Fortunate Son

by David Marlett

  “Probably was Bailyn,” James added softly.

  The guard nodded, then tried, “Wish it’d been Bailyn, instead, I mean, that was killed.”

  “Aye,” James growled, turning. He bit his bottom lip, then let it go. “Soon he will be.”

  A servant woman entered carrying a tray of teacups and saucers, Madam Kristin close behind. Everyone took a cup, pouring their tea into their saucers and starting to sip. James took one sip then set his down and leaned near Laura. “I must go find Seán.”

  She inhaled. “Why you?”

  “They don’t know him. If he’s hurt, or worse, I’ll need to bring him back.”

  “He’s alive,” offered Laura, forcing a small smile. “I believe he is.”

  “We can only hope.” He picked up his hat and popped it straight.

  Laura pressed, “Why don’t ya vait till Mr. Mackercher’s men arrive tomorrow?”

  “Because it may be too late.”

  “Then take these men here. Please, James. Take them with ya.”

  “Nay, Laura.” He raised his voice to be certain the other two heard. “These gentlemen will stay here and protect ye and Madam Kristin.” He turned, giving them a determined look.

  “Aye, yar lordship,” they replied in near-unison. The younger added, “With our lives.”

  James gave Laura a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’ll be back late tonight or in the morning.” Her tears were welling. “I will, Acushla,” he promised, squeezing her hand. Again, he kissed her forehead, as if not knowing what else to do. Then he stood straight, pulled his hat on firmly, winked at her nervously, and turned, walking quickly through the open door. He kept his face forward and firm, belying nothing of the knots contorting within him. Within seconds he was on Bhaldraithe, galloping away

  But he didn’t turn to the south, toward the Curragh. Rather he slowed two blocks up and surveyed around. No sign of Bailyn. He turned up a muddy alley—the Huntsman Inn just ahead. He was tired of running, hiding, playing the fool. Richard had done his damage, certainly, but the Dublin trial would right that, would settle that score. But Bailyn had killed his father, then Juggy and Higgins. And now Seán. James touched the dirk’s sheath against his leg. It was there. He felt his rapier hilt. It was a good one. Sufficient for the task. A pistol. He had one, but it was not loaded. Perhaps he should load it. He gave the horse a slight nudge. He could not face burying Seán without knowing Bailyn was dead. Now he approached the Huntsman. The street was nearly empty, the inn quiet, its paned windows dark. He dismounted and tied off the reins. Then stepped up the porch. The heavy door creaked wide. Inside he slowed, his eyes adjusting to the lack of candles. The evening light glowed faintly on everything, yet illuminated nothing, giving the parlor a deep bluish haze.

  “James Annesley. Ye’re late, I must say.”

  “Damn ye,” James growled, his eyes focusing. The man was alone at a table near the side wall. No one else was around. The whole inn seemed eerily empty. Except for Bailyn.

  “I sent them away,” said Bailyn, sneering.

  James stepped closer, dropping his hand to the hilt. “Who?”

  “Ah, ye know, James. Yer other lawyers. Everyone.”

  “Did ye arrest them as well?” James slipped his coat off and laid it aside.

  “Who? Them? Nay, just turned ‘em out.”

  “Turned them out? On whose authority?” Now he was unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  “Oh, a friend of a friend of Lord Anglesea owns this old place. Ye know how it is.”

  “Nay,” said James, “I don’t know how it is.”

  Captain Bailyn smirked, then shrugged, saying, “Sure ye do.”

  “And Mackercher?” James pushed his sleeves up as he came to the edge of Bailyn’s table. “Where’s he?”

  “That mongrel Scot?” he muttered. “He’s just like his Scot farts: raisin’ a stink all ‘round, then won’t go back where he came from.” He reached for his tankard. “I should’ve shagged his sister when—”

  James slapped the cup from Bailyn’s hand, sending it rattling against the wall, its contents splashing to the floor. “I’ll stand for no more of yer mouth, yer vile affronts.”

  Bailyn was quiet for a moment, expressionless, a fixed stare straight ahead. “Yer lawyer was arrested, as ye no doubt know, with that whole lot of Jacobites. Yer alone, or didn’t ye know?” He turned, glaring up. “And yer poor friend. I reckon ‘bout now the crows are havin’ an eyeball feast.”

  Fire roared over James. He surged, grabbing Bailyn by the collar, lifted him into the air, then threw him away from the table. Bailyn smashed a chair, splintering it to pieces, and slid six feet before coming to a stop.

  Recovering quickly, he stood and drew his rapier. “So, lad, ye’re ready to die now are ye?” he snarled, wiping blood from a cut on his forehead, smearing red across his eyebrows.

  “Ye’ve killed yer last.” James pointed at the man. “‘Tis yer turn now.”

  “We’ll see.”

  James continued. “I know why ye want to kill me. ‘Tisn’t just Richard that drives ye mad. ‘Tis cause ye know I’m right. Ye know I’m the Earl. That ye’re in bed with the devil. And ye know that when I come into my title, ye’ll have nowhere to hide. Ye’ll be hanged for murder the very day.”

  “Keep mouthin’ yer last words.” Bailyn removed his coat, shifting the rapier between his hands as he did. “Better make ‘em count for something.”

  James circled him, keeping an eye on the man’s weapon. “What’d ye think? Thought ye’d whack my head again? Ye think I’m still a boy, do ye? Ye’re an arse. Look, now ‘tis your head that’s bleeding.” He smirked, then finally pulled his rapier. Then with his left hand came the dirk. “Ye recognize this?”

  For a moment, Bailyn forgot himself and frowned at the weapon.

  James flicked it, as if summoning Bailyn closer. “Let me show ye what’s written on it.”

  “Ye gonna fuck with me all eve? Ye won’t do anything ‘cept shit yer britches. Ye’re a milk coward. Ye’ll run, just like yer wee da did. Ye’ll be out in the mud dead, just like him. What are ye waitin’ for?”

  James stepped closer. “Just deciding the best way to kill ye.”

  “Shame yer whore’s not here to watch ye die.” They continued to move.

  Though clearly fomented, James held it in. “Trying to provoke me?”

  “I can see it’s eatin’ at ye.”

  “Nah, yer guile means nothing t’me. ‘Tis yer time to die. And I think ye know it.”

  “Then what are ye waitin’ for?” Suddenly Bailyn hurled himself forward, lunging. James jumped clear, a first twinge of fear jolting through him. Again they faced each other, blade tips neck high, eyes locked, feet stepping sideways, shoving chairs from their paths, moving in a slow circle, tracing that most ancient of dances. Seeing an opening, James thrust hard, but Bailyn parried with a bellguard clang of steel, then reposted swiftly. James recoiled as the other sword flashed by, slicing a large swath through his waistcoat. Grasping both blades in one hand, he jerked the garment off and flung it away.

  They recovered their stances, both sweating in the dim, sultry room. James studied Bailyn’s movements looking for a tell, anything that might betray the next lunge, the next thrust. Bailyn’s right foot shot forward then down as he took a much longer step and lunged. James responded with a parry, then a repost that missed its mark. They disengaged, then rushed forward at the same time, their bellguards bashing together, both rapier tips gliding past their targets. James tried to stab with the dirk, but only slammed an elbow into Bailyn’s nose, all before Bailyn could get his blade around. The man’s upper lip turned red as blood flowed from his nose, and his eyes grew wide and wet. Another thrust, followed by another parry, then a riposte and more chairs crashed over, both men grunting, breathing hard. James retreated slightly, searching for a chance to rebut. Suddenly a glancing slash sliced cloth and flesh across his chest. He staggered, hi
s wig falling off, then quickly regained his stance, his long blade up. He shoved another table with his hip, then saw Bailyn had a dagger drawn—that is what had cut him. He scolded himself for not seeing the weapon come out. Warm blood ran down his belly, soaking the white shirt. The pain came sharp, but caused his mind to narrow into a single focus. Bailyn grinned, his left hand up, palming the dagger, his thumb and finger two inches apart. “Just that close, Jemmy-boy.” He pointed. “Next time, ‘twill be yer heart.”

  James clenched his teeth. The room was growing darker with the dimming day, but they had no seconds to call the duel, to call quarter, even to light a candle. It would go on this way, getting darker and more dangerous. He had to end it soon, now, but how? He needed to spot a weakness, predictability in Bailyn’s movements. He thrust again, but only a feint. Bailyn took it, tapping it aside, then on his right foot he lurched forward wildly and down into a lunge. James rocked back, then rejoined, knowing he had just seen it. He had seen it before, and there it was again—the man flopped his right foot leading into a lunge. Bailyn attacked again, but this time James was against a wall. He parried hard, shoving back, then furiously thrust around with the dirk, causing Bailyn to recoil from reach, backing the man away until James could free himself from the corner. Now in the open, James circled, eyes locked on Bailyn’s eyes, but mind locked on Bailyn’s foot. Then he saw it. In the instant that Bailyn stutter-jerked forward on his right foot, James sidestepped, expecting a lunge to follow. When it came, he was well out of the way, and Bailyn’s rapier blade found only black, empty air. James swiftly dropped the tip of his rapier, then popped it up, slipping it under the man’s bellguard, driving the tip forward, impaling it deep in Bailyn’s left shoulder. The dagger dropped.

  Bailyn cried out in pain, jerking back, wincing, trying to extricate himself from James’s rapier, but James threw his weight behind it and leaned in, driving the steel straight through the flesh, feeling it rub by bone and out the other side. Then with all his strength he plunged the dirk into Bailyn’s chest, cracked the sternum, shoving it downwards. Bailyn groaned angrily, careening back as blood spewed up the blood groove of the blade, speckling James’s neck and face. He yanked the rapier free, but the dirk wouldn’t give. The bloody brass grip slipped from his grasp as the man dropped to his knees, eyes open and straight-ahead. Then Bailyn fell backward, his head smacking hard on the wood floor. James watched him die, the primordial shudder, the blood pooling in the dark, the dirk’s hilt reflecting the very last glimmer of the day. Finally he reached down and jerked the dirk from the body. Staggering back, he leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, blood streaming from the slice across his own chest, the sharp pain screaming up at him. He was panting hard, staring at Bailyn. But he didn’t feel victorious. No triumph. What an awful thing it was to kill a man. Even one as foul as this.

  Chapter 35

  Then we shall rise

  And view ourselves with clearer eyes

  In that calm region where no night

  Can hide us from each other’s sight.

  — from The Exequy, Henry King, 1657

  James tied a small linen tablecloth around his chest, angrily cinching it over the wound. Though it was hurting worse, the bleeding had slowed. He could ride. That’s all that mattered. He stared at Bailyn’s body, infuriated. The bastard had killed with impunity, the son of a bitch. Impunity from the law. Impunity of the mind. But not of the soul. Bailyn was answering for that, right now. He had better be. But would he, himself, have to answer for this killing someday? No, this was duty. Yet reason didn’t abate his rage—it boiled him where he stood. Hundreds of dead he had seen at sea, killing all around. But nothing equaled this, this death of his own. This man killed so many. He deserved to die this way. Not in a bed. It was right for his blood to be spewed on a dirty tavern floor, mixing with the spilt brew. He used a cloth to wipe most of the blood from his blades and resheathed them. He turned again to Bailyn. “I hope you can see yourself,” he muttered, wishing the dead had ears.

  How can such savage men kill people, good people, and not be affected? Why didn’t they too get gnashing sick from their acts? How did they escape this anger? How could Bailyn have murdered countless people—his father, a woman, Juggy, a man like Higgins, now Seán, and undoubtedly others—yet stay so smug, so damned arrogant? As if unaffected. As if righteous. As if specially touched, ordained to do Satan’s work. Perhaps that was it entirely. And just as accursed was Richard, who ordered the deaths. Directly or through some mad concordance. He was no less guilty of those acts, yet remained repugnantly aloof. The goddamned dog. Yet he, James, having killed the very rat that had infested so many, was tasting bile and felt his head pounding with pain and fury. To kill a man with your own hands. To watch a life depart. However awful Bailyn was, at one time he was a young woman’s baby. Now dead, here. Here is where that life ended. Here is what that life left behind. No, he brushed the thought away. It was good to have killed him. It needed to be done. And it was good that he did it. He needed to be the one. But it was anything but satisfying. Perhaps that is how the callous keep some semblance of sanity: they don’t watch their victims die. They don’t let themselves see the horror they inflict, the last seconds of the dying, the last breaths on this earth. This animal should have watched his own death. He wished he had kept Bailyn alive longer, let him suffer more. No. He knew better, but for the moment it felt good to think it. He stared another few seconds, then turned and walked out.

  For the first time he saw faces, about ten people, all boys and young men, at the front of the Huntsman, peering silently through the windows. As he pushed open the doors, they parted, giving him a path to his horse. Once atop Bhaldraithe, he said to the group, “He was a murderin’ fiend. Had it comin’ t’him.” Seeing the blankness of their stares, he eased his horse around. Within a minute, he was on the main road, heading south toward the Curragh.

  The path wound quickly into the woods and Kildare was soon gone behind him. It was nearly dark and the stars were beginning to join the half-moon, pouring themselves across the deep blue sky. Though James barely noticed. He was bent into a small slump over the horse as it clomped along. Occasionally glancing over his shoulder, he studied the dim woods, the fields beyond. Anyone was suspect. Anyone might be a soldier or constable, one of Richard’s men. Seeing only a few in the distance, he dismissed them and kept moving, letting his mind jostle where it might. He had to return to that Curragh stable. Get back to Seán. To find Seán. The Huntsman was probably filled by now. That group would be hauling Bailyn out. And when the question was asked, they would describe James. Some probably could name him. But who will bring the charges? Richard? Not likely. Not this time.

  Bhaldraithe lumbered along with an occasional snort, his hooves thrumming the worn road. He had gone many miles that day and a fair amount at a gallop. So James kept him at a lope. Besides there was, most likely and unfortunately, little reason to hurry. The frogs were out, calling, and a few crickets too. James shifted his weight, creaking the leather saddle, trying to ease the sharp, swelling ache in his chest. Quietly, he began deeply humming Greensleeves, letting the tune wash through him, calming him, soothing the aches, freeing his thoughts to drift across that day’s morning. He and Laura had been on that same road, riding in a coach with Mackercher, laughing, anticipating a day at the races—out to find rest and fresh air. He let his head sag side-to-side. What a horrible day. His thoughts could not sustain a singular path without quickly flexing back, as if pulled by the gravity of that Curragh moment: Seán giving fire, and taking it, for them to escape. If that coach was still there he would use it to bring Seán back.

  He chuckled smugly, imagining Richard hearing of Captain Bailyn’s death. But would that end it? No. Richard would never stop. Not until sufficient force was brought to bear. And Bailyn’s death would only incite him, if it did anything. So what would be sufficient? A verdict against Richard? He nodded to himself. This coming trial for the earldom was
not only the best way to beat Richard, it truly was the only way. Even then, Richard would likely remain in Ireland, causing trouble. James would require him to leave. He smirked, realizing that, after the trial, he would have the power to call upon the English infantry, to have Richard escorted away. To have Richard hauled into the bowels of a ship and transported if necessary. But to where? America? No, America was his. He had earned America. He didn’t want to export such foulness to the Colonies, regardless of the act’s irony. Probably, the man should go to France, he reasoned. Richard spoke some French so— Ah, the man could go to hell, for all James cared. Why be concerned for him? Richard would be lucky not to be hanged upon reading the verdict. But then again, what if Richard won? He and Laura would return to Virginia. Maybe Mackercher would go as well. It was a pleasant thought.

  The sound of an approaching carriage snapped James up. He eased Bhaldraithe off the road, into the cover of black trees. As it passed, he could see the driver and was at first startled at how much the man looked like Mackercher. But in the next instant, as the moonlight came more fully on the man’s features, he could see it was no one he recognized. He returned to the road, his thoughts turning to Daniel Mackercher. Good ol’ Mackercher. He will be very pleased to learn Bailyn was killed. Even more so when Richard is penniless and ruined. Especially after a night in jail courtesy of the man. James smiled. Mackercher was a good man. What an enormous sum he was spending on attorneys, witnesses, inns and coaches. James had known Mackercher was wealthy but never realized the extent. According to several, over the past few years Mackercher had found great riches in the tobacco trade. Not to mention his solicitor fees. It was unfortunate, James reasoned, that Mackercher had not been of such means in earlier years. Juggy might never have served the Annesleys. Might never have suffered the insults of Arthur. Might never have died. He wondered if Mackercher felt guilty for that. Maybe that was why Mackercher was so willing to expend his fortune prosecuting James’s civil suit. Perhaps. Of course he and Mackercher would have their own revenges, but this was about much more than that. It was about land and estates, money and titles, what was rightfully his. Right? James could find no answer that satisfied him. He thought about the old woman, Ms. Bhaldraithe. This trial should be about right from wrong. Justice and injustice. What James did with the land and title was another matter. How could he ever claim this land as English soil, as his land? By what true authority? At least Richard would have no claim to it. No claim to that Kennedy land around Dunmain. Where Fynn was buried. And where, tomorrow, he would take Seán. The image of Seán, lying dead in a filthy stall, brought a pall down—black dread merging with the night air. He was alone on an empty road on an empty night. His stomach ached, a lump the size of a fist stuck in his throat. It was almost too much to bear: having to bury his friend without ever saying those words, those things that needed to be said. How can we know the dead hear us? We must say what we can when we can.