Fortunate Son (21 page)

James and Seán, along with Tobias Smollett, a fellow seaman who had risen the ranks with Seán, became surgeon's mates. Due to James's rank, he had been afforded the opportunity to remain on deck, but there was nothing to do there except stand, pace, feel awkward and useless, while listening to the mordant shrieks from below. His skill in sea-charting came back to him with some practice, but was of little use while anchored for weeks on end. So the three of them labored together, often side-by-side, through each agonizing, blood-soaked day. Their initial shock was eventually numbed by the sheer magnitude of the suffering and death around them, and they found themselves spending hours talking and laughing together, drinking gallons of grog and telling stories, running through endless fencing drills, anything to pass the days, the minutes. Anything to forget the limbs they had sawed, hacked off that day, the blood they had mopped, the tissue they had sewn, the eyes they had closed. Sleep was an elusive luxury dispensed in two or three hour stints. Meanwhile the dying kept coming, a relentless, lame march. The few that survived vomited and defecated with a stench that even the nose scarves and burning brimstone could not abate. Many of the surgeon's mates pleaded to go to fight. Their wish granted, most soon returned to die where they began. But James and Seán, and Tobias, remained. Not out of fear of being killed in battle, as the risk of catching disease was immeasurably greater aboard the
Falmouth
. They stayed out of a blunt allegiance to the dying. Guilelessly relishing the “rooks,” those rare patients, one out of fifty, mostly amputees, who not only cheated death, they recovered sufficiently to give faith that they might live to see England again. While anchored off Cartagena, it was the rooks that kept the
Fa
l
mouth
afloat, supporting a withering optimism, maintaining any semblance of promise, of purpose, of merciful hope.

Finally, six weeks ago, the battle waning, the death toll climaxing, supplies depleted beyond repair, the
Falmouth
was ordered home. She was to set course for Bristol, her berth. She pulled anchor with 507 crammed aboard: 186 seamen, surgeons and surgeon's mates, and 321 rooks. But once to sea, disaster struck: a rage of bilious fevers and malaria, bloody dysentery and typhus, ran rampant, especially through the rooks. Now the
Falmouth
was approaching England with only a 223 aboard. Only 53 were rooks, and of those at least eleven would never see the shore.

“When I get to New Ross, I'll listen about. Hear the gossip of Dunmain. See if Bailyn's on the hunt,” said Seán. “Still thinking he'll be there? Hunting ye in Ireland?”

“In England, most likely. If he's still alive. Richard will send him, or someone else. Once he learns of my arrival.”

“Aye, most likely,” Seán said. “I reckon ye'll have a month.”

“Perhaps,” said James.

Seán smiled broadly. “I can't wait to tell Da ol' Seámus is alive. He'd set fire to Dunmain House if he thought it'd help.”

“So he would,” agreed James, chuckling, imagining the rancorous, scrappy, gentle Irishman. “Pray he leaves it be. I may want to live there someday.”

Seán's eyebrows peaked.

James saw it. “If he allows me that privilege, of course. After all, as ye've said, ‘tis on Kennedy land.”

“Aye, Lord Anglesea, so it is. Or was.”

“So it shall be again,” James said, clasping Seán's arm. He lowered his voice. “Do tell Fynn how anxious I am to see him.”

“Ye can count on it.”

“I've missed him. More than he may ever know. Faith be. ‘Twill be grand to see him.”

Seán feigned hurt. “I dare say ye missed my Da more than ye missed me.”

“Miss ye?” James smiled. “I was glad t' be rid of ye!”

Seán punched James's shoulder lightly. “My arse! I was the one hiding ye in Dublin, doing all the damn work, taking all the bloody risks on account—”

“Ye didn't take all the risks, now did ye?”

Seán hesitated, then sniffed. “Nay, ye're right. I didn't. Indeed, I wish I'd—”

“Ah, Seán, I'm only ribbing ye. Let's not revisit it. ‘Tis the past.”

Seán stood motionless for a moment before he spoke. “Aye. ‘Tis. For now. But once ye get to shore, ye'll be back in it. Back in the thick of it. Yer past will come searching for ye. Hunt ye down like hounds on a wee fox.”

“Jaysus, Seán! Why don't ye just throw me over! Ye sure know how to cheer a fellow.”

“Nah, I was just saying—”

“I know what ye were saying,” James bristled. “And ye're probably right. But there's nothing to be done. Least not out here. As they say, whatever will be, will be.”

That same evening the falling sun was scalding the Salisbury Crags, the red sandstone ridges on Edinburgh's eastern flank. And further west, across that valley, it was setting afire the parapets of the Scottish castle itself. Daniel Mackercher stood near the Nor Loch, at the foot of the castle and smiled, watching the amber glow move toward Arthur's Seat, a knoll past the Crags. Soon that knoll too was burning. His city, his beautiful Edinburgh, was being warmed by the embers of the fading day, red and orange sparkling off Nor Loch's glazy surface, igniting the streets and buildings, the trees, the cool air. Even the Union Jacks were flashing orange. (He still flew a St. Andrew's Cross at his Highland home.) He believed it the finest city on earth. Just as it should be. Just as it had always been.

He had lived in Edinburgh, in some form or fashion, for forty-one of his forty-eight years—walking these streets first in broken orphan shoes, then regimental boots, now polished buckle brogues. It had always been his. Thus it was to Edinburgh that he returned after Joan's murder in 1728. And there in Edinburgh his acidic detestment for Richard Annesley grew blacker, year by year, punctuated on each anniversary of her death when he would drink heavily, grandly reaffirming his Dublin vows to commit the ultimate revenge. And it did little for his opinion of all things nobly British—English lords smelled of Richard's ilk, that pungent culpa, those sons of whores.

In Edinburgh, he put away his broadswords and dirks, and set about building a small, successful law practice. Weapons aside, other than the occasional dress sword, he kept himself in his Highland tartan unless before the King's Bench. He wanted a peaceful life. So it was. Though punctuated with restlessness. Known to be genuinely cheerful, every few months an unseen shadow would nevertheless succumb him, delivering a two-week melancholic stew of resentment and depression. It was then that his unabating fury over Joan's death would burst upon him in a different way: a mopey, angry sadness. A polar volcano erupting from the ocean floor. A bleakness that kept him cold—the knowledge that Richard and his men would never pay for their deeds, their crimes. Not in this realm. Richard's mortal sins were to be relegated to the justice of the afterlife. But to Mackercher that was questionable justice at best. Indeed, it was a failure of true justice. Earthly deeds required earthly retribution. But he knew the irony of his captor. He had commissioned his professional life to the system of law that proclaims justice supreme. But it was only when unbound by that very rule of law that such honest retribution could be executed, and thus prove itself superior, more fair in its finality, more complete in the balance, than anything a heavenly adjudication would afford. The paradox fed his rumbling temper.

Not long after he returned from Dublin, he married a young Lowland widow. They had twin girls who both died before the age of three. They never tried again. Never spoke of it or much else. They built a fine home south of the burgeoning city, settled into a rhythm, an ease of kindness—from separate bedrooms on separate floors, along the length of their long dining table overseen by a duteous staff, across parlors at frequent social functions, beside one another on Sunday pews. It was a good marriage. Love had died with the girls; even earlier for Mackercher—during the war when he was young, then again with Joan fourteen years ago. He focused on his work, on friends at the shooting club, on Edinburgh, his city.

And his law practice grew. He took on another solicitor partner, then another, and soon the offices comprised four solicitors, counting Mackercher, and six barristers. But that was years ago. One partner died, another group split away, and finally it was just he and one other, which suited Mackercher fine. This other fellow balanced Mackercher in the way that north balances south, and fire balances the winter cold. The man was too obsessed for Mackercher's style, too involved with the rules and punctuality and specifications of the law. Whereas Mackercher enjoyed the areas of the legal profession where a bit of lawlessness ruled, where to win meant bending things, thinking fast, winning favor with the enemy and surrounding them before they even realized a battle was afoot. This was Mackercher's strong suit. While his partner practically lived at their offices, rehearsing opening arguments and rhapsodizing long with professors of law—Mackercher was out, preparing cases. He trolled taverns for loose-lipped clerks. He was ever-reprising his role as poker-fool at the gaming tables of opposing counsel. He sipped the silver quaich with Loyalists and Jacobites alike. He sponsored pheasant and fox hunts for judges at his Highland home near Aberfoyle. He negotiated impeccable settlements rivaled only in denseness by the smoky dens where they were inevitably signed. In this manner he and his partner were a formidable team, even if no one could remember the last time they were seen together. Never socially. Once or twice at an Episcopal mass, but never in open court.

“Mr. Mackercher!”

Mackercher turned to see his fellow solicitor's young son, sprinting down St. Giles Street, a newspaper flapping in his hand.

“Mr. Mackercher!”

Mackercher watched the boy come close. “Andrew. What have ya there?”

“Father told me…to find ya.” The boy was panting as he came to a stop.

“Did he?” Mackercher forced a smile, mildly perturbed at the interruption.

“Aye, sir. Said business requires ya. That ya had to return. To yar office.”

“What business? Did he say?”

“Nay, sir. He just told me—”

Mackercher raised a hand. “I'm on my walk, Master Andrew.” He resumed his pace.

“Aye sir, said ya'd be ‘round the Nor.” The boy walked alongside him.

“And so I am.”

“But father said ya have urgent business and that—”

“Aye. Ya said that already.”

“Ya have a guest.”

Mackercher slowed. “Do I? I made no appointment.”

“Aye, sir. A man ya'd be wantin' to see. And he told me to give ya this.” The boy handed the newspaper to Mackercher. “Suggested ya read the back.”

“All right then,” muttered Mackercher, stopping, flipping the sheet. As he read it, he froze, eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “Tell me, Andrew, the man in my office, what's his name?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Is he Irish?” Mackercher had already turned.

“I don't know, he sounded like a Scot—”

“Come now, lad! B'jingo! Let's go!” He hurried up the street, the boy close behind, both disappearing against the lagging sun.

It was nearly dark when James saw Tobias Smollett, the surgeon's mate, strolling toward them on the foc-s-le. “Good eve to ye, Tobias,” James offered.

“Lieutenant Random. Seán. Where's our minds tonight?”

Seán shrugged. “Pondering Jemmy's fate, what's awaiting him when—”

“Not much to talk about,” James interjected. He had still not settled with the moniker Smollett had given him: Roderick Random. Upon first introduction by Seán, Smollett had confused James with another, named Roderick, and it stuck. The Random came when weeks later James and Seán were discussing a good alias for James to use in his travels across England. Smollett had remarked that any random name would be best, as a determinate name would seem just that, and thus lend itself to discovery.

“Ach, sure there is,” pressed Seán. “I saved his arse, got him into this bloody navy and now he won't listen to my advice for going ashore. Doesn't seem fair, now does it Toby? Ye know these nobles and their highbrow ways.”

Smollett gave Seán a dismissive shrug. “Right, Seán.”

“Ye agree with the bugger?” exclaimed James.

“Have I ever?” Smollett smiled. “Ya know, Seán, seems to me the lieutenant did
you
the favor. If he hadn't been in Yorktown for ya to stumble upon, well then, ya might've stayed aboard the
Caroline
, and ya'd most likely be lying in our between-deck now. Worse, ya might've been sent to the
Boyne
. By now ya'd be shark shite.”

“Well said, Tobias!” James patted him on the back. “Well said, indeed.”

“Who the bloody hell invited ye up here, Toby?” snarled Seán. “We were just havin' a pleasant discussion on the weather, and up ye pop with yer bleedin' Scottish mouth.”

Smiling, James pulled Smollett aside. “Still wantin' to be a writer, do ye?”

“Aye, Roderick. That I do.”

“Well then, my friend, ‘tis time ye heard the epic tale of Seán and the great centipede!”

“Ach, Jemmy, ye never tell it right,” protested Seán. “Don't believe him, Toby. He's an Englishman telling an Irishman's story.”

“The great centipede?” asked Smollett.

“Aye,” said James. “It had seventeen legs and two enormous fangs.”

“Seventeen?” Smollett was ginning. “And fangs ya say?”

“Nasty fangs, aye. Seems one day this odd orange creature ‘twas minding its own affairs, just crawling along, ye understand, and the hoyden Seán here sees it and screams to—”

“Ach piss off! Ye threw the damn thing on me!” yelled Seán. “Tell the story right!”