Faintly, he began humming a familiar tune—then suddenly realized he was humming aloud in a wagon of strangers and quit. But the tune had a mind of its own. It was unmistakable, Greensleeves, and it was holding him as a mother lion carries her young, in teeth both deadly sharp yet sharply forgiving. He couldn’t get out of its clutches till it was ready to let him loose and any attempt to struggle might snag him on a tooth. Maybe he could block it out. He tried to think of a sea chantey he had learned from Mr. Parker, but it didn’t work. The faint image of his mother crept into his mind, overpowering him. His mouth dried as he closed his eyes and stopped fighting her image, allowing it to consume him. There she was, bleeding, dead in the—“‘Tis Juggy!” he blurted, his eyes popping open from sleep. Karl was looking at him curiously. Jemmy turned, closing his eyes again. Just as during its last few visits, Greensleeves had reminded him of Juggy, not his mother. But it was his mother’s song, the song she had sung to him. He tried to picture her face, her smile, but she wouldn’t come to him. His stomach tightened, a ball of sadness rolling over him. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying. Soon sleep returned.
Suddenly the wagon hit a rut, mercifully jostling Jemmy’s head against the rail, the pain snapping him alert. Gathering his strength, he quickly wiped his eyes and looked around. For the next mile or so, he counted every meandering crook and bend in every split-rail fence they passed, careful not to let his mind slip into Greensleeves again and determined to think of something, anything, anyone other than Fynn or Seán. By the time he counted seventy-two bends, a measure of peace had returned. The wagon crossed three more creeks and was ferried across one more rushing river before the giant trees began to give way to a lush, flat land bordered by swamps. There he saw more birds, hundreds of them—ducks and geese in dense flocks overhead, their cries and wings a deafening roar. Jemmy sucked in the fresh warm air, savoring its taste. “What an amazing place this is,” he whispered. “What an incredible land.”
*
Another hour passed, during which he had roughly drifted in and out of half-sleep, lulled by the motion of the wagon. Then he heard strange voices coming from the road. Glancing up, he was startled to see two African men rolling a huge wooden barrel down the road, coming toward the wagon. Even on its side the barrel was taller than the Africans. He was impressed by how well they handled it. The driver eased the wagon off the road, pulling the team to a stop, waiting quietly till the enormous barrel passed. Jemmy wanted to ask Karl about the men and their load, but the German was taking his turn in the box alongside the driver. So Jemmy sat silently, staring, assessing the sight. Though the barrel was baffling, he was more entranced by the two Africans. He listened to their deep, resonant voices as they spoke to each other in their peculiar language. As they passed, both Africans glanced toward the wagon and gave the driver a duteous nod. Jemmy had seen an African only once before, in Dublin, and from a considerable distance. These two were close and he could see them clearly. How odd!
“Slaves.” The older boy sitting across the wagon spoke up, as if he had been reading Jemmy’s mind. “They’re slaves.”
“Aye. Of course,” replied Jemmy as the wagon resumed moving, then hit a large hole, lifting and crashing them all back onto the plank-floored bed.
“Negroes, they call ‘em here,” the boy continued, unaffected by the bump.
“I knew that,” Jemmy lied.
“They’re rolling a hogshead,” the boy said with a mild cockney accent. “This here’s a rolling road.”
“A hogshead?”
“Got tobacco in it. About twelve hundred pounds.” They watched the two Africans straining to extract the hogshead from a gully that cut the road behind them.
“Twelve hundred pounds?” Jemmy asked, impressed even though he was unsure how heavy that really was. “Where are they taking it?”
“To Chestertown, I suppose. Probably loading it onto your ship for the journey back.”
He turned toward the young fellow. “What about yer ship?”
“Ours sank.”
“Sank?” Jemmy’s impish green eyes grew wide.
“Aye, sank.” The boy nodded, then extended his hand. “Name’s George. George Brooke.” As Jemmy reached for George’s hand, he noticed a round scar about the size of an Irish shilling on George’s right palm. “‘Tis a Bailey-burn,” George said as they shook hands.
“I know.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did so,” protested Jemmy, tired of being corrected. “Yer a convict. A felon. Ye were in the Old Bailey in London. They branded ye before transportin’ ye here.”
“So you know something,” muttered George, rubbing the mark. “It was either this or dangling’ from the Tyburn tree.” He looked away.
Jemmy watched him He didn’t look like a murderer. Probably just a thief. Having looked into the eyes of Captain Bailyn he knew a murderer when he saw one. It was the Captain Bailyns, Richard Annesleys and Drummonds of the world who should be swinging from the Tyburn tree. “Pleased to meet ye. Name’s James Annesley—” Just then the wagon hit another huge hole and crashed down, lurching violently with a fantastic creaking noise. As Jemmy started to right himself, the rear wheels hit the same rut. Then the band of the back right wheel popped with a loud twang, the wooden spokes splintering, shooting free, and that corner of the wagon wrecked to the ground with a medley of thunderous whomps and thuds.
“Whoa, damnit! Whoa!” the driver yelled at the horses. The wagon crunched, grinding to a halt as the men and boys clambered over each other, grabbing for the side rails to keep from sliding out. Karl had reached back and caught Jemmy by the wrist. Everyone was shouting, some laughing, and it took a moment for the agitated chaos to settle. Jemmy turned toward the sound of metal scraping against wood just in time to see his brass quadrant falling from the wagon, clanging against stones.
“Get you down!” a bearded guard bellowed, stooping to pick up the quadrant.
“Get out,” yelled another. “Move lads!” All the servants including Jemmy quickly scrambled down the tilted wagon bed to the coarse road.
“Over there.” The guard motioned with the quadrant, ordering the ten new servants to move to the low side of the road. Once they had all shuffled over, he continued, “You!” He was pointing the quadrant at George. “Get your arse under and fetch the other wheel.” George hesitated, but for only a moment, then crawled beneath the still-creaking wagon. “You four big’uns get around this end and lift.” The large men came forward and lifted the wagon, grunting under the weight, holding it up while George shoved the new wheel out from under the bed and then emerged himself. Jemmy started to move up and help pull the new wheel out but the guard barked at him to stay back. The four rested the wagon down again, then lifted it once more while others went to work hastily replacing the wheel. Jemmy saw Karl standing in front of the wagon, musket in hand. He wondered why a young man like Karl would endure the long voyage to the Colonies only to find himself working for Drummond. But that was followed quickly with the realization that he himself was no different—he was about to become a woodcutter for that Irish ogre. The bearded guard who had been directing the work now took notice of the quadrant in his own hands. “Whose is this? Who brought this?” he asked.
“Me, sir,” replied Jemmy. “‘Tis mine.”
“Well, I don’t know who you stole it from but I’ll keep it till it’s claimed.”
Jemmy stepped up. “I didn’t steal it, I—”
“Stand back!” the man barked. Jemmy froze, his eyes burning with anger. It was that wave of rage that came easily to him now, perhaps too easily—one moment on, the next gone, ready to return. He wished these men would just leave him be. If they—
“Stop! You shite-bastard!” another guard bellowed from behind the wagon. Jemmy jumped and then realized the man was yelling at someone else. Everyone fell silent. Jemmy followed the direction of the guard’s blunderbuss to the wide eyes of the young Scottish
servant who was frozen atop a wooded rise by the road. “Boy!” another shouted. “Where do you think you’re goin’ Scot?”
“No Kelly. Not now!” pleaded George, shaking his head.
“I’m not going back, George. I’m not.” The young man’s voice was quivering. Watching Kelly, it occurred to Jemmy that the boy was not much older than himself, perhaps fifteen or so. Probably about the same age as George. Kelly slowly retreated, taking three scared steps backward until he bumped into a fallen tree.
“Get down here, lad!” a guard demanded.
“These bastards do the paddy’s bidding,” George implored. “You know what he did to Robert. It isn’t worth it.”
“Aye,” Kelly replied, his voice taut and high, “and if we stay on that wagon we’ll end up working for Drummond too, we will.” With a shaky hand, Kelly slowly pulled a flintlock pistol from his torn waistcoat and held it by his side.
“Mother of God! Don’t do this lad!” The guard’s round flabby face was glistening with sweat. Jemmy heard the pop and click of the blunderbuss’s hammer rocking into place.
“Damnit, Kelly!” George shouted again. “This isn’t—”
“You damned runaway. Put down your squirrel gun,” said another voice.
The bearded guard stepped behind the man aiming the blunderbuss and whispered, “Shoot up, over his head. That’ll stop him.”
“Kelly,” pleaded George, “I’m begging you. They aren’t going to just let you go.”
“What are you holding there lassy?” a guard taunted. “Looks like an old Jacobite relic. Better check the pan!” Nervous laughter rippled among the others. Another joined in with a forced Scottish brogue, “Haven’t ya any powder t’ ya? What ya goin’ t’ burn—one of yar Highland turds?”
The young Scot narrowed his eyes and screamed, “Ya’re all fackin’ English scum!”
“Kelly!” shouted George.
With one fierce surge, Kelly jerked the pistol up and fired it while whirling around, leaping high over the fallen tree. The blunderbuss instantly erupted with a deafening boom and the back of the young Scot’s head exploded red and he fell. Jemmy froze, staring at the crimson mist falling softly in the air.
Chapter 17
John Broders, examined — “I dwelt in Pennsylvania, in America, fourteen or fifteen years ago, and I saw Mr. Annesley there. My brother and I were traveling on the road one cold morning, and we went into a colliers house to warm ourselves. As we were there a boy came in with a gun in his hand and a dead squirrel. He said he was a servant at the place and he told us that he came from the county of Wexford. We told him that we both came from that county, and were glad to see him, and asked him his name. He said that he was James Annesley, of Dunmain, but refused our further questions. Though we pressed, he would say nothing more.”
— trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743
The doubt of future foes
exiles my present joy,
And wit me warns to shun such snares
as threaten mine annoy;
For falsehood now doth flow,
and subjects’ faith doth ebb,
Which should not be if reason ruled
or wisdom weaved the web.
— The Doubt of Future Foes, Queen Elizabeth I, 1568
Jemmy’s foot slipped on a wobbly stone in the middle of Brandywine Creek, a half-day’s ride from Coatesville, Pennsylvania. His split-sole shoe filled with cold water, sparking a flurry of curses. When he regained his balance it was too late. One end of the heavy log he was carrying slid from his arms and splashed into the creek, pitching water up to his waist. “Damn! Fack!” he bellowed. “Damn it to hell!” He stood still for a moment, the frigid torrent rushing around his ankles. “Damnit! Damnit!” he wailed into the surrounding trees. Finally, resigned to his wet fate, he ambled forward sploshing his way across the creek dragging the length of bulky cordwood behind him. Climbing the far bank, he quickly grew weary and the harder he tugged at the log the more his feet slipped and the slower he progressed up the slick slope. He fell on his rear and sat still, thinking about letting go—letting the log roll back down to the creek where it seemed so desperate to be. A rustle behind him caught his attention and he stretched up, panting heavily, trying to peer over the rise. But he didn’t see anything. It was probably a rabbit. Perhaps a fox. He almost hoped it was one of those mysterious Iroquois Indians the others claimed were lurking just out of sight—coming to kill him, crack his head open with a tomahawk and relieve him of this withering fatigue which was equaled only by his fury, both of which had not waned a bit over the past four months. He turned and lay against the muddy bank, watching the cold creek gurgle by.
“Give it here,” George barked from over Jemmy’s shoulders. “Wouldn’t want his lordship bruising an elbow, now would we?”
“Damn ye,” groaned Jemmy, pulling himself to his feet. Now he was going to get that bloody log up the ravine if it killed him.
“Come now. Give it here, Master James,” George demanded sarcastically.
Jemmy stepped forward, clutching the log, teetering on losing his balance. “Get out of m’ fackin’ way!”
A mocking grin came over George. “The noble command of the Earl of Anglesea!”
“Go to hell directly,” Jemmy replied, clambering past George and over the top of the embankment with the log. He then heaved it into the wagon bed. He was furious at himself not only for having trusted George to be his friend, but because the night before he had made the mistake of telling George about his claim to the English peerage. He had said it at the tenant house, just after their evening victuals of hardtack and tepid stew. Sitting on the long front porch of the one room cabin that bunked fifteen woodcutters, including George and himself, they had talked, just the two of them. After George told, for the seventh or eighth time, his ‘harrowing’ account of being nearly hanged for stealing bread from a Baton Bar baker in London, Jemmy decided it was time to tell his own story. But he didn’t make it past the first sentence, “My father was the Earl of Anglesea and when he died—” before the derision began. Now, a day later, after nine hours of trudging hickory logs from the cutters’ area, over a densely wooded hill, across the Brandywine, then back up the far bank to the waiting freight wagon, George was still at it, still mocking him. Jemmy was ready to hit him. He tried to focus on finishing loading the wagon.
Finally, much to his relief, the sound of horses’ hooves and the jangle of harnesses came floating through the autumn-draped forest. Then the beasts came into sight. Riding one of them was a teamster bringing the four horses to pull Jemmy and George’s full wagon to the nearest charcoal hearth where the logs, along with the loads of twenty-two other wagons from throughout Drummond’s timberland, would be carefully charred in giant smoldering mounds, making charcoal for the plantation’s iron furnace. Jemmy started to help the teamster hitch the horses, but George got to it first, so he held back. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the fellow. The day was through now, they would ride back on the freight wagon and he could get warm. Perhaps tonight he could talk to the foreman, Mr. Clowes, about switching crew partners the next day. He glanced back at the horses and saw George and the teamster grinning at him, whispering. He had no doubt what George had just told the man.
“Is that true, Lord Angles?” jeered the teamster.
Jemmy glared at them, then turned. “It’s Anglesea, ye arse,” he muttered under his breath. Perhaps he would just walk the three miles back to the hearth camp.
George was snickering. “He said he was the son and rightful heir—”
“I didn’t say that!” shouted Jemmy.
“You did!”
“Ye lie!”
“I think he’s goin’ to cry, George,” the teamster chuckled, finishing cinching the harness. “Best leave him be,”
“Little Lord Angles is gonna cry,” sneered George. “Perhaps your mother will come wipe your royal tears!” Still looking away, Jemmy g
rimaced, his heart pounding. George continued, “But then, Lady Angles sold you to Drummond.” He added a mocking gasp, making the teamster laugh. Jemmy picked up a big hickory limb near his feet. “So,” shouted George, refusing to relent, “perhaps you’re a bastard boy and Lady Angles wanted to be rid of you? Perhaps she’s not your mum a’toll!”
“Goddamn you!” Jemmy spun and charged, brandishing the stick. George stepped aside, laughing, ducking under a horse, making it snort and move.
“Lads!” barked the teamster.
“I’m goin’ t’ kill ye!” Jemmy cried, running around the horses, leaping on George’s back, pummeling him with the stick.
“Get off!” he shouted, waving his hands, trying to hit Jemmy, to knock the limb away. Though George was bigger, Jemmy’s rage, speed and weapon gave him the advantage.
“Ye’re a goddamned maggot!” Jemmy shouted as George fell forward. “It’s Anglesea! And never say anything about m’ mother again!” He whacked George again, feeling nothing, thinking nothing, just a frenzy of blind rage. George cursed and thrashed about, trying to repel the blows. Finally he managed to throw an arm around and knock Jemmy off, then scramble to his feet. Then Jemmy kicked him and George lost his balance, plummeting forward, his head smacking a stone. “Damn ye!” Jemmy was back on him, not noticing that George was no longer moving. “I’m sick of ye waggin’ about m’ family!” He smashed the stick across the back of George’s head.
Fortunate Son Page 14
