“You should get dressed,” he said. The snapping tone was back.
“I will,” she whispered as he left.
*
Richard hurried down the stairs and burst into the main parlor, finding Captain Bailyn and Patrick Higgins on opposite sides of the room, rising to their feet, hats in their hands.
“Did ye find him?” Richard demanded. “Tell me ye did.”
“Nay, yer lordship,” replied Bailyn. “Not a hair of the bastard.”
“Then ye’re clearly not looking!” snarled Richard. “God damn ye both!”
“M’lord,” Higgins began, “we’ve kept a vigil at his mother’s house and—”
“Blood and thunder! I told ye t’ forget that. He won’t be venturin’ there. Not now.” Richard turned and began filling his pipe, then tamped the loose tobacco.
“Aye, m’lord, but—” Higgins began.
“Good then.” Using a tapered candle from the mantle, Richard lit his pipe, then exhaled a thick, aromatic cloud. “Where will ye look today?”
“St. Stephen’s. College Green,” Captain Bailyn answered. “Likely places.”
“M’lord,” Higgins interjected. “If James is there, we….” His voice trailed away.
Bailyn grinned wickedly. “Higgs is afraid we can’t shoot the lad in a common as easily as we can in an alley. Ach, witnesses ‘n all.”
“‘Tis easy enough,” Richard said. “Take him to the back of St. Stephen’s. There are places where even a foxhound wouldn’t find the lad’s corpse. Where ye dumped the other fellow.”
“Aye, m’lord,” sneered Bailyn. “Man’s still bathing in the creek.”
“Sire,” Higgins interrupted, “Regardless of where Bailyn has done such foul deeds before, this lad’s body will be searched for. And mind ya, it will be found. A murder charge would see us all hanged.”
Richard shrugged, walking to the fireplace. Looking down at its cold ashes, he puffed his pipe. Blue smoke floated through the room.
Higgins continued, louder, “M’lord, it would be just as dangerous for yar neck.”
Richard remained silent, turning to Captain Bailyn, studying him. “What do ye think?”
Bailyn’s mouth curled. “Let’s just kill him somewhere else, then burn him.”
“Good Lord!” bellowed Higgins. “There are other means, with much less risk to all of us, m’lord. Have ya not considered to simply transport the lad?”
Bailyn chortled. “Boy-shagger Higgs is afraid he’ll miss.” He clapped a hand on Higgins’s shoulder. “Don’t fret, lassy, I’ll hold the bastard while ye run him through!”
“Ya’re a horse’s arse.” Higgins whipped around. “I won’t be part of killin’ the lad.”
“Getting a wee bit bold for a highwayman, aren’t ye?” Richard sneered, slowly pouring himself a brandy. “Ye don’t wish t’be swinging from the Tyburn tree.” Higgins moved to stare out of the window. Richard stepped behind him. “After ye and the honorable Captain Bailyn did such a fine job with my brother, ‘twould be easy to have ye shittin’ yerself in the gallows.”
Turning slowly, Higgins looked directly into Richard’s eyes. “I didn’t know Bailyn was going to kill yar brother. I found him for ya, drunk at the Brazen Head. That was all.”
“Ah, but ye drove the coach!” declared Richard.
“I bloody well did not!” Higgins protested.
“Ah, let’s not quibble the details.” Just then, at nearly half-past nine, the carillon bells of Richard’s German clock began an unmercifully loud toll of the ten o’clock hour. Higgins took the shattering moment to gather his thoughts and to pull down his anger. He condemned himself to this walking prison the prior autumn, when he made the mistake of attempting to rob the wrong carriage—a handsome coach carrying Richard Annesley. Overpowered by Captain Bailyn and others, Higgins was taken to Kilmainham Jail, outside Dublin, where the gaol-magistrate was Richard’s cousin. There he was given a bargain—to save his life he would have to sell his soul. Six months later he was now standing in Richard’s parlor staring out into Anglesea Street, and he could see no end to the imprisonment. When the clock’s bells finally stopped, he took a deep breath and asked again, “M’lord, let us transport him.”
“To the Colonies?” Richard laughed. “Sell him like a slave? Like you?” No response.
“Just let me shoot him, sire,” Captain Bailyn implored.
Richard laughed. “Which one?”
“Either one.” Bailyn grinned. “Higgs first, then the lad. Or the other way round.”
Higgins growled, “We’ll put him on the next slave ship from Ringsend. Same as killing him. Ya’ll never see him again.”
“And what if I do?” Richard tone was bone-cold.
“Then yar honorable Captain can kill him,” replied Higgins.
“Ney, I won’t be needing Bailyn’s services for that.” Richard stepped close to Higgins. “Both of ye. Get the lad. Indenture him. Transport him. All that’s necessary. But, Mr. Higgins, mind you, if James returns to Ireland, or England, ‘twill be you that kills him. You!” He thumped Higgins’s chest. “Ye’ll squeeze his eyes out with yer thumbs and bring ‘em to me.”
Higgins turned to the door, grumbling, “‘Tis an ill bird that defiles its own nest.”
“Jacobite dribble. Go!” barked Richard. “Go before Bailyn makes sport of ye with his sword.” Higgins donned his hat, gathered his coat, and left.
*
Upstairs, Charity Heath was out of bed, half-dressed, sitting on the front edge of a heavy oak chair. She was leaning forward, frozen, listening to the men below. Intently poised. A cat over a rat in the floor.
Chapter 5
Major Richard Fitzgerald, examined — “I met Lord Anglesea at Ross, and he invited me to dine with him the next day. I desired to be excused, as I was to dine with some officers, but Lord Anglesea said that I must dine with him, and come to drink some groaning drink, for that his wife was in labour. I said that that was a reason I ought not to go, but he would not take an excuse. He sent me word the next day to Ross that his wife was brought to bed of a son. I went to Dunmain, and dined there, and we had some discourse about the child. Lord Anglesea swore that I should see his son, and accordingly the nurse brought the child, and I kissed it, and gave half-a-guinea to the nurse. Some of the company toasted the heir-apparent to Lord Anglesea at dinner.”
— trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743
If you be too wise, they will expect excess of you;
If you be too foolish, you will be deceived;
If you be too conceited, you will be thought vexatious;
If you be too humble, you will be without honor;
If you be too talkative, you will not be heeded;
If you be too silent, you will not be regarded;
If you be too harsh, you will be broken,
If you be too feeble, you will be crushed.
— Instructions of a King, 267, Irish King Cormac MacArt, instructing his son Cairbre on the
duties of a king.
Four days passed. Now the dark waters of the River Anna Liffey moved through another damp morning. It was Sunday and the array of brass church bells began clanging, rousing their flocks, summoning them. They were calling, like the harking screech of a falcon calls her young to follow, to stretch their fledgling wings, to engage their faith, to cling to hope, trusting the unseen air will hold them. Come to this church! they cried. Come all of you. Come trust that God is here. Come cling to the hope that only we can give you. Come now!
Jemmy was listening, but not moving. He was crouched behind a pillar supporting Ormonde Quay, waiting for Seán, watching the boats plying the river, his stomach growling angrily. He could see light traffic on Essex Bridge above him. Perhaps he should run, he reasoned. This morning. On his thirteenth birthday. The day he was born, so he’d been told, there came a solar eclipse—a day of promise. Or foreboding? He remembered the coldness
of the full eclipse three years prior. It had harkened his mother leaving. Today felt the same somehow, an eerie coldness, a darkness, though the bright of day was upon them all. It was a good day to go, to leave Dublin. It would be his gift to himself. But go where? He pictured his mother. Why hadn’t she sent for him? What about Fynn and Juggy and Seán? Could he simply leave them? He must. If only. Glancing back at the stream of people and horses crossing the bridge, he noticed a woman riding in a small cart—she was society, with a large, elegant hat atop her head. He recognized her. Something familiar. In that instant he knew her—his mother! He was certain! He scrambled up the steep steps, raced around the bridgehead, turning, tearing through the moving masses of horses, carts, carriages and people. The cart was already off Essex Bridge, moving south. Now he could see two women on the open bench behind the driver. One was his mother, the other one, the one wearing the bonnet, must be Charity. Heart pounding, he broke into a sprint. “Mother! Charity!” he yelled. Neither woman turned.
“Jemmy!” Suddenly there was Seán stepping into his path. Jemmy dodged past him and kept running. “Jemmy! Stop!” screamed Seán. “Da’s lookin’ for ye!” Jemmy ignored him, running as fast as he could on the crowded road. The cart turned left on Dame Street, directly abreast Dublin Castle. He sprinted blindly, knocking down two men with a sideboard, scattering chickens in the road. Finally, he rounded the corner where he had seen her turn. He slowed, panting. She was gone. Dejected, he walked into College Green and plopped on the pedestal of King William III’s statue, the grand man riding high on a noble steed. Within seconds Seán came to him, deflating beside him. They were quiet for a while, just sitting, catching their breaths.
“I’m tired of running after ye,” grumbled Seán.
“I saw her,” said Jemmy.
“Don’t think ‘twas yer mum. She—”
“‘Twas!” Jemmy blurted, “I know it!” He shoved Seán off the pedestal.
“All right!” Seán shrugged, standing. “As ye say. Ye win, today. She was yer mum. She was anyone. She was yer fairy godmother.”
Jemmy sprang up, fist clenched. He slammed Seán backwards. “I’ll bust your teeth Seán if you say more!. You don’t know her.”
Though evenly built with Seán, Jemmy had a bulldog’s thickness to his bones. An unexpected strength matched with a simmering temper. But Seán was a better aim, and given the opportunity to fight back with a rock missile, Seán was the usual victor, or at least could keep Jemmy at bay till he stopped foaming. Today was different. Everything was different. So Seán just stood, in no mood to tangle with Jemmy. He stepped back, feigning a sudden interest in the looming statue. “I thought the O’Malleys were gonna pull this English bastard down.”
Jemmy shrugged. He was from a long line of those “English bastards” and they both knew it. But Seán didn’t care, and though Jemmy didn’t acknowledge it, he could not find the courage to defame the English peerage out loud. It was always there, part of him, yet not. A lingering illness. A smell not to be washed away. His father had been the Sixth Earl of Anglesea—and didn’t that make him the Seventh? Or since his shite-uncle Richard claimed it, if he got it back, would that make him the Eighth? He was steeped in the smell of peerage. Even on his mother’s side, his grandfather was a Duke, living in Buckingham Palace in London (he had seen a painting of it) and was counselor to kings and queens—even been counsel to this king, King William III, under whose horse’s massive marble cock he was now sitting.
Suddenly Seán announced, “Richard’s shaggin’ yer mum’s lady.”
Jemmy glanced up, his eyebrows peaked. “Charity?”
“That’s not the worst of it. No.” He sat again and waited for Jemmy to nudge him on.
“Aye?” Jemmy huffed.
“Yer uncle….”
“What of him?”
“He has a mind t’ sell ye. T’ transport ye t’ the Colonies.”
“Who told ye that?”
“A Scot.” Seán gestured to the south. “A coffin maker on Cook. Told me t’warn ye.”
Jemmy nodded, eyes wide. “I must be gone, Seán.”
“Not yet ye don’t. There’s a barn, a loft in the Frapper Stables that ye—”
“Lads!” Fynn Kennedy called from Dame Street, driving a wagon toward them.
“Shite!” groaned Jemmy, getting to his feet.
“I told ye. He’s been lookin’ for ye,” said Seán.
Fynn stopped the team. “Come here. Both of ye!” Jemmy trailed Seán to the street. He could see Fynn’s eyes darting from one passerby to another. “Climb in,” Fynn ordered. “Keep yer head down, Seámus.”
“Aye, sir,” both boys said together, pulling themselves into the wagon and hunkering below the rails. The horses started moving, bumping the wagon along. Fynn kept them at an even clomp for awhile, along the mile back to Purcell’s shop.
“Seán,” Fynn began, “have ye solved my riddle? As I inquired of ye yesterday?”
“What riddle, Da?”
“Faith, lad! Can’t ye remember? Lil’ Jennie Whiteface has a red nose. The longer she lives, the shorter she grows.” Fynn glanced back at the boys. “So lads, who is she? Eh?”
“A red-beaked warbler?” Seán guessed.
“Ach, Seán, ye’re not trying. Birds grow shorter as they age, do they?” Several men walked close to the wagon and Fynn let them pass. “Seámus, what do ye think?” Jemmy didn’t answer. “By japers lad! Are ye of the hearin’?”
“Aye, Mr. Kennedy, I hear ye,” Jemmy drolly replied. “But I don’t know.”
“Humph! Well, maybe ye’ll think on it,” said Fynn, furrowing his brow.
As they stopped in front of the butcher’s shop, Juggy rushed out. “Fynn, have ye seen—”
Fynn motioned with his head. “Seán. Seámus. Out with ye.” They scrambled to ground.
“Jemmy? Seán?” She was half-smiling. “Where were ya Jemmy? And on yar birthday! Ya had us worried!”
Jemmy lowered his chin. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Seán,” she interrupted, “lend a hand to Mr. Purcell. I must speak with Jemmy.” Seán hesitated, staring at Jemmy as if looking at the condemned. “Go on! Shoo lad!” Juggy insisted with the brush of her hand. “He’ll be along shortly.” After Seán disappeared inside, Juggy took Jemmy’s arm and led him to the bench on the shop’s stoop. “Will ya sit with me?”
“Aye, ma’am,” replied Jemmy, sitting. But she remained standing. He glanced up, seeing her holding a long object wrapped in brown cloth.
She gestured toward his cheek. “Never forget who gave ya that scar, lad. Understand me?”
“Aye, ma’am,” he replied, confused by its mention.
She moved closer, tears welling in her eyes. “I want ya to have this, in honor of yar day.”
“What is it?” he murmured, taking the object. It was heavy, narrow, about the length of a man’s foot. His heart raced as he quickly unwound the dark-brown linen. Then his mouth fell open. Lying across his knees was the most magnificent dirk he had ever seen—gleaming brass hilt, richly oiled sheath. The dagger’s pommel was an intricate acorn, the grip widening at the blade, forming a guard etched with ribbons. Grasping the hilt, he drew it from the sheath. The blade was single-edged with a thick spine of inlaid brass. Running two fingers down the leading edge, ever so lightly, he felt the deadly sharpness, then traced an engraving along the blood groove. “Léargas sa Dorchadas.” He read the Gaelic aloud, then translated it, “Sight in the Dark.”
Juggy was now beside him. “‘Twas my father’s.” She dabbed her eyes with a cloth and took a deep breath. “I want ya to have it. Please take it. But do be careful with it.”
“Thank ye,” he said, carefully resheathing it. “‘Tis a marvelous thing.”
“Aye. As ya are t’me.” She placed a hand on his knee. Tears returning, she looked away. “I must go in,” she said, standing. ‘Happy birthday, son. Ya’ll keep it safe?”
“
Aye. I will,” he said, standing with her. “Thank you.” He watched her go.
Juggy hurried inside Purcell’s, through a rack of hanging hare, past a customer thumping pork sides, and then silently by John Purcell and Seán slicing herring near the back. She sat on the stairs leading to the living quarters above and closed her eyes. She prayed Jemmy would be safe. When Fynn came, wrapping her in his big arms, she leaned into him and opened her eyes. Through the open storefront, she could see Jemmy on the bench near the street, studying the dirk. To her, Jemmy was everything. The son she never had.
“Do ya think his scar will go away?” she asked softly.
“No,” Fynn replied.
“I wish something could be done,” she murmured. “That boy has such a beautiful face.” As a Scottish orphan, Juggy, Joan Mackercher, had survived by toiling in the fields and sweltering kitchens of strangers. At sixteen, with her youthful beauty in full blossom, she traveled to York in the service of her betters. There, John Sheffield, the First Duke of Buckingham, noticed her, abruptly declaring Buckingham Palace in need of another linen maid. And so Juggy, then Joan Landy, served the Duke until May of 1706, when the Duke’s only child, Mary, was married off to Arthur Annesley, the Sixth Earl of Anglesea. At that time the Duke remarried, and his new wife quickly unburdened her new husband of the temptations of an attractive and young female staff. Thus Juggy (along with Mary’s lady-in-waiting, Charity Heath) was carted to the southern coast of Ireland, joining the Annesley staff at Dunmain, near the towns of Waterford and New Ross. Among Arthur’s most notable servants was Fynn Kennedy, his stablemaster. Fynn’s wife, Margaret, became fast friends with Juggy, helping her settle into her new Irish home. They had giggled and wept together, worked side by side, shared intimate secrets.
Fortunate Son Page 4
