“Put on yer hat,” ordered the boatswain, shoving Jemmy aside.
“Captain Hendry, this is yer prize bull?” A short man with fat red cheeks and a pate to match tapped Jemmy with his cane.
“I told ye to put on yer hat!” the boatswain barked.
He hesitated, then slowly lifted the infested thing. Just as the breeze caught it, he let go and saw it sail over the edge of the boat.
“Damn ye, Squire!” the helmsman yelled, watching his hat go into the water.
“Aye, Mr. Gunter. He is a fine one.” Jemmy was surprised by the familiar voice and turned to see Captain Hendry behind him. “But ye’re looking for a cooper,” continued the captain. “This one’d be no good for that.” The sun blazed behind the captain and Jemmy raised a hand to shield the light so as to see the captain’s face. “Put yer arm down boy,” Hendry ordered softly.
“He’ll fetch a good price for you, I’m sure,” said the fat man as he moved across the deck to the others. Hendry motioned to the boatswain, silently telling him to keep the other buyers away from Jemmy.
In that moment, a shadow fell over Jemmy and he looked up to see a boorish face staring down at him. “Lil’ miss, how old are ye?” The voice was gravelly and slow.
“Sir?” Jemmy replied, startled. He recognized the southern Irish lilt, saw the Irish ruddiness, but nothing else was familiar. The man’s nostrils were large and flared, his wig pulled back tightly over his broad expanse of a forehead, which dwarfed his narrow slit, yellowish eyes.
“Are ye hard of hearin’?” the man continued.
“Nay, Mr. Drummond,” interjected Captain Hendry, smiling awkwardly. “He’s strong. He hears well. Both of his eyes work. He eats and shites with the best of ‘em. Nothing sickly about this one.” Jemmy could hear the captain’s nervousness.
“But Henry, the nit doesn’t know his own age!”
“I do,” Jemmy mumbled, looking down, seeing the man’s shiny silver buckles.
The wealthy Irishman leaned closer, swelling his eyes. “Did ye fart? Or were ye talkin’?” Jemmy felt rage and humiliation at the same time. He had only one thought, Run!
“James!” barked the captain. “Speak yer age.”
“Thirteen,” he snarled, sarcastically drawing out the word.
“Thirteen? Bloody hell, Henry. What are ye bringin’ me? I don’t need children!”
“He’s strong and agile. He can fetch wood for ye. Better yet, he has learning to him. Put him in the mercantile, Mr. Drummond. Let him count things for ye. He can even write.”
“So ye say.” Drummond was slowly circling Jemmy. He paused, inspecting the deep scar on Jemmy’s cheek. “You had dirt in this cut. You English are as filthy as the French.” He circled more, the asked, “This the one ye had me summoned for? This lil’ lass?”
“Aye. He is,” replied the captain.
Summoned? Jemmy’s heart sank. He planned to sell me to this oaf all along.
Drummond snatched the quadrant from Jemmy’s hands. “Where’d ye get this?”
“From the captain,” replied Jemmy.
“Damn Henry, ye give these things away?”
“Nay, I just had—”
“How much, Henry?”
“For—”
“The runt, damnit! I don’t want yer fackin’ quadrant!” Drummond slammed the quadrant against Jemmy’s chest, returning it to him. “I’ll give ye ten pounds. Twelve tops.”
“Oh nay, sir, ye’re not seeing his breeding. I’d need much more.”
Drummond frowned at Jemmy. “So ye have breeding do ye? If I buy ye, ye’ll be dead in no time a’toll. Breeding or no. Breeding won’t help ye at my iron works.”
“He’s strong sir,” the captain protested, a bit weakly. “Make him a gutterman.”
“What’s yer time? Or are ye a bloody redemptioner?”
Jemmy looked directly into Drummond’s ugly eyes. He was tired of this sort, the Captain Bailyn’s of the world. This man was no different. He was tired of running from them, of being fearful of them. He had survived his father. He had survived Dublin. He had survived the voyage. This man could do what he wanted, but he would never get the satisfaction of seeing Jemmy scared. “I don’t know my time,” Jemmy replied bluntly, then turned his head and mumbled, “Blackguard’s arse.”
“Blackguard’s arse? Ye lil’ shite!” With one hand, Drummond nearly lifted Jemmy off his feet, then cuffed him on the head with the other. “Ye’re in Maryland now, runt!” He threw him down. “There are severe laws against that kind of swearing and blasphemy. We’re goddamned civilized! How’d ye like to get yer tongue bored?” Jemmy scrambled to his feet, keeping a stare locked on the man. Gradually Drummond smiled, nodding, then spoke in a forced Irish brogue. “Ye’re tryin’ t’ get me not t’ buy ye, eh? Tryin’ t’ be clever, aren’t ye?” He pursed his lips, his yellow eyes squinting at Jemmy. “I’ll ask ye again,” he barked, dropping the heavy accent. “And, by God, ye’d better tell me direct this time. What’s yer time?”
Captain Hendry stepped beside them. “He’s a seven-year, Mr. Drummond.”
“A convict? An unpreached convict at thirteen? I knew it. What’d ye do—steal some linens?” He jerked Jemmy’s right hand over, looking at his palm. “No Bailey-burn?”
Jemmy scowled at the captain. “Seven years?”
“Hush, boy! Aye, Mr. Drummond, no mark on him. He’s no felon.” Backing up to the fife rail around the main mast, Hendry pulled a folded paper from his coat and held it high. “Sir, if I might have a word,” he said. Drummond frowned, then stepped away. They whispered together for a moment, perusing the crinkled paper and glancing occasionally at Jemmy. Then Drummond’s mouth creased into a wide smirk, his eyes gleaming at Jemmy. Jemmy was standing alone, his mind racing. Run! Now is your chance! His gaze darted to the gangway, but no, three men were there patrolling with muskets. Leap the starboard rail and swim for the dock! No, five redcoats were clumped there talking. Mr. Parker had said running could be a hanging offence. But would those infantrymen really shoot him? He had committed no crime. He looked back to the mast, wondering what the two were talking about. Perhaps Mr. Parker could help. He turned, hurriedly scanning the open decks, but the man was nowhere to be seen. By now half-a-dozen buyers had boarded and a general hum of conversation was swarming the maindeck. The other indentees were being tugged at and inspected. One buyer was looking at a woman’s teeth while another waited impatiently for a man to strip off his shirt.
“Ye’ve got to be mad!” Drummond suddenly flared, drawing Jemmy’s attention.
“Nay, sir. But I’ll hear yer offer.” The captain sounded urgent.
Drummond and Hendry spoke quietly for a few more minutes, then a bag of coin was handed to the captain and the two separated. Drummond walked back and resumed his stance directly in front of Jemmy. Now, in the shadow of the man’s brown three-cornered hat, a wicked grin had emerged. Drummond was peering from under crooked black eyebrows as though hiding something, a tasty secret he could not wait to tell. “A bargain ‘tis,” Drummond said loudly, throwing the words over his shoulder. He curled his mouth, squinting at Jemmy as if trying to read his mind. Jemmy mockingly curled his own lips and squinted back. The man burst into a loud cackle. “Twenty-eight pounds ‘tis a bargain indeed.” He grabbed Jemmy’s arm, his fingers digging in, pulling him close. Jemmy smelled the ripe gin as the gargoyle whispered, “A sweet price for one Englishman so nobly born. Aye, Master Annesley? Or should I call you Lord Anglesea?”
Jemmy jerked away wide-eyed while Drummond howled with laughter. But just as Jemmy whirled toward the gangway, Drummond’s laughter ceased and he pulled a dagger from under his coat, sticking it to Jemmy’s ribs. “Ye English cunt,” he hissed. “Know this. If ye run, I’ll kill ye. I will personally cut yer heart out and feed it to m’dogs.” He smiled through clamped teeth. “Do ye understand me?”
Jemmy stared at him defiantly, then looked back toward Captain Hendr
y, but the captain was gone. With an unexpected surge of courage, he snapped, “Aye, ye’ll kill me, I heard ye. But I still say ye’re a blackguard’s arse.”
Drummond started to slap Jemmy but stopped short. He grinned. “Perhaps ye’re right. Many an man better’n you has said so.” Turning to a crewman coming up the companionway, he ordered, “Ye there, fetch me that hat.” The sailor quickly complied, fishing it out of the water with a long pole. He handed it to Drummond, who in turn slapped it down on Jemmy’s head, pulling it around his ears. The water coursed off of it, soaking Jemmy’s waistcoat. “Of course, lad,” Drummond went on, “whether or not I’m a blackguard doesn’t change the fact that I now own yer noble arse. I bought ye—I can kill ye. Them’s de rules.”
“Poor waste of twenty-eight pounds wouldn’t ye say?” Jemmy muttered. “T’ kill me before ye get any work from me.”
“Nah, lad.” Drummond slapped him on the back, ushering him to the gangway. “Whether I kill ye now or later, makes no difference to me. Either way, t’was the best sack o’ coin I ever spent. B’God, ‘twas!” He howled with laughter again.
As they made their way to shore, Jemmy asked, “Ye know who I am? Ye knew my da?”
“Oh, aye, m’lord! Although, I must say I was surprised by yer uncle Richard’s thoughtfulness in writing me.” He brandished the paper Captain Hendry had been holding. “Damned civil of him, even if he is a bloody Annesley. He almost asks me to kill ye. Imagine that!” The group of redcoats turned, watching them pass, hearing Drummond’s threat. “Nice family ye’ve got. Still living at Dunmain House?” Jemmy didn’t answer. “I reckon so,” grumbled Drummond. “Land-stealin’, murderin’ English bastards.”
They were about fifty yards from the gangway before Jemmy realized he was standing on firm ground—a moment he had been dreaming of for weeks on end. But he felt no pleasure or awe, just numb anger, his mind reeling, trying to devise a way to escape. Perhaps he would do it on the way to this idiot’s iron works. He would jump from the coach and run, then stow away on another ship. He would get off this land, sail east, charge into Dunmain House, grab his father’s old rapier and thrust it straight through Richard’s black heart.
A carriage appeared to be waiting for them at the bottom of the hill. As they approached, the driver, in a dark-blue livery, stepped down from the box. “Sir,” he said, opening the door. Drummond grunted and climbed inside. When Jemmy moved to follow him, the driver shoved him back. “What are ye thinking, lad? Ye’re on that,” he said, pointing to a large wagon several yards away. Jemmy saw several young men being ushered to it as its four draft horses stamped and shuffled, pawing the ground.
Drummond was suddenly back in his face, spewing, “Ye know, m’lord, I was thinkin’. Most of my runaways try it on the way to the furnace, thinking they’ll find refuge with the thievin’, godless Swedes. But I know I’ll see ye tomorrow. Aye?” Jemmy refused to respond, even in expression. Drummond continued, unaffected. “If you try to run, my guards will kill you. Pick another day to die, will ye? If anyone gets to kill ye, let it be me. Fair enough? Besides, ye haven’t even seen this virgin land yet. Most importantly, my silent Annesley, I want ye to see what a free Irishman can build when he’s not under the stinking arse of an English Anglesea. Ye bloody invaders! Ye stole m’ land in Ireland. Now ye can die working m’ land in Pennsylvania.” He shoved Jemmy away, slamming the door shut. The driver whipped the two horses and the carriage jolted forward. Two men remained with Jemmy, one holding a blunderbuss, the other a musket. They motioned him toward the wagon.
Chapter 16
Mark Byrne, examined — “I was a constable in Dublin. I was told I had a good job to go upon and was to get a guinea for doing it. My lord, the defendant, had charged a boy with stealing a silver spoon. We took the boy away, with the help of the defendant’s man, Captain Bailyn. To my knowledge Captain Bailyn is now dead. We were publicly known to be constables, though we had no warrant, so far as I saw. I did not know what my lord was going to do with the boy, but when I saw him going down the river I began to be afraid, and I went no further. I apprehended that it was not anything that was right that was going to be done with him. I believed they were going to send him over sea. Was I paid? I have never got any more of the guinea than an English shilling.”
— trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743
The New World now opened itself to view of me, in which every thing I saw was strange: the habits and odd manners of the Indians, the various birds, and four-footed animals, so different from those of Europe, would have afforded an agreeable amusement to my attentive mind for a considerable time, had I been permitted to indulge it; but that cruel monster Drummond found me. O Heaven, can there be such villainy in man!
— Memoirs of an Unfortunate Young Nobleman, James Annesley, 1743
Jemmy held the quadrant close as the white freight wagon bumped and plodded along the well-worn road. The trip from Chestertown, Maryland to Coatesville, Pennsylvania would take the rest of the day, according to the guard who was sitting next to him. The man’s musket was standing muzzle up between them, and the man’s right hand was wrapped firmly around the barrel. Jemmy let his mind drift, studying the musket’s flashpan, noticing it was somehow different—flatter and larger than any he had seen before. The guard, a German immigrant, rarely spoke, and when he did his English was garbled and thick. Jemmy learned his name, Karl Haack, and asked him why Drummond’s shiny black carriage was not with them. Colonel Drummond, the guard explained, had gone to Annapolis to buy more indents. Karl then slowly explained that he was indentured as a collier for the Drummond Furnace, and had six more months before earning his freedom, before he finished paying for his journey from Germany. He had been asked to come along on this trip to Chestertown to help the guards who did this kind of work for Drummond. Jemmy made out most of this, but when he asked what a collier did, the reply was in such broken English that he could only nod as if he understood.
Looking over the rumpled men riding with him, Jemmy noticed that some were staring at him curiously. He casually scanned the worn faces, glancing away when he saw eyes looking back. Including himself, he counted fourteen men and boys in the jostling wagon: four guards and ten indentured servants. All were in their own hair and a few had short tails. Their clothes were tattered, an ill-fitting array of patched browns and greens, all shaded by an assortment of earth-colored hats. Except Jemmy. He had removed his lice-infested hat as soon as he boarded the wagon, tucking the nasty thing down by his feet. Among the group, he saw three eye patches and seven chopped fingers, and almost every man was missing a few front teeth. And though most of them were young—not much older than Jemmy—he could see that he was clearly the youngest. He figured the burly one with the heavy smallpox scars was the oldest, perhaps even as old as thirty. Clambering to his knees, he peered over the wagon’s tall sideboards and listened to the muffled low laughter from two men talking. From what he could hear, everyone in the wagon was either English or Welsh, with the exception of the young man who was clearly from Scotland, and the German beside him. Other than the occasional chatter passing between them, the passengers’ attention was for the most part focused beyond the wagon. Most were turned out, each in his own fog, as was Jemmy, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Some even seemed to look beyond the virgin expanse now rolling past, as if they could see things unseen. Jemmy found himself so engaged in the spellbinding sights that the time eased by and he forgot he was famished. There were small farms dotting the landscape, wood split-rail fences snaking over the slight hills, and people who looked ruddier and healthier than any he had ever seen. Men and women were in the road, in the fields, chopping wood, herding cattle. Children were laughing, squealing in play. Most of the men were in plain dress, without wigs, wearing round-brimmed hats that reminded Jemmy of Ireland, making him wonder if they were all Catholic. As they ferried across the first river, Karl Haack leaned over the rail, looking into the deep water, summoning Jemmy to join
him. “What’s there?” asked Jemmy, peering over the edge.
“Ze fish,” said Karl, pointing to a school of massive fish splashing and swirling just below the surface in a dazzling shimmer of silvers, greens and blues.
Jemmy was astonished. “What are they?”
“Ha! You don’t know?” He asked, then saw Jemmy shrug. “Zemun, lad! Zemun!”
“Zeemun?” Jemmy struggled to understand.
“Zamun!”
“Ah, salmon,” he said, suddenly comprehending. “That big? Salmon?” He stared into the foaming water. “Truly?”
“Ze moder of zamun, lad. Ze moder!” Karl held up his hands, spreading his arms far apart as if to show the fresh-water salmon were almost five feet long.
“Aye, they’re the mother of salmon. I understand, Mr. Haack.” Jemmy still had his eyes on the fish as the ferry docked. “That they are, indeed.”
“No, Karl.”
“Eh?”
“Karl,” the man said, touching his chest. “Mizter Haack, nein”
“Aye, sir. Karl,” replied Jemmy with a nod. Once back on the narrow road, Karl pointed out the dark, broadleaved plants growing waist-high in the passing fields. The accent obliterated the word tobacco, but a Welshman pronounced it slowly when Jemmy winced in confusion. When the wagon lumbered through a community of Swedes, Jemmy saw a log cabin for the first time, and even the Welshman was hard-pressed to explain it properly. At the next creek though, when Jemmy stood pointing at a small, black-haired, ruddy-brown man in long leather breeches, the German’s pronunciation of Indian was clear enough, and Jemmy’s amazement nearly toppled him from the wagon. All around him, the passing land seemed to be flourishing with life, green and unspoiled, alive with a raw splendor that Jemmy had never seen before. And there was something else different. Perhaps it was the Indian or the Swedes. Perhaps it was all of the people. He could feel it, but he couldn’t name it. He looked up into the colossal trees wondering if perhaps it was simply the sheer enormity of everything. The primeval forests awed him. He marveled at the epic size of the massive oaks, the stands of giant pine whose lowest branches began thirty feet in the air. Leaning back in the bumping wagon, he listened to the steady thrum of the horses’ hooves and gazed straight up into the shifting coolness. Ascending hundreds of feet into the flickering blue sky, like pillars to God, the huge backlit trees formed a distant swaying canopy of a million leaves. And birds were everywhere, cawing, chirping, screeching out their shrill choruses as they swooped back and forth cutting the long strands of golden light that descended through the shadows. He rest his head on the side-railing, letting his thoughts drift. He tried to imagine how a man could climb such a gigantic tree. He wanted to try.
Fortunate Son Page 13
