Fortunate Son (19 page)

The crewmen just scowled at him. “Hold yerself, lackey.”

Then James heard the worst thing he could have imagined at that moment, or any other moment since he left Richmond. A voice shouted, “Jemmmmy! Jemmmmy!”

“M'God!” James shuffled back, head snapped around.

“Ho there! Jemmmy! Up here!”

James searched frantically, looking up into the ratlines of the
Kathleen
, back across the wharf, the piers, everywhere. But he couldn't see the fool who was shouting. Must be another Jemmy. Stop panicking, he scolded himself. Stop it!

“Jemmmmy!”

Yes, another James, another Jemmy. Keep moving.

“James Annesley!”

“O' Christ!” He said aloud, freezing, mind racing.
It must be Blac
k
well—the damn fool!
Suddenly he leaped on the sea chest and over it, shoving the crewmen aside, ignoring the hail of curses pelting him as he reached the ship. He sprinted for the stern of the
Kathleen
, jumping over chains and blocks, pushing men, pivoting around the capstan, then climbed to the quarterdeck and raced to the far side, sliding to a slippery stop beyond the shrouds. Panting, he leaned over the starboard railing, his heart pounding. Alright. At least he was safe on board.

“Jemmmmy! Up here!”

“For the love of Christ!” A dark fluttering motion caught James's eye. It was down the length of the
Kathleen
, beyond her bow, up, almost in line with the sun. He saw the silhouette of a man high on the poop deck of the
Princess Caroline
waving his arms wildly, swinging a black cloth in a wide arc over his head.
Who the bloody-hell is that?
James held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the sun. The seaman was gesturing something else, waving his hand. A signal of some kind. Then it came into focus. The man was holding up three fingers, sweeping them back and forth, high in the air.

“Jemmmy!”

“Seán?” The name tumbled from his mouth.

“Jemmmy!”

“M'God!” he breathed. No, the man was too old. “Seán?” he yelled back.

“Aye! Seán!” came the reply. “Jemmy!”

Seán?
He had to get off the
Kathleen
before she was away! James turned and ran down the weather deck, thinking of nothing but to get clear before they pulled the gangway. It was too late, the gangway was in, the bow was coming around.

“What the devil!” Captain Blackwell appeared from nowhere, putting out a hand to stop James. “What are you doing, Mr. Annesley?”

James didn't stop. Besides, how could he answer? He didn't know what he was doing. Only that he had to get off the
Kathleen
. “Sorry, sir!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Changed m' mind!” He shoved past a cook, then two crewmen manning the pier ropes. There was nothing left to do. He leaped from the side and fell, crashing into the cold harbor water. Flopping to the surface, unable to swim, he flailed, thrashing for the pier ladder. The water pulled at him, doubling his weight. Men on the wharf were pointing, but no one moved to help. Grasping the ladder below the waterline, he pulled at the rungs, lifting himself and his overflowing boots up to the top of the dock wall.

“Ye're a fool,” said a man as James gathered himself to his feet, the cold water coursing down and off of his head and coat. His hat was gone. He soggy-stumbled toward the
Caroline
.

Two British marines in red coats were attending that gangway. “Halt!”

James quickly complied. “Aye. I'm stopped,” he panted, dripping. “Need t' get—”

“Mr. Annesley?” The question came from a midshipman at the top of the gangway.

“Aye. I am,” James said, his heart beating wildly.

“Seaman Kennedy cannot remove himself from his post. Wishes you to meet him on the hour at the Swan.”

Seaman Kennedy Seán?
“Very well,” James mumbled. The midshipman was gone. “The Swan,” James repeated. He looked at the two marines. “The Swan?”

“A tavern,” one replied. “On Main. Near Ballard Street.”

“Thank ye,” James offered quietly, still shock stunned, astounded and shivering wet. He scanned the
Princess Caroline
again, but didn't see Seán. This was absurd. Astonishing. Clearly impossible. But real. Was it? How could it be? His mind bickered, an angry crowd of thoughts trying to shout the others down. Backing away, he gaped up into the warship's thicket of shrouds as if he might see Seán again. Finally, he turned, melding into the crowd and walked down the pier to the next row of docks. Near the end, he turned back. The square sails of the
Kathleen
were swelling in the morning wind, pushing her into the Chesapeake, to the Atlantic beyond, bound for Ireland. He watched her. Just below her billowing standard was her orange and white jack, fluttering, snapping, waving farewell. She was leaving without him. She was gone.

The Swan Tavern was stuffed with seamen and sprinkled with whores. For a dire moment, James thought one was the old alley hag till she revealed a slightly younger face and full head of hair. He chose an empty table near the back, a step from the cavernous stone fireplace where logs blazed, crackling, sending sparks up the great chimney to battle the afternoon chill. Its warmth began to dry him. He sipped a jar of beer and waited, trying to slow his anxious breathing, to idle himself, keeping an eye across the raucous room, watching the door for Seán. As he adjusted to the golden smoky dimness, he began studying the faces around him. Was the bearded one a constable? The one in the fur hat, was that the look of recognition? Would one of them come haul him away at musket-point? But none seemed to pay him much mind, which pleased him immensely. They all appeared seamen of some sort or another, navy or otherwise, sun dried, wind battered, and salt-water hardened. Some quiet, playing whist or working the iron tavern puzzles. Most a rowdy lot. Except the ruddy-cheeked round man at the table beside him. The man was alone. Silent. A tankard of beer in one hand, the other clutching a soggy piece of bread turned soupspoon. From his attire he was plainly not seaworthy. Something landed, though not of money either. A tradesman perhaps. The man kept a sharp eye on the others, listening intently, then scribbling notes in a parchment book. A writer perhaps. He reminded James of Mr. Morris, how Morris looked when scouting stories.

Yet, of what consequence was it who these men were? Perhaps there was a constable among them. Or seamen seeking conscripts. What if this fat man wrote his runaway announcement for the Virginia Gazette? He had chosen this path, to stay in Yorktown, to see Seán, to let the
Kathleen
fly. The minutes passed. They ticked by slowly. No Seán. James weighed his options, the scenarios. Perhaps he should have stayed on the
Kathleen
. How could he? Knowing Seán was so near, of course not. He reasoned one of three things would happen now: he would be returned under arms to Richmond for an additional term—he would return by his own accord and plead Morris's lenience—or he would sail to Dublin with the Royal Navy. He shook his head with a silent chuckle—he was to be pressganged after all by his own choosing. He exhaled a sigh at the sheer absurdity of it all, then sipped his thick warm beer, wiped the foam from his lip and listened to the room.

“Ya're right, begob! T' hell with Port Royal!” a scabby exclaimed to his mates. They ardently echoed the sentiment. “Vernon will rot us all on that island, that cesspool!” A young crewman stood with hands clasped behind his back, then he puffed his cheeks and stomped about the wooden floor. The men around him hooted. “Aye, aye, Admiral!” shouted one. “Ahoy Ol' Grogam!,” yelled another. The parading young man stuffed his right hand into his open coat, dramatically flaring the front flaps wide and marched about sternly. Laughter gushed the tavern.

James chuckled, feeling oddly at ease with this place, these men.

A swishy wench approached. “Nother pint fer ye?”

“That'd be grand,” he replied, almost in a whisper. His gaze made its rounds—the clamorous seamen, the wigwagging whores, the long bar, the entrance, the plump beside him—snap back to the door. A man was there. Something familiar. Grizzled. Hair flattened wet, a hopeless attempt at civility. His beady, smiling Irish eyes were surveying the room, then locked on James. By the time James sprang to his feet and stepped from the table, Seán was already running toward him, oblivious of the men he dodged. He grabbed James, knocking him backward, laughing deliriously, hugging him. “Jemmy! I can't believe!”

“Seán, m'God!” yelled James, stammering, beaming.

“Damn ye, Jemmy!” Seán shouted, grinning. “I thought ye were dead, I did. Then I read the runaways and figured ye'd be headin' here. I've been lookin' fer yer ugly mug since! When I saw ye yesterday, I wasn't sure, but—”

“Kennedy?” asked one of the seamen.

Seán beamed. “Aye, Chester, this is the friend of m'youth, Jemmy.” He shook James by the coat. “Jemmy Annesley! I thought he was gone from ‘dis bloody world.”

James could not take his eyes off Seán. It was too inconceivable—Seán Kennedy, standing right in front of him, the same mischievous eyes, the same smile, that same unruly mop of hair. Yet somehow, Seán had changed. “Ye've gotten old, ye old Irish sot!” James teased.

“And ye haven't?” snorted Seán. “M'God, how long's it been? Fifteen years? Twenty?”

“Fourteen.”

“Bloody hell!” Seán shook his head. They stood face to face, grasping each other by the arms. “Ye look fit, Jemmy. Have ye been here all this time?”

“I have. Look upon ye, ye navy man!”

The tavern door flew open, and two men in white campaign wigs stepped inside with three aides and a marine in tow. Seán's smile disappeared as he released James and snapped to attention. The two men made their way toward the fireplace. Screeching chairs and rumbling shoes filled the room as every seaman jumped to his feet, eyes on the officers. The older one was a head above the other, menacingly large. The tavern keeper appeared. “Good day Admiral. Captain Knowles. May I offer ye gentlemen—”

“No thank you, Mr. Smithers,” replied the admiral, removing his three-cornered blue hat, tucking it abruptly beneath his arm.

The captain also removed his hat. “Aye, Smithers, just a bit of rum would—”

“Nothing at present,” the admiral interrupted.

Knowles winked at the keeper, then turned to Seán. “Master Seaman, this your man?”

“Aye, Captain.” Seán nudged James forward. “May I present Mr. James Annesley.”

“Is that so?” The tall admiral stepped closer with an inspector's gaze. The aides, two lieutenants and a warrant officer, stayed close, silently watching James, listening to everything. The marine remained near the door.

“Jemmy, this is Admiral Vernon,” Seán said firmly.

“Sir. I'm honored,” James offered with a faint tip of his head while looking directly into the man's green eyes. As amazed as he was to stand before the famous Admiral Vernon, he was still reeling with the inexplicable presence of Seán. He extended a hand and was pleased the admiral shook it.

“And I as well, Mr. Annesley.” Admiral Vernon's face was strong and imposing, with a broad forehead and long chin. He pointed at the scar along James's cheek. “The mark of a dragoon.”

“Stirrup, sir. When I was a boy.”

Vernon chuckled, nodding his approval. “Bless my soul, you are him indeed.”

Knowles arched an eyebrow at Seán.

“And this is our flag captain,” Seán interjected carefully. “Captain Knowles.”

James turned politely. “Captain. Pleased to meet ye, sir.”

“Shall we sit?” asked Vernon, stepping back, his question an order. The four moved to James's table near the hearth and took seats. The others remained standing, all close. Behind them the room also sat with another loud scuttering of chairs. The hum of conversation resumed, only now dampened, peppered with curious remarks about the admiral's presence and wonder about James. All but the lone man. He remained distractedly dabbing his soup.

“Mr. Annesley,” began Knowles, “Mr. Kennedy is fond of stories. He has spun us many yarns of his youth. Including much of you, sir.”

“Indeed? I confirm only my heroics are true,” James said, hoping for humor.

“What heroics?” Seán huffed, playing along.

Knowles continued, unamused. “Upon discovering your presence in Yorktown, he relayed such to me, and I to the admiral. Thus we are here.”

Vernon had two fingers under his wig, scratching his scalp. “I shall be direct. I am familiar with your family.” He paused, watching James's reaction.

“If I may ask, which sir?” James asked. “The Annesleys or the Sheffields?”

“Both, assuredly,” he replied, then smirked. “When I'm not smashing Spanish privateers, my favored occupation—” Several gave an approving cheer and he waited for them to settle. “Then I'm found in the House of Lords contending with that other breed of blood-sucking vermin. I can attest many are so aptly described.” His eyes fixed on James again. “And they too tell stories, Mr. Annesley. Some true. Some lies. Some honestly retold. Some slanderous, contrived for political gain. Some told to set matters straight. A most curious one was that of a young lad, the son of an Earl, cut with a spur, sold into servitude, his title robbed of him.

“Aye, sir,” James said solemnly, his breathing nearly gone.

“I am familiar with your story, Mr. Annesley.” Vernon rubbed his crooked nose. Everything else, his eyes, his face, everything about him was fronting James, focused on him. “And I know Richard Annesley. I know his perjury. Of which I was never inclined to believe.”

James was momentarily stunned just at the utterance of the name. “My uncle lives?”

“Aye. On occasion he takes that appearance. But not in quality. He's a chuff. An odious man. My fellow lords and I must transact with him in Parliament. An unpleasant endeavor as he is a liar of the worst class.” The admiral raised his hand, materializing the tavern keeper. “Mr. Smithers, we'll have a brandy round.”

James's mind ran the fence of facts and events, unable to hold on anything in particular. There were just too many horses in the corral. Everything was coming too quickly. He wanted to stop everyone and talk only with Seán. How had he become a seaman? When did he see him yesterday? What had he told these men?

“You are a runaway?” asked Captain Knowles, breaking the brief silence.

“Some might say so,” James cautiously replied. “I am…was…returning to Ireland.”

Seán cut in. “On that wee tub ye were boardin'?”

Just the sound of Seán's voice had James beaming again. To think he was right there, right beside him. “The captain's an acquaintance,” James replied. He put a hand on Seán's shoulder. Both men smiled at each other and for a moment James felt as if he might choke up. But tears at this moment would never do, not in front of a White Admiral of the Royal Navy.

Vernon leaned in. “So, are you prepared to tangle with your imposter?”

“There is no better time, sir.”

“That's courage, Mr. Annesley.” Vernon gave an affirming nod. “Mind you remember it in England. Hold it tight.”

“I will sir.” James looked at the man curiously. In England?

The keeper returned with the brandy. “Here lads,” said Vernon, standing, thus pulling everyone else to their feet. He distributed the small bumpers then lifted his high. The others followed. “To the health and courage of Mr. Annesley. The true
Lord Anglesea!”

“To Lord Anglesea!” they all replied, including Seán, then tipped their drinks.

“Mr. Annesley, you are surprised?” Vernon asked.

“To be called Lord Anglesea,” James said softly. “Aye, surprised.”

“You are the Earl of Anglesea, are you not?” The admiral lifted his chin at James.

James glanced at Seán. “Aye, sir. I am.”

“So you are.” Vernon clapped James on the back, and with that the air decompressed, the sails luffed, formality slackening as if left where it stood. Before the toast James was suspect. Now he was avowed, accepted, and in this presence, an English Earl.

After everyone resumed their seats, Knowles began. “I was in Dublin not long after you disappeared. I remember the notices posted for you.”

“They placed notices, did they?” James asked. “Who—”

“M' father, Jemmy,” said Seán. “He had advertisements printed for yer discovery. Kept them posted for months.”

“Fynn?” James brightened. “How is yer father?”

“He is in good health. In New Ross. He'll be so pleased t' hear ye're well.”

“Perhaps you will see him soon,” declared Vernon, reclaiming the conversation. “You'll sail with us on my flagship, His Majesty's
Princess Car
o
line
. Once to Port Royal, in Jamaica, you can transfer to the
Falmouth
and sail for England. Of course, you'll sail as an officer of your station. Will First Lieutenant suffice?”

James knew his mouth was again holding a ridiculous grin. He nodded. “Yes, Admiral. That will be most kind of ye. Far more than I could ever have imagined.”

“And you, seaman.” Vernon peered at Seán. “What is your name?”

Seán popped to standing attention. “Master Seaman Seán Kennedy, sir.”

Vernon turned to Knowles. “This man is to serve as officer's mate for Lieutenant Annesley, responsible for his well being. See to it that he transfers to the
Falmouth
as well.” He stood, and again the room clamored. He shook Seán's hand. “You've done the navy a great service, Master Seaman Kennedy, bringing this man to me.”

“Thank ye, sir!” Seán was nodding, smiling.