Fortunate Son (24 page)

“I fought for the Loyalist at Sheriffmuir, in '15,” Mackercher finally began. “The last time the Jacobite clans rallied against the English king. Many died. It is not something I wish to see again. I am an older, wiser man. I hope.” He stood, stretching his back. “Now the clans are scattered. And though divided loyalties abound, they'll not let this matter rest.” He paused, looking about, almost as if he might see a warrior clan crest a hilltop at any moment. But they were alone. “There is an admirable nature to their cause.” His focus returned to James. “Yet to declare oneself a Jacobite can lead to the end of a rope. Not something to ask a man.”

“Yet ye said I should declare myself—”

“Yes, declare
yarself
. On yar own. For yarself. Do not allow yarself to be asked. Do not let the unknown grow. Rumors fester and breed in silence. Say ya're loyal to King George. Silence lends itself to mystery, and mystery to distrust, and distrust to fear, and out of fear, yar fellow man will assume the worst on yar behalf. Do ya see my meaning?”

“I think I do.” James also got to his feet. He gathered the birds and musket.

Mackercher continued. “It is best if we all know who we are, or at least whom we say we are. If ya don't declare yarself loyal, ya'll have a devil of a time convincing anyone otherwise. The thing is presumed by the absence of its denial. And have no doubt Richard will promote ya as a Jacobite. Especially as ya're in my company.”

“In yer company? But ye fought, as ye said—”

“I did. But this Jacobite cause is ripping our country apart. And I have enemies as well. It is a cheap thing to accuse a man. Thus I am so accused. And some believe it so.”

James nodded. “I've seen that men will believe as they wish to believe. They always will. We can only hope for truth to eventually reveal itself.”

Mackercher looked at him, then smirked. “Well said. I do concur.”

James started walking as Mackercher turned away. They had lunch awaiting them. He would talk with Fynn about this whole Jacobite mess. For now, he would leave it be. “With my mother dead, her parents as well, do ye think there's a Sheffield who'd assist my cause? Our cause?”

“I doubt it.” They were both moving down the knoll. “None of them stand to gain by the outcome, either way it falls.”

“I can see that,” James muttered.

Mackercher turned back and nudged him. “Doesn't matter, all the same. God has blessed me with resources enough. I'd part with it all, if required. If necessary to see this through. To have that murderer brought to justice.”

James pressed. “Despite that, ye can count on my repayment once—”

“Did ya not hear me?” Mackercher frowned. “I won't take Anglesea money.”

“Then what can I do to—”

“All I'll ever ask of ya, is that ya remember Joan.”

“I do sir,” said James.

Mackercher stopped at the edge of a trickling creek. “This is not only yar fight. Not yar fight alone. ‘Tis mine as well. That bastard not only stole yar estate, yar freedom; he stole Joan's life. He stole my sister. My family. How could any man rest till justice comes on such a thing? And at what price? If it was Laura, could ya ever stop?” James shook his head. “Right,” Mackercher continued. “We'll win back yar estate and yar title. We'll right that wrong. But I want my revenge.” He stepped through the water to the other side and kept moving. “I may be cursed for it. Damned for seeking it. But there it is. Plain enough.”

James saw Mackercher turn to watch him scale the small hill. He could see the man's eyes. Though Mackercher was old enough to be his father, his eyes sparkled with a youthful mischief. Unless he was talking about Richard Annesley—then an icy glaze would seize him. Like at this precise moment. Perhaps it was best to talk of something else. “Do ye come into these mountains often?”

“Whenever possible,” Mackercher answered quickly, pivoting away as James caught up.

“‘Tis the most incredible land I've ever seen.”

“Then ya'll not mind staying put till I return.”

“Of course. Will Higgins stay as well?”

“He may go to Glasgow to see his family, but keep him in yar eye as best ya can.”

After a moment, James asked, “Do ye not trust the man?”

“I do. In a manner of speaking. I believe his heart is loyal to ya. To us. To our cause. And undoubtedly black against Richard. Undoubtedly so. But once a man turns against his word, even if he has turned from a pact with the devil himself, it reveals his heart. It shows he is capable of bending. That he can be bought. For the cause of good or evil, he can be bought nevertheless. He follows his conscience.”

“Is that not an admirable thing?”

“Yes, but ya can never trust another man's conscience. The conscience is not beyond change, and thus it is unreliable bedrock. It is a man's truth, his values that carry his soul. If he ever is able to compromise himself, to be the lackey of a man such as Richard, then the worm of deceit and treason is within him. And that, James,
that
worm of treason; when ya see it in a man, never grant him yar full trust.”

“Ye don't think a man can change?”

“The worm of treason rarely leaves just because its host has chosen to live beyond blemish. The infestation remains. Unfortunately ya have to rout it out. Most likely.” Then he added almost under his breath, “Often with a claymore's edge.”

“But Higgins saved my life.”

Mackercher stopped. “Aye, so he did. He also gave ya that scar.” He swiped a finger over James's cheek. “Same man. He also helped Bailyn kill yar father. Pointed yar father out so Bailyn could run him down. Same man.”

On that James paused. He had imagined such. But now no judgment came, which surprised him. “It is a choice, I believe,” he said. “To choose to see the good in a man.”

“So ya will,” Mackercher shouted over his shoulder. “But always remember.” He stopped on the cattle path and turned. “Ya can only be betrayed by the people ya trust.”

“Aye, sir,” said James, now passing Mackercher on the trail.

“And
m'lord
,” Mackercher snarled kindly with a sanguine wink. “No more of the ‘aye, sir' muck. Ya're not a seaman, not a lieutenant now. Not here. Quite to the contrary, ya're a bloody English Earl. Ya should sound as one.”

James laughed. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Impertinent nobleman,” chuckled Mackercher. He resumed his pace with James squarely ahead.

Mackercher's heavyset cook rose early, preparing for the May Day festivities. She was making her specialty; the finest gooseberry cream tarts James ever tasted. Though the celebration that day in Aberfoyle, Scotland was said to be something to see, it was something else that had him up before dawn. Today he, Fynn, and Seán would go on their first
tinchal
, or stag hunt. Unable to sleep, the thoughts of the
tinchal
running through him, he came to the kitchen for coffee, his Colonial hot drink. He had tried it in Virginia but spit it out. Yet when Mackercher offered it with milk, he found it surprisingly agreeable. Now the cook ground and brewed it for him each morning, though Mackercher had been gone for weeks.

“Mr. Annesley, will ya fetch da eggs?” she asked. “Fraid me burnt foot's got me wobblin' dis morn.”

“For yer tarts, ‘tis the least I can do,” James agreed, then turned and stepped through the rear door. He heard pigeons cooing from the dovecote's upper dome, and just below them, a chorus of clucking hens. “Here I come, ladies,” he whispered, “Show me yer good ones.” Gravel crunched under his feet as the cold air rushed through his lungs. He was in high spirits, the day's events on his mind. He liked the newness morning brought, the promise offered by the rested world, a dark canvas poised for color. At the dovecote he stopped and surveyed the constellations now shifted west. There was the Big Dipper still carrying water for Polaris. He looked for St. Stephen's Skull, yet it seemed to have already set. But just before he entered the coop, he saw it—the elusive star-skull was on the horizon, disappearing, almost gone. Two hollow eyes peering over the edge of the placid world, taking one long final look, unblinking, absorbing all, as if it believed it would never return.

“Mornin' Seámus,” sprung a voice from the dark.

“Ach!” James jumped. Turning quickly, he saw Fynn sitting on a stack of cut wood by the duck pond. “Mr. Kennedy! What are ye doing out here?”

“Same as ye, so it appears.”

“She sent ye for eggs as well, did she?” James grinned.

Fynn returned the smile. “Lookin' at the stars, I was.”

“Didn't know ye watched ‘em.” James moved to the logs and sat. “I've always liked lookin' up at ‘em.”

Fynn nodded. “Ye've got it in ye. ‘Tis an Irish curse, I reckon.”

They both stared at the sky. “Do ye often rise so early?” asked James.

“Always have.” Fynn's aged voice fell. “‘Tis the best time o' day.”

“Aye, ‘tis. Reminds me of being at sea—the calm nights mind ye.”

The kitchen door creaked open with the cook's head sticking out. “Mr. Annesley?” she called, peering into the darkness.

“Ah, aye!” James cried, popping to his feet. “I'll bring ‘em right away.”

He moved quickly through the lower coop, gathering eggs and causing a vociferous turmoil among the ruffles. Fynn helped, though much slower. Once the full basket was delivered to the kitchen, they returned to the wood stack. The sky was showing the first hint of its lighter self. They sat quietly, James watching the dimming stars, thinking about this man who had cared for him as far back as he could remember. When he had fallen as a little boy, it was this man who had picked him up, brushed him off. It was this man who had taught him so much, even risked death on his account. And only this man called him “Seámus,” for the Irish he said was within him. He was reminded of his father's funeral: Fynn had stayed with him that horrible day. What bravery. An Irish Catholic in a Protestant, English church, head high, escorting the child of the dead English nobleman—murdered by a Catholic, according to the peerage mob. He now understood it had been an act of defiance, of conviction. An act of love. He wanted to thank him, but how? He sat motionless, silent, enjoying how right it felt to be there, beside him, watching the Scottish sun rise on a promise-filled day. He would do anything for him. It was his turn. He looked over at the aging man and silently thanked God Fynn was alive. After so many years apart. He added a vow to his prayer: he would to take care of Fynn for the remainder of Fynn's days.

“Do ye remember up in that tree?” asked Fynn. “Across the moat from Dublin castle?”

“I do. Ye came to find me.”

“I can still see ye up there, smiling down as I tried to bear-climb the damn thing.”

James slowly shook his head. “Rough days, those were.”

“Aye,” Fynn agreed, his voice lagging. “The day Joan died.”

“Aye,” whispered James.

“Seámus, when ye disappeared . . . . Well I thought I would go mad, I did.”

James exhaled hard, hating to hear the sadness in Fynn's voice. He wanted to change the subject. “Today's
tinchal
, Seán and I—”

“I can scarcely speak the hell I went through, roamin' the streets like a mad man, searching for ye in the alleys, along the quays. That cloak of yers made us believe ye'd been shot, that ye were damaged, or even worse.” He stopped. In the pallid light, James could see Fynn's lip quivering.

“But by God's grace, I didn't die,” James tried. “To tell the truth, Mr. Kennedy, ‘twas knowin' ye probably thought I
was
dead that kept me going. I had to get back here to show ye. To see ye.” Now he too was succumbing to emotions. He sighed through clenched teeth, then continued. “I held on to the belief that we'd be together again. Someday. And sure enough, God has seen fit.”

“So He has,” Fynn sniffed, crossing his arms and leaning forward.

James put an arm around the man's shoulders. For the first time in the week since Fynn's arrival, he realized just how frail the man was. Fynn was probably not much older than Mackercher, but he seemed to have lived longer and harder than his years. He appeared worn, tough yet weak. Not the scrappy, vibrant man James remembered.
It's all right
, he told himself.
It's not too late. We're here together now. That's all that matters.
Though finding Seán had been a most amazing event, nothing compared to this moment. He knew he would never forget sitting on this woodpile, his arm around this gentle Irishman, both covered by a vast blanket of fading stars.

Suddenly, Fynn straightened his back, collecting himself. “This afternoon, Seámus, after the
tinchal
, I want us to ride into these hills. Just you and me.”

“I'd like that.”

“There's an important matter to be discussed. Something I need t' tell ye.”

“What is it?” James asked, surprised by Fynn's tone.

Fynn pat James's knee, then pressed off of it to stand. “Time enough this evenin'.”

“Then we will,” James replied. He got to his feet slowly, reluctant to end the moment yet compelled to follow Fynn's lead.

By early afternoon Fynn, Seán and James were two miles from Aberfoyle. They were on foot, muskets in hand. They had not seen a deer, though in truth, they weren't trying very hard. Seán had shot the hare now slung across his back, but that was all they had fired on so far. Now they were laughing, their voices carrying over the sublime, ancient rolling hills, across the lea, that Highland meadow stretching before them in canty shades of emerald and lavender, dusted with saffron flowers, sweeping down to meet Loch Drunkie, its surface reflecting the Menteith Hills beyond. Drifting clouds hung low in massive puffy clumps, playing, shaping and forging the sunlight into Olympian columns, golden shafts exploding off water, hills, meadows and trees.

“Seán,” Fynn called to his son a few paces ahead. “Weren't ye to wear a kilt this day?”

“We wouldn't want to see those wasp legs,” shouted James. “Pray ye keep ‘em covered.”

Fynn chuckled. “We can thank the Lord that Higgins took his kilts to Glasgow.”

Seán laughed but didn't look back. While walking, he reached down, picked up a pebble and tossed it high back over his head. James and Fynn laughed as they dodged it.

“Best mind yer manners, Seán,” said James. “We've a good aim at ye back here.”

“Lads, remember hidin' in my wagon in Dublin?” Fynn asked softly.

“Aye.” Seán answered, turning to let Fynn and James catch up. “James and I were in College Green, thinkin' of pullin' down King Billy.”

“Is that thing still standing?” asked James.

“Aye. Maybe the Earl of Anglesea will help me tear it down when—”

“Ye lads keep jabberin' and a fleein' arse is all we'll see today.”

James hooted. “It'd be more arse than Seán's seen in…forever, I'd say.”

Fynn suddenly raised a hand and froze, signaling James and Seán to hush. He leaned forward to a crouch and eased up an embankment. James and Seán stifled their laughter and joined him, peering over the rise. There in the clearing of the adjacent forest were a number of grazing deer. One of the larger ones lifted its head nervously, then eased it down again, returning to its feeding.

“All does and fawns,” whispered Fynn. “The buck is sure t' be near.”

“There,” James whispered, nodding at a nearby grove. The buck was standing alert, about fifty yards away, carrying its mossy rack high, cautiously smelling the air. Fynn slowly brought his musket up and reached for the lock, snapping it back carefully. Though it made only a light clicking noise, it was too much. The vigilant buck snorted, stomped, then vanished. By the time James looked back at the does and fawns, they too had run off.

“Oh well, at least we saw one,” said Fynn, sighing as he stood straight. “There'll be others around the lake.”

“Did ye get a good look at his fleein' arse, Seán?” James chuckled.

“Shut yer trap.”

“Lads,” Fynn said, once they had rejoined the path, “Do ye remember my riddle? Lil' Jenny Whiteface? Used to tell it to ye both, when ye were but wee mites.”

“Aye, Mr. Kennedy, I remember,” said James. “And I know the answer.”

“Ye do?” Seán gave James a playful shove, then looked away. “Tell me how it went again, so I'll remember.”

“Right. Here ‘tis,” began Fynn. “Lil' Jenny Whiteface has a red nose. The longer she lives the shorter she grows.”

James let Seán squirm for a minute, then answered, “‘Tis a white candle, Mr. Kennedy.”

“Aye, Seámus,” said Fynn. “Well done. ‘Tis a candle that burns bright, gettin' shorter and shorter as it does—”

“I knew it!” proclaimed Seán.

Fynn went on, “It gets shorter and shorter till one day ‘tis gone. Vanished altogether.”

“Admit it, Seán,” James popped back. “Ye didn't know the answer. Indeed, the last time ye guessed at it, ye thought it was a bird.”

Seán looked astonished. “How the devil do ye remember such things?”

“Bugger off,” said James, pushing him. They all laughed.

Late that day, the clouds had thickened and were pooling in ever-graying masses, promising at best a good collaborative rain, at worst a maelstrom. The three men sat below them, on the shore of Loch Drunkie, the rich smell of Fynn's pipe wafting up and away. A cool breeze had just come up, harkening the coming storm.

“Is tobacco yer lure?” asked Seán. “They'll smell yer pipe and come runnin' for sure.”

Fynn blew out a billow of aromatic smoke. “I reckon all the bucks within five miles have seen us by now. Rather, I'm sure they've heard the two of ye carryin' on.” He smiled. “We may as well unload our muskets.”

“Aye,” James agreed, standing, picking up his firearm. He stopped. The sun was casting a perfect shaft straight down. He watched it, the solitary pillar of light drifting across the choppy grey surface, moving toward them.

Seán stood also, looking at the mounting clouds. “We're about to get wet.” Seán lifted his musket, pulled back the flash pan cover and blew the gunpowder off. Then he pulled the ramrod from the barrel, attached a small flange-hook, and fished out his ball and wad. After he did the same with Fynn's musket, he tied the dead hare to the barrel ends and slung the muskets over his shoulder.

“Ye ready?” James asked Fynn, reaching down to help him up.

As he took James's hand, Fynn said, “Aye, ‘tis time. I love our Ireland lads, but by God, I've never seen
anything so pleasin' as this. I swear I could stay here forever.”

“Aye,” whispered Seán, “I do agree.” He set off, tramping back down the cattle drovers' path with Fynn close behind. Low gurgling thunder rumbled over the hills to the west.

James, reluctant to leave, looked at the lake, absorbing the image. As the first raindrops hit, he turned. The Kennedys were getting further away. He started quickly after them. About a hundred paces down the path, where the trail bent gently away from the shoreline, James felt a pebble in his shoe, grinding the ball of his foot. Ahead, Fynn was crossing a low stone fence, Seán assisting from the other side. James decided he would sit on that wall to remove the rock. He shifted the musket from his shoulder. “Damn,” he muttered, wincing, limping along, trying to hurry. He was almost there. The pain was intensifying, a knife in his sole. He wiped the rain from his face. Fynn was twenty paces ahead, just behind Seán. One step from the fence, James reached to lean the musket. Suddenly his right foot slipped into a hidden fox hole, forcing his full weight onto the offending rock. Fire surged up through his calf and he toppled forward, his face toward the wall. “Damn ye!” he cursed again, his hands flying out ahead to break his fall. His musket, slamming against the top of the stones, suddenly discharged. The lead ball fired straight, chest high, over the wall. A flash of gunpowder blasted into James's face, a black cloud of smoke engulfing him. He stumbled backward, ears ringing, momentarily blinded, falling behind the wall.