Fortunate Son (13 page)

“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.

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.

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.