Fortunate Son (12 page)

Five weeks later, the ocean floor was found. Then the lead-n-tallow, which had proven the proximity of the Virginia Capes, was cut off and fastened to the mizzen mast with “
85 fathoms
” inscribed beneath it in chalk. Within a day, the sweet aroma of pine wafted faintly across the deck, bringing smiles to everyone onboard. Then, two days after the bottom was discovered, a bony, smallpox-pitted crewman was bestowed with the customary bottle of whiskey for being the first to cry out, “Land! Land!” when the
Courtmain
finally made landfall beyond Cape Charles. Jemmy had stood on the quarterdeck, completely astonished. He had leaned against the marked rail, face to the west, marveling at the rising foreland. America was there, right before his eyes, just over that small expanse of grey-blue water. The day was warm and dry, and he was intensely happy to see the land, to breathe the new air of the new world. Crew and passengers alike were yelling and dancing on the deck, rejoicing and thanking God for their preservation from the perils of the sea, from the evils of the deep. Even Captain Hendry had come to the maindeck for a reel. Jemmy knew he would be returning to Ireland soon, but on that day—there were the British Colonies, a wonderful apparition, stretching out across the horizon like an unexplored legend—like a wild-eyed, Connemara pony, daring to be broken. He became wistful, completely awestruck by the scene. They had arrived.

But that was two days ago, and now Jemmy was back in the hold of the fetid halfdeck, miserable, and chained to his bunk. The helmsman and his mates were busy in the steerage, immediately adjacent to Jemmy's berth, taking and repeating helm orders up through the deck portal as the ship's crew worked the
Courtmain
into the long broad bay, slipping gingerly around the tricky shoals and sporadic islands. Jemmy sat listening to the crews, their loud voices tense with exhaustion and anticipation, and the incessant calls and echoes grated on him, like the cold wrist-shackles which were once again grinding against his flesh. At eight o'clock that morning, Jemmy heard the foc's'le bell peal eight times, closing the morning watch, clanging rhythmically, doling its rich tone across the decks, up the massive masts and down into the bowels of the ship. To him, it meant the helmsman would soon return to bunk in the halfdeck. Perhaps then he would get some answers to the array of questions which had stacked in his mind since he awoke, about two hours earlier, when one of the mangy ship cats had walked across his chest. He had seen the maps and sea cards, and as near as he could tell, the
Courtmain
was sailing north up the Chesapeake. But where was she heading, and when would they port? Why was he in chains again? When would he be allowed to speak to Captain Hendry? And where was the first-mate, Mr. Parker? He wanted to go on deck and see the land. He could hear people, ships, horses. But these damn chains. He jerked at them, then relaxed slightly, feeling his face hot with anger.

“Ye're awake squire!” said the helmsman, leaning forward so as not to rap his head as he entered the cramped quarters.

“Aye, I'm awake, and I shouldn't be in these.” He rattled the chains again.

“Ye know,” the man began unbuttoning his waistcoat to pull off his filthy shirt, “ye say that same damn'd thing every time I come down here.” His sweaty, craggy face sneered at Jemmy.

“Is the captain—” Jemmy began.

“Is the captain ‘bout? Ha! That's the other thing ye're always askin' me!”

“Aye, what of it?” Jemmy clenched his teeth. “Is Captain Hendry about or not?”

“What do ye think, squire? What'd I tell ye last?”

“Is he about?” Jemmy repeated firmly, tugging at his chains as if to tell the helmsman he would attack the lying bastard if only he could. When the helmsman sat on the edge of his own bunk, Jemmy could see the man's swollen legs and the sores on his shins.

“Nay, good Captain Hendry ‘tisn't ‘bout. Just as he weren't yesterdee.”

“Did he leave the ship at Norfolk?”

“Nay.” The helmsman was now unbuckling his shoes.

“Then where is he?”

“Like I said, lad, the captain's not ‘bout.” He began rubbing his bare feet gingerly.

“I must see him.”

“Well, ye can't. He's not ‘bout.” The low roof of the halfdeck held the rancid odor of the helmsman's feet, and Jemmy could feel the pasty air crawling up his nose.

“Fine. Then let me see Mr. Parker,” demanded Jemmy, recoiling from the smell. He stared at the man, then asked in a tense voice that belied his burning irritation, “Sir, would ye be so kind as to make arrangements for me to see Mr. Parker?”

“What fer?”

“None of yer bleedin' business!” Jemmy shouted in an explosion of anger. He hated to see those feet, with their red cankerous sores which were sometimes oozing, and the thin crusted blackness which gathered around the man's toes. And he dared not ask about the raw ball of flesh on the underside of the man's left foot, fearing the man might swing the hunk of dead meat closer to afford him a better inspection.

“None o' me business?” sneered the helmsman, stopping to pick at his brownish toenails. “Well then, I suppose that means the first-mate's not ‘bout either.”

“Ye're a stinking arse, ye are!”

At that moment, heavy footsteps thumped across the upperdeck, then descended into the halfdeck. It was First-Mate Parker, smiling at them as if all was well.

“Ach, Mr. Parker! What a delightful surprise,” began the helmsman, “An' t' think we were just speakin' o' ye!”

“Oh? And just what might you've been saying?” The first-mate's smile lingered for only a moment, then the warmth abruptly melted from his ashen face. “What in God's name is that stench?” Jemmy nodded at the helmsman's open gangrenous feet. “Bless me!” Parker suffered a gasp and pulled his ascot over his nose.

“Come to unlock me, are ye?” asked Jemmy, ignoring the overwhelming odor.

“Well, lad, I wish I could,” he answered, grimacing. “If only just to speak on deck.” The helmsman gave an indolent shrug. Parker turned his head and breathed through the porthole. He glanced back, then turned and looked into Jemmy's eyes. With a slight sigh, Parker's black eyebrows lifted, then fell back in place.

Jemmy's face dropped. “Captain has the keys, has he?”

“Aye.”

“Then surely he'll see the problem here.”

“Lad, ‘twas Captain Hendry who ordered you chained. He's the one who's going to sell you, and he won't be having any of you indentees jumping clear.”

“That's right,” interrupted the helmsman. “I told ye squire! Ye're nothin' but a dirty slave now.” He cackled.

“On with you, McCauley!” Parker snapped with a glare, still shrinking from the smell.

“Sir, if I may . . . ‘tis the end o' me watch, an' this be me bunk, an—”

“Out, McCauley!”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The helmsman stood on his bare feet and started toward the hatch.

“And, McCauley, soak those appalling feet in your own givin's of rum.”

“Aye, sir,” he replied, then disappeared to the surface.

Jemmy and Parker were silent for a moment, then Parker waved at the stagnant air, trying to get it to move. “Why am I locked up,” asked Jemmy. “I'm locked up like an animal.”

“Do you know what's to happen in Chestertown tomorrow?”

“That's where we're going—Chestertown?”

“Aye. ‘Tis the main northern port for trade, on the eastern side of the Chess, in Maryland. Captain wouldn't put in at Williamsburg, or even Cambridge, not this late in the year. Been too many others in those ports already this season for him to get a fair advantage. Not even Annapolis, but I'm not sure why on that account.” Parker's brow furrowed. “‘Tisn't usual for him to take us into Chestertown, except for Drummond maybe. He's—”

“A fair advantage?” Jemmy interrupted.

“Aye, a profit. You do understand profits, don't you?”

“Aye,” answered Jemmy. “He wants to port where he can get the most for his cargo.”

“He is, indeed.” Mr. Parker looked plainly at Jemmy, as if studying him, then patted Jemmy's knee and stood. “I thought you didn't understand, but it sounds as if you do.”

“I haven't seen much cargo aboard. Why didn't he sell it in Norfolk, where we ported earlier, and let the passengers decide where they want to be put off?”

“He should've sold what in Norfolk?”

“The cargo,” said Jemmy, looking at the man curiously.

“James,” began the first-mate, sitting again, “we've been at sea for over nine weeks now. Have you never spoken to anyone about being an indentured servant? You signed yourself over for it. The Tholsel officer told you what to expect. Aye?”

“I didn't sign for it—I was kidnapped! Ye know that!”

“I only know what you claimed.” Parker rose to his feet. He walked to the hatch and stood there a moment, breathing the fresh air. “Such a proclamation will only discredit you here. You must put it from your mind…at least for the—”

“I can't! How can I?”

Parker returned to Jemmy's side of the berth. “You have to. If you stand on deck declaring yourself an Earl, no one will want you. They'll think you'll run, think you're a simpleton, a troublemaker. You'll stay on board for another two weeks till some soul-driver takes you, placing four pounds out for you, and lumps you in with a bunch of misfits and scoundrels. They won't buy a rough-hewn boy likely to run on them.”

“Buy me?”

“I'll be damned,” said Parker, faltering, shaking his head.

“I thought I was to work for a while,” said Jemmy. “Am I not to pursue a labor of my choosin', to repay Captain Hendry for my transport?”

“It doesn't work like that,” Parker said, clearly troubled. “Lad, the cargo I spoke of earlier, to be sold in Chestertown….” His voice was freighted down. “That cargo is you. And the seven other indentees on board. Did you truly not know that?”

Jemmy sat still, whispering toward his heavy chest. “Nay. Not entirely.” He closed his eyes, feeling sick, smothered, as if the rush of the ocean were finally once and for all pouring over him, pulling him to the bottom.

By the next day, the
Courtmain
was anchored and lying at rest in the Chester River, alongside a newly-built dock in Chestertown, Maryland. The mid-morning sun was striking the afterdeck, inciting the stuffy air of the halfdeck, where Jemmy could feel the heat rising. Crewmen had unshackled him and fed him. They had considered giving him a shave but laughed heartily at the apparent lack of necessity. Shortly thereafter, the helmsman brought him some clean clothes. In a lethargic daze, Jemmy put on the fresh white shirt and the light-grey linen breeches over his filthy undergarments, then a green-striped waistcoat that was much too big for him. Next, a man's blue wool coat was given to him, though he didn't want to wear it in the heat. As he began to slip on his old shoes, the helmsman handed him a set of stockings and garters, a pair of black shoes with shiny brass buckles, and a round, wide-brimmed, grey hat.

“Look, mates,” the helmsman called, “Squire's dressin' purty fer market!”

“Shut yer mouth,” growled Jemmy as he snapped his buckles and stood, now fully dressed. He set the hat on his head where it rode down over his ears.

The men started to ascend from the halfdeck. One asked, “What's that ‘round yer neck?”

“Nothing!” Jemmy snapped, realizing he had not tucked the Buckingham key into his shirt. He hurriedly stuffed it under his collar.

“Wait here till yer called,” the helmsman snorted, already out of sight. Jemmy felt something crawling through his hair and flung the round hat to the floor. He picked several lice from his matted light-brown hair, then scratched at the scrambling fleas. Finding a small piece of wood, he scraped his hair, trying to flatten it. Suddenly the helmsman's voice was back, yelling down from above, “And take care of that hat. Used to be mine.” No surprise there, Jemmy thought. He kicked at it, knocking it further away. What choice did he have but to comply with these men? Perhaps he would chance it and run. He would look for an opportunity just as soon as he got on deck. After tying his hair in a short tail, he leaned back on his bunk, waiting, lapsing into a small trance, staring blankly at the nasty hat. Mr. Parker had told him about the sale, advising him to be attentive, to declare himself a stable boy skilled with horses, and to hope for the best. At least in a stable he would be out of the weather much of the time. Although Parker hoped the captain might sell Jemmy to a gentry house, he figured Jemmy's youth would make that difficult. He was to stand tall and answer the questions directly, and by no means was he to say anything about a claim to any House of Lords. The kindly first-mate had also explained that most of the indentured servants were committed to terms of three to five years, and the convicts to seven. But Jemmy didn't know his term. He had never seen his indenture papers. What then? Parker said he could expect three years—the typical time necessary to pay for one's transportation to the Colonies.

As thunder before a storm, a gathering of men's shoes and boots began to rumble overhead, jerking Jemmy from his haze. Then the helmsman was back. “Squire, get yer arse up here! What'd ye think—them good buyers would come callin' on ye down in this stinkin' piss-hole?” Jemmy picked up the quadrant and rose to leave, then saw the helmsman watching him. He gingerly picked up the hat, holding it away from his side, and climbed up through the hatch. On deck, he paused, instantly intoxicated by the bright morning sun, the pine-laden air. As he stood there, letting his eyes adjust, absorbing the sights, he noticed several well-dressed men onboard were looking at him, as if sizing him up. Near the foredeck, standing with their backs to the river, were the other indentured passengers, most leaning into raspy coughs, scratching their scalps, and tugging at their misshapen clothes—an assortment of dull patched coats and wrinkled hats which Jemmy noticed were not nearly as fine as what he had been issued. The women appeared to have fared better than the men, but not by much.

“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 Hendry, 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.”