“As I said, ‘twas me. Charity Heath told me. And I carried her messages to Richard. But there was one thing she said that I didn’t tell Richard: James’s mother was booked on that same ship. I told myself I was setting things right, keeping that to myself. I was certain mother and son would reunite on board. Thus by letting him be kidnapped, I was having him saved. But of course, I was wrong.”
“Was she on that same ship?”
“Aye. James doesn’t know how close he came to freedom. I haven’t the heart to tell him now. But she was there, indeed. I saw her board in Ringsend. Yet somehow, it never came to be.” He shook his head.
“It was that simple?” asked Seán. “What did Da know—”
“Aye, ‘twas that simple. Charity deceived Mary, and that was that. Yar da had no hand in the affair. None a’toll.”
Seán sniffed loudly, then sneezed.
“God bless ya.”
“Humph,” Seán mouthed, wiping his nose with his pocket cloth. He was feeling grave, and Higgins’s words were only making him worse, like an axe falling on a rotten tree.
“Yar da did have his secrets though.”
“Aye? Like what?”
“He knew Richard killed Arthur, yet never said a word.”
“Richard killed his own brother?” exclaimed Seán, stuffing the pocket cloth away.
“Had Bailyn and me do it. I found Arthur in a tavern. Bailyn drove him down with a coach and six.” He inhaled fully. “I watched him die in the mud.”
Seán closed his eyes. “Da said nothing?”
“Avenging Arthur’s cruelty, I suppose.”
“How’d he know of it, that ye’d killed the man?”
Higgins shuffled in his seat again, then whispered, “I told him.”
“Why? What could Da do about it? Richard was the Earl, and—”
“I know, Seán. I was a fool about many things.” He drifted in thought. Then he stood as if to leave.
“So, what will ye do now?” asked Seán, his voice warm for the first time.
“Me? Oh, Richard’s men are out there, scouring London, ordered to bring my head to Dunmain House. Bailyn at their helm.” Higgins smirked.
“Where will ye go?” Seán stood as well.
“Home. To the Highlands.”
“Ye’ll run?”
“Why does one sinner question another’s penance?” snapped Higgins. “What do ya plan to do yarself if not run?”
“I don’t know.”
Higgins placed a hand on Seán’s shoulder. “You were wrong, Seán. But to go away now would make in worse. Ya must make amends with James. Let yar friend forgive ya, if he will.”
“I don’t think he would,” said Seán, his words softly echoing off the high walls.
“Ya’re not Judas. Ya may prove to be Peter, but that’s for you to decide. The bell’s not cracked between you and James. There’s still time.”
“I hope so,” Seán said meekly.
“Ya must go to James.” Higgins pulled a scrap of newspaper from his pocket, then handed it to Seán, who took it and read:
On Wednesday last, the 28th of April, before the King’s Bench in Dublin, suit was brought against Richard Annesley, Seventh Earl of Anglesea, Defendant, by one James Annesley, Esq., Plaintiff, by and through Daniel Mackercher, Esq., Sergeant Solicitor, on behalf of Plaintiff. Plaintiff sues to claim the title of Earl of Anglesea and the property forthwith, and is the same person who arrived in the kingdom last year after serving fourteen years slavery in our American colonies. We can expect the great trial to occur before the new year.
“Seán,” Higgins continued. “James must win this. To do so, he’ll need yar help. Will ya go to him?”
Seán sighed, returning the paper to Higgins. “Someday.”
“Someday soon, I hope. Take some advice, Seán,” Higgins continued. “Life is dreadfully short of days. Get married. Have a family while ya can. Make yar peace with James.”
“I will,” Seán said, though not sure he meant it. How could he face James, after nearly sealing his death?
Higgins extended his hand and Seán shook it. “He’s a good man,” Higgins said, then added in a whisper, “and so are you.”
Seán said nothing. He didn’t know anything to say. Higgins turned and walked away. “God be with ye,” Seán finally muttered to the old man’s back. Higgins raised a hand in reply. How could he have been so stupid, Seán asked himself. What a fool he had been, not to see through Richard’s deception. What must Jemmy think of him? He grouped three fingers together and stared at them.
Suddenly an explosion of loud voices ripped through the church. Higgins was yelling, then someone else, then the angry sound of sharp steel loosed. The rector was entreating, “No bloodshed in the house of God!” Seán sprinted the aisle, jerking his cutlass free. The silhouettes of men were just beyond the narthex, under the arched portal. Now closer, he saw Higgins and Captain Bailyn circling one another, round and round in the tight breezeway, swords drawn.
Seán stepped into the portal, brandishing his sword. “Stop! This is madness!”
A man burst from the shadows, threw his forearm across Seán’s face, bending his neck back, exposing his throat. Dagger touched skin. “Stay back!” the man growled, “or I’ll cut you open!” Though Seán was facing the arched ceiling, he forced his eyes down to see the back of the dagger. Beyond it, Bailyn and Higgins were holding each other off, each making his point known.
“There’s no reason for this,” Seán tried. “Let him be.”
“Drop yer blade,” the man behind him demanded. Seán’s cutlass clanged to the floor. “And the dagger,” he added. Seán pulled that blade from its sheath, letting it fall as well. The sweaty hold relaxed and Seán lowered his chin, turning to glare at the man. One of Richard’s troopers, no doubt. “What do ye say we let these two lovebirds have their dance?” the man sneered. His dagger was inches from Seán’s throat. Seán noticed other men just outside, beyond Bailyn and Higgins. More of Richard’s men, guarding against unexpected worshipers.
In an instant, Higgins lunged forward. Bailyn parried, a blur, sidestepping, his rapier grazing Higgins’s forearm. Blood trickled from the wound, but Higgins didn’t seem to notice; he was intent, heaving like a wild beast cornered. He circled, pulling his dagger with his left hand. Bailyn laughed. “Ye’ll need that, Higgs.”
“Whatever is necessary,” snarled Higgins. After another flurry of lunges and parries, attacks and counterattacks, both men were beginning to sweat. Then an opening appeared and Higgins thrust his weapon hard. Bailyn jumped back, but not in time, and Higgins’s blade sliced his shoulder, blood immediately soaking the cloth.
“Jaysus Christ!” Bailyn shouted. He grit his teeth and lunged back again. Higgins parried but Bailyn’s attack was a feint, and now Higgins’s side was perilously exposed. Bailyn’s rapier plunged through Higgins’s stomach in one deadly instant, sending blood spurting from his back where it emerged. Higgins staggered backward, his eyes wide with shock. Bailyn jerked his rapier free, then drove it forward again with all the strength of his fury. The tip found the careening form, piercing ribs and chest. Higgins fell in a quivering heap, his hands still grasping his rapier and dagger. As blood streamed from his chest, back and mouth, he curled his body, moaning through a gurgle, as if the stone floor were cradling him, holding his blood.
“Goddamned traitor,” Bailyn hissed, wheezing. He leaned over and spat on Higgins, then kicked him in the head, though the man was clearly dead. One of Bailyn’s men came to him, helping him with his coat. Bailyn turned to Seán with a sneer. “Ye know, Kennedy, for a moment there, I thought ye might’ve forgotten who ye serve.”
“Ye’re a sick animal,” Seán shot back.
“So what of it?” Bailyn said, laughing. “Eh?”
“Yer day will come. I swear upon it.”
Bailyn stepped over Higgins’s body, approaching Seán, breathing heat in his face. He stopp
ed, then suddenly kissed Seán on the cheek. “Don’t forget, Kennedy, ye’re one of us now. Always will be. So don’t be getting yer own mind.” He gestured toward Higgins’s body. “Ye can see what happens.” He peered down his nose, looking Seán over like a butcher surveying a hog. “But then go ahead, why don’t ye? Ye’d make a good corpse too.”
Seán slowly shook his head, glaring.
“Go on, mourn for this piece of shite. If ye must,” Captain Bailyn continued. “But ye best be at Dunmain House within a fortnight.”
“Why so?”
“Pray Lord Anglesea forgives yer impudence. Ye’ll need my petition on yer behalf.”
“Ye can both go to straight to hell.”
Bailyn smiled, then motioned the man to release Seán. Freed, Seán picked up his cutlass and dagger. Bailyn stepped into the daylight, his men following, and disappeared. The rector and another man were behind Seán now, trembling something about getting the constable.
Seán stared down. The cold portico was eerily quiet. Numinously so. He had seen men killed before, at sea. Even some who had died more violently. But this was different. This he would never forget. This gruesome scene demanded retribution. He owed it to Higgins. He owed it to James. With one act he would revenge this murder. And redeem himself.
Chapter 32
Lord Chief Justice Bowes, summing remarks to the jury — “Wickedness and weakness generally go hand in hand.”
— trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
— from Hamlet, William Shakespeare, 1601
Three Months Later
Saturday, September 14, 1743
The Curragh Races — Kildare, Ireland
The horses were rounding the last turn, a rattling rumble onto the straight. Even from a distance, James could see the dirt and sod exploding from the cannonade of hooves, the jockeys’ elbows pumping as they whipped their mounts, the horses’ heads bobbing rhythmically, ferocious nostrils, eyes blazing through a rushing storm of chestnut and brown, flashes of bright orange, red and blue, an unyielding mass of flesh shaking the earth.
“Come on, Packet! Come on, boy!” yelled Mackercher, his eyes fixed down the track.
James leaned into the white rail, shouting, “Go Dover!”
Beside him, Laura was screaming, “Dover! Pick it up, Dover!”
“Packet’s the one,” Mackercher called over the roar. “He’s in the lead!”
“Dover’s there!” James was shouting louder now. “Look at him go!”
“Packet will hold!”
“Come on, put yar heart in it!” Laura was jumping up and down as the thunderous wave of horses closed in on the finish line.
“Dover’s passing!”
“Come on Packet, don’t let that English rogue take ya!”
“Dover!”
The horses shot by in an enchanting blur, the ground tremoring, the spectators pivoting to see them go, shouting, clenching their fists, throwing hats into the cool indigo sky.
“He won!” James grabbed Laura, picking her up, spinning her. “He won!”
“Aya, he von!” Laura said, her eyes sparkling, her beautiful mouth laughing. She kissed James on the forehead. “What a fine horse that Dover is.”
“Ah, you two,” grumbled Mackercher. “Packet had the field till he lost his courage.”
“Better luck on the point stakes,” said Laura. “Aya, Mr. Mackercher?” She gave him a teasing smile.
“Apparently, Miss Johansson,” he said, tipping his hat, “I’m in need of yar counsel.”
She gave a coquettish turn. “I’d be glad to assist, sir.”
“Don’t coddle the old man,” James scolded with a chuckle.
Mackercher frowned, mockingly serious. “Miss Johansson knows how to treat elders.”
“Ye’d think ye’d know pity from polish, at yer age,” James said.
“Never mind him,” Laura said, taking Mackercher by the arm. “He doesn’t know swift from slow. Didn’t put a shilling on Dover till I did.”
“Aha!” Mackercher turned back, smiling. “Ya said you picked that horse.”
“Well I did pick it. After she did. No less true.”
Mackercher slapped him on the back. “Ya’re a sly fox. First ya let yar bride gamble in the open day, then ya hide behind her skirt!”
James laughed. “Let her? Nay. She’s a mind of her own, as ya know.”
“That she has.”
Laura reached between them, grabbing Mackercher’s hand. “And my mind now is for you, Mr. Mackercher, to escort me to the vinning post. Don’t ya be concerned—we’ll keep appearances. We’ll tell them all the vinnings are yars.”
“Then I must take my leave, Lord Annesley,” said Mackercher with a perfunctory bow. Letting the young beauty lead him away, he grinned back triumphantly.
James laughed, calling after them, “She knows who has the guineas.”
“And how to choose a horse, b’God,” Mackercher replied.
Laura smiled at James, then blew him a kiss. “And a husband. See ya in a bit, aya?”
“Go!” He grinned, brushing them away. “But mind ye bring my vinnings as well!” Three of Mackercher’s Highland guards followed close behind the two of them, the remaining four staying with James. James watched Mackercher and Laura stroll away, through the crowd, arm in arm, her blue dress gliding over the trampled sod. He loved to see her happy. As clearly she was. Especially now, with a wedding date set. And he hadn’t seen Mackercher in better spirits in over two months. Not since Higgins was buried.
*
The morning after the murder trial, James and Mackercher had been urgently summoned out to the street in front of their London inn. There they found Higgins’s bloody body abandoned under a rotten horse blanket in the back of a hay wagon. A threat from Richard, most likely. Or a warning by some unknown ally. Yet perhaps, the deliverer simply hoped Higgins’s body would be properly buried, not stolen away for surgical experiments. Regardless of the intended message, finding the corpse got them underway. Within the hour James and Laura were in route to Ireland, along with Laura’s aunt, Madam Kristin, and accompanied by nine Highland guards. Mackercher promised to leave within a day; bound for Glasgow to bury Higgins. Then he would travel on to Edinburgh, where he planned to hire attorneys to assist in the impending trial against Richard. And there too he would recruit more Highland guards to accompany them all in Ireland.
*
Thus in the inky depths of a warm night, on the fifteenth of June, at Drogheda, north of Dublin—James Annesley returned to Ireland, Laura at his side. He never forgot the moment. He felt stolid, stepping onto the creaky pier, leaden yet unwilling to linger on the docks for long. From Drogheda, a hackney coach carried them to the Huntsman Inn in Kildare, about thirty miles from Dublin. They had stayed there ever since.
He was uncomfortable in Ireland, yet found few words to form his feelings. Laura strolled long walks with him, trailed closely by Mackercher’s guards. But they talked mainly of insignificant things, never about his Ireland, his childhood. Tense at first, they eased into an understood rhythm of distance and careful silence. For the most part, he thought there was nothing of importance remaining to be told. He had never been to Drogheda as a lad. Never to Kildare. His father once promised to take him to the Curragh to see the horse races, but never did. Sure he knew the trees, the smells, the people, the sounds, the night sky, but what did that matter? Nothing about Ireland enthralled him, charmed him, made him think of quaint stories to tell her, fond memories once lost. To James, his boyhood was Seán, his Ireland was Fynn, and he refused to talk about either.
He wondered if he would feel different when he went to Dublin in a couple of months. He would be there for the trial. Would he hate Dublin? Would he hate Seán all the more? He ran the place across and through his mind. Copper Alley. The old butchery. Frapper Lane. The Annesley house. The taverns. The
River Liffey. Anglesea Street. Temple Bar. Christ Church. St. Stephen’s Green. The skull. The castle walls. None of it mattered. All of it mattered. Only the trial mattered. What if he didn’t win? What if he didn’t become the Earl? After all this, it was a maddening thought. But he held it. What would he do then? Yet, what if he did win? Did he want Dunmain too? It was the Kennedy’s. He already had plans for that. But what of Dublin. The properties there. The memories there. Answers eluded him.
Seán was ever-present on his mind. He knew Seán had disappeared after the murder trial, but it was of no concern. Let him rot, he thought. Seán’s image would come, sometimes as a boy at Dunmain House or in Dublin, or as a young man in the Royal Navy. Or he would see them hiding in Dublin. Or them in Yorktown. Bristol or Scotland. But then always came London: his friend in the witness box, betraying him. He tried to shake those memories away.
In July, he began writing his memoirs, of sorts, at the behest of London’s Gentleman’s Magazine. They had sent a fraternal, matey correspondent with ninety guineas and an adulating plea. James had agreed, albeit reluctantly. The writer added much fantasy to the Colonial portion, fearing the story needed charisma, what with all that James wouldn’t allow—James told much, directly wrote many of the passages, but held back on most personal matters, keeping those for himself. Laura was private, not for the masses to read upon. And nothing was to be written of Seán or Fynn. It was too difficult, too overwhelming, too private. Besides, if he told anything of them, he would have to tell how they ended. And that was something he simply would not do. “Keep it about the Colonies,” he thus told the writer. “Make it up, if you wish. Whatever might best sell,” he instructed, which was disingenuous as he actually wished no one would read it. And so when it was finished, it became a story of James in love with Indian maidens mixed with passages of truth about Richard and his childhood. He disavowed it quickly.
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