental. After a moment he put it carefully away in the pocket of his coat.
EPILOGUE
This evening no different from others. He knows where he is by the quality of the light, the shape of the pale sheet