Fortunate Son (22 page)

The morning sun shimmered off a giant white sail fluttering loose overhead, snapping back and forth in the chilly breeze. A rhythmic pop, to and fro. Its duty done, its ship to shore, the mizzen sheet flicked anxiously, as if yearning to be filled again, to return to open sea. It flew in the air, regaling its grander moments from its voyage past; no doubt exaggerating its importance amongst its thirty-three fellows. Yet it too knew its fate. Within an hour they would come. It would be furled and tied, lowered and stowed in some dark, windless place. There to await its resurrection, its rejoinder with sun and wind. Suddenly a fresh gust hit and it snapped wildly in reply, its shadow a gray flurry across the boards, across James and Seán who were down the
Falmouth's
aft gangway, walking to England.

The Bristol wharf sounds were rich and curiously intoxicating: the creaking of hawsers, the hoarse shouts of dockworkers heaving their loads, the crackle of sails being rolled, barking dogs, the clatter of wagons on cobbled paths, the aching creak of wooden cranes as they pulled and turned. In the distance, immigrants, indentured servants most, queued along another pier, for another ship, other indeterminate fates yet to be resolved. James and Seán neared the awaiting crowd, the ones come to greet those leaving the
Falmouth
—those men now shedding from the ship's hold. The last green leaves shaken from an autumn tree. Discards. Distinguished only for having survived this long. Unique for the life still found within them.

Shore eyes studied debarking eyes, all in hopeful recognition. Too much familiarity for James and he quickly lowered his nose, eyes dropping behind the sharp brim of his green three-corner hat. Though these were mostly women and children, they were staring nonetheless, disturbingly so. Peering at him with faces locked in anxious alert, open eyes, brows peaked as if to ask, ‘Are you my father, my brother, my husband, so changed by the war and sea as to be unrecognizable? My God at least you are alive! Oh, no, you are not him.' And the brows would momentarily fall, till the next was likewise examined. Many were already in despair, already wailing at the news that their man would never return, their sounds melding with the ever present screeches of seagulls overhead. Mixed in, like a marbled concoction of the most discordant groups, were those who also cried, but deliriously, clinging with near faint to their loved one, resolved to not notice the missing limbs, the sallow gaze, the stench, the pallid vacancy that greeted them. They quickly shuffled their living away from that remaining mass, that ceremonial throng of mourners, where hope breathes its last.

James, with Seán close behind, moved with the departing, anxious to get off the docks. After endless months of standing on decks, the earth was a bizarre surface to his feet and legs. His knees were jelly, the dirt giving and swaying beneath him. He moved as best he could, his mind racing to remember how to walk on solid ground. When clear of the shoulders and elbows, he half-turned to Seán. They stood a moment, just looking. “I guess this will be it then,” James said quietly, as if to himself.

“A couple of months.” Seán nodded. “Then ye'll get the honor of seeing me again.”

“Indeed,” James murmured seriously. It was not that Seán didn't amuse him; it was simply an instinct. He was uncomfortable in the open. He saw no value in stopping to chat up each other regarding plans they had long discussed in detail. They knew where to go, where to meet, what they would do. He would secret away, hopefully to his mother's family in England. Seán would hop a sloop back to Waterford, on the southern coast of Ireland, then make to New Ross and survey the doings of Dunmain. They would meet at a later date, at a place to be designated by letter from James. It was that simple. Nothing more. James would travel under the name Roderick Random. There was no need to loiter, canvassing in front of who knows what unseen, lurking enemies. He felt his heart thumping, chill overcoming him, panic coursing his veins. He hadn't felt it since Yorktown. Not even in the heat of the sea carnage with all the pressing men aboard. That had been different. Those seamen had other matters at hand. No informer, no wisp of evil had been prowling behind them. Not as in a street crowd like this one, here on the Bristol docks, on Broad Quay.

If Seán shared, or even noticed, James's anxiety, it was disguised as he rested a foot on his sea chest and leaned over his knee. “My friend, when ye get to London, watch yer back. Do ye hear? Don't let a stranger get near ye. Keep yer sword within reach, Jemmy. I am still under the Admiral's orders to protect ye're bleedin' hide. Never forget. Don't have me brigged on account of yer foolishness.”

“My foolishness?”

“Just keep it at yer ready.”

“I will.” James put a hand on the hilt of his rapier, a gift from Admiral Vernon. He wished he also had a pistol. “I'll have a week or so before there's word—”

“Ye stay hidden all the same.”

“I can't well find a solicitor if I'm shriveled in a London boardin' house, now can I?”

“Hear me now, Jemmy. Ye'll have to watch out for that bastard Bailyn, and Higgins too. Ye never know where—”

“I'll be careful,” said James, placing a firm hand on Seán's shoulder. This was not wise, rehashing this on the public quay.

Suddenly a hawker boy materialized. “Coach to London and all points between!”

James nodded, taking the boy's only flyer. Across the top, it read: Shelby Stables — High Street. He refocused on Seán. “I'll write ye when I get in a place to do so,” he said, gesturing with the flyer. “Give my finest to yer father.”

“I will,” Seán said, standing tall. He held up three fingers, pointing them at James. When James returned the gesture, he noticed Seán's hand was shaking. They embraced, gripping each other's shoulders tightly for a moment before pulling away.

James was surprised by the flush that now suddenly jolted through him. He felt his lip quiver and held it tight. “Seán,” he began, his voice cracking despite his best efforts against it. “I don't know what I would've done—”

“Ach, what ye would've done? Ye'd already be in Ireland by now. And most certainly ye would've missed Cartagena.”

“Ye know my meaning.”

Seán nodded. “I do. But must ye be reminded? I'd be out there fighting the stinkin' Spaniards still, I would. If I hadn't seen yer ugly mug. Ye remember that.”

“I will.” James gave his friend a smile, then pulled in a breath. “See ye soon?”

“Ye will. Unless I see ye first, ye ol' rogue.”

James chuckled, though he didn't mean it. “I'd best be gone. God speed, Seán.”

“God be with ye too, Jemmy.”

James turned away, tugged his lips in, cinching his face, refusing to let the tears come. In a moment he was gone, melded into the thick crowd.

Up Broad Quay, past a merchant's counting house, a tavern, a small glasshouse, then another tavern, stood a sugar refinery twenty yards offset from the bustling street. In the courtyard formed by that offset, hauliers worked their handtrucks from the quay to the refinery's iron gates and back again. Also there this day was a rickety faded green wagon, turned round to face Broad, its driver's box just visible; its driver, Patrick Higgins even less so. He was peering through a brass scope, observing the two seamen disembark, talk, take the flyer, embrace, then go their separate ways. He kept his focus on the taller, darker one in the green hat. That was James Annesley. Certainly no other. “I'll be damned,” Higgins whispered, thinking he saw the scar he had long-ago rendered the man. The other young man, who was that? Seán Kennedy? Must be. Same reddish hair, boyish grin. Yet how could it be? It hadn't made sense when he had heard it predicted; yet who else was the ‘
schoolfellow at whose father's house he boarded?
' Must be Seán, just as they had told him. Very good. He disliked surprises nearly as much as he disdained rash behavior. He turned again, searching the faces for James. There. Damn! He was startled to see James approaching so briskly. He collapsed the scope, dropped his chin, hiding his face behind his hat, and watched as James passed by. Then he eased his wagon forward, joining the stream of horses and people moving along the quay, the reins slippery in his sweaty palms. James was ahead, moving away. This was not going to be easy. If only Bailyn would keep his bloody distance.

But he knew it was too late for that. Bailyn was already near. He might have known by the feeling alone—the chill of a demon's presence. But it was the tail of that pathetic, brilliant white wig wagging in the breeze which alerted him: Bailyn was a hundred yards up Broad Quay, on horseback, watching them all.

Higgins pulled gently on the bit, slowing to keep a safe distance from James. At Corn, James spoke with a passerby, then turned toward High Street. “Very good, Mr. Annesley,” he mumbled nervously under his breath. “To the Shelby Stables ya go.” Higgins reined the old horse to the right, then whipped it to a corky run down a muddy alley leading across one street and on to the next where he turned left, still cracking the whip to keep on a stuttering pace. The wagon jostled, banging under him, pitching loose hay from the wagon bed.
“
Come on, ya colicky nag!” he ordered, whipping new life into the beast. When he reached another alley, he tugged hard left and charged. Directly ahead, down the alley, he could see stables across the coming street, the large doors standing wide. Higgins whipped the straining nag yet again, bolting across the traffic and into the stable's dim shadows where he pulled to a stop and leapt from the driver's box. As he faded into the dark reaches, a bald, white-bearded man gave him a nod and led the horse and wagon back to the street. There the old man cooed at the nag, patting its jaw, hitching it loosely to a post. He closed the giant doors, ambled to a bench and sat down.

Captain Bailyn was cursing himself for losing sight of Higgs. But as he rounded the last turn, he sighed. There ahead was the horse and green wagon Higgs had been driving; now hitched in front of a stable. No driver. No Higgs. Bailyn moved forward, cautiously trotting his mare past the stables, across the street and into an alley opposite. He turned to face the street. From there he could see anyone approaching, yet stay removed from conspicuous sight. He leaned forward, creaking the saddle's black leather, and peered around the corner. The sight down the street made him grin. James Annesley was coming.

Looking back Bailyn watched a disheveled old man sitting in front of the stable. He imagined Higgs lurking inside, waiting to spring out and slide a knife between James's ribs. No, Higgs wouldn't have that kind of courage. Higgs will shoot him in the back. With that thought, Bailyn raised his musket, removed the plunger and began loading the barrel. If James Annesley didn't go into those stables, or if he overpowered Higgs, or if that pathetic Scot botched this in any way, he would be ready. He took aim at the old man, judging the range. By damn, if James even sticks his head out, he could shoot the English bastard right through the eye and still stay mounted. He glanced behind him. This alley would allow for a quick flight. For all of Higgs' idiocy, at least the Scot had chosen an ideal location for a quiet killing.

James walked quickly, keeping a hand on the hilt of his sword. Finally, there it was, straight ahead, a swinging sign with the words SHELBY STABLES emblazoned in red letters across a poorly drawn white horse. But he didn't see any carriages or coaches in front, just an ancient hay wagon hitched to an obviously experienced nag. He slowed as he neared the building, noticing an elderly man who seemed to have about as much life left in him as did the horse. “Sir?” James said as he approached.

The man watched James carefully. “What do you want, seaman?”

“A coach east.” He handed the flyer to the man. “I can obtain such a fare here?”

The man studied the flyer as if he had never seen it before. Suddenly he bellowed, “Of course! What'd you think this place was, a dancin' parlor? Eh?” The man grinned, baring his gums. “A dancin' parlor?”

James glanced at the sign overhead, then back at the wagon. “I just didn't—”

“The coach east, certainly. That's what you want. A hackney to Bath and on to London.” The man stood on his shaky legs. “Begob seaman, you've come to the right place, you have indeed. To London you said?”

James stepped back. “I didn't say. But aye, to London.”

“Well, come inside, seaman. Come inside.” The man shuffled toward the entrance and opened one of the large doors. “I'll make your arrangements here, begob I will. Have you gone in two shakes of a dog's tail, I will. Two shakes. You'll see.”

As James followed the old man, he brushed past the panting horse. “What sir,” he began, “what is the fare for the—” He stopped as the horse fidgeted, sidestepping against him.

“Fifteen shillings. Never mind the old mite. She needs a bit o' hobblin', I'd say. Aye, a bit o' hobblin for the missus. Just fifteen, I said.”

James noticed the horse's neck was lathered in sweat. He touched its withers, feeling the dissipating heat. Then he glanced at the old man who was already disappearing into the blackness. “Somebody drove this one hard,” he said, studying the horse again.

“What'd you say?” the man called from within.

“This horse, sir. A bit ragged, wouldn't ye say?”

The man re-emerged. “I told you, seaman, don't mind that mite of a horse. She's not the one that'll take your coach.” He showed his gums. “I can assure you of that. Nay. Not to pull the likes of you.”

“Good,” said James, not sure what was meant by ‘the likes of you.'

“Humph! You coming in or aren't you? Eh? What's it to be?” The man again vanished into the cool stables. This time James followed. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. The sound of horses' hooves pawing the ground reassured him, their snorts, the rattling of their harnesses. He walked farther, following the slow-trodding man who kept glancing back over his shoulder with a polite, uneasy nod. About fifteen paces in, the old man stopped abruptly and turned around. James stopped, immediately alarmed. But it was too late. He felt the cold muzzle of a pistol press hard on the back of his head.