Fortunate Son (25 page)

“Da! Da!” Seán's voice was shrill, almost adolescent. “Oh no, Da!”

James clambered to his feet, the pain forgotten. To his horror, he saw Fynn lying face down in the grass. Seán was kneeling beside him. James scrambled over the wall and bolted to them, screaming, “M'God! Mr. Kennedy!”

He came to a stop at Fynn's feet. Seán had turned his father on his back and was cradling his head. Fynn's eyes were open, staring through James, straight into the falling rain. “Ye shot him!” raged Seán, now sobbing. “Ye shot him!”

James was stunned, his body shaking, his mind filling with the terrible sight. He fell hard onto his hands and knees. “God, no! No!” Blood was streaming from a gaping hole in Fynn's chest. James clutched Fynn's twisted legs, crying for him to live.

Fynn's mouth moved slightly, a wheeze escaping his lips, a last, soft exhale through clenched teeth: “Seán. Seámus.”

Seán wailed, “Don't die, Da! Don't ye die now!”

Fynn's face rocked sideways, thick red streaming from his mouth and nose. The pouring rain splattered the blood across Seán's arms, carrying rivulets into the earth. Seán suddenly glared, growling furiously, “Ye killed him! Damn ye! Ye killed him!” Then he collapsed forward, sobbing.

“M'God, Seán. It was an accident!” James shouted, tears streaming, mixing in the rain. He began to shake, lifting his muddy hands, staring at Fynn. “This cannot be!”

Newgate Prison was a lively grave where the living smelled worse than the dead. James was squatting against the filthy wall in a dim room referred to by the others as “the l'ord”—the inmates' term for the lower ward of the prison. He had been there less than a day and already knew the l'ord
was the nastiest ward in the prison, though not the worst. The worst was the pressroom, one floor below, from which he could hear the low groans and high screams of prisoners being pressed to death by cumbrous weights while guards stood about waiting for a confession, or the revelation of conspirators' names, or just to watch the ribs crack on account of unnamed transgressions. Of course, the l'ord killed its prisoners too, though the weight it used was disease.

James knew if he was going to stay alive for long he needed to be transferred to the middle ward. But to get there, according to the small, fretful, craggy shadow of a woman sitting about five feet away, he would have to pay the turnkeys a shilling and four pence. But he had no more money. The turnkeys who had dragged him through the entrance gate had each claimed six pence as their earned privilege, then turned him over to the convicts, who had hovered about him like crows on carrion, demanding a desultory garnish, which James quickly learned was six shillings and eight pence for them all. As he only had four shillings left after the turnkeys, the convicts took his remaining money, then stripped him of his coat, waistcoat, and shoes to pay the balance of what they deemed was owed. He found that two well placed slugs allowed him to keep the brass key and locket.

So he huddled in the dark iniquity of the l'ord with some thirty criminals—men, women, and children, most of them waiting for trial on hanging offenses. The room echoed their odious chatter, old sick voices and young brazen ones uttering profanities of heaven and earth, volleys of oaths discharged from a mixed collection of detestable throats that loosed both their abusive language and their diseases into the fat gray air. Most were drunk with prison-brewed ale and many were smoking, further blackening what was left to breathe. And from one dark corner came the desperate, relentless sound of at least one couple engaged in some form of a sex act.

He decided to ease his way to the room's one small window, a low, iron-barred hole in the wall. There he would press his face against the grate and suck in some fresh air as he had seen others doing. Standing slowly, he struggled a little against his ankle chains and shuffled across the floor. He could feel and hear the lice crackling under his bare feet, as if the path to the window were strewn with tiny seashells. He paused when a man stumbled from the darkness ahead of him and lurched to the window, then urinated onto the street three stories below. In the brownish light, James could see the urine splattering off the grate and back to the cell floor. The man farted loudly, took a few drunken paces, then veered back into the black hell. James turned around and began to ease his way back to his place along the wall.

“Mum. Mum,” a cherubic voice cried. James peered to his right. There in the half-light sat a small boy in the middle of the floor.

James turned to the child just as the sad moan came again. He moved closer. “What'd ye say, lad?”

The boy mumbled something unintelligible, then screamed, “Mum!”

James knelt beside him. “Ah, ‘tis all right, lad—”

“Get away! I won't be your bugger-boy!” A small fist shot out, slamming James's chin.

James recoiled, grabbing the boy's arm. “Nay! Ye were yelling for yer mother, lad.”

“So what? I was asleep.” The boy kicked at him. “Get your hands off me!”

James held tight. “Stop, lad. I won't hurt ye. Stop it now. Ease yerself.”

“What do you want with me?” the boy asked, his thrashing beginning to slow, then stop.

Relaxing his grip, James sat. “I came to see about ye. How old are ye, lad?”

“I dunno.”

“How old do ye reckon?”

“Probably eleven.”

James found a smile to offer. “When I was about yer age, not much older, I too was alone, yelling for my mother. Only I was chained in a ship, not in a bleedin' prison like—”

“I don't care, you old Irishman. Leave me be.”

James sighed, then stood. “All right. So be it.”

But then the boy blurted, “What're you in for, anyway? Buggerin' boys the likes of me?”

“Nay. Of course not.” He gave a fake chuckle, then took a breath of the reeking air and squatted down again. “I'll tell ye, but first you tell me. What'd they accuse ye of?”

“No accusin' to it. I'm guilty.”

“What'd ye do?”

“Stole a silver tankard. My sister and I needed to eat. Couldn't stand her whorin'. So, you?” the boy pressed. “Your crime?”

“I've been charged with shooting a man,” James explained, shaking lice from his hand.

“Murder? Truly?” The boy's eyes widened. “You're a murderer?”

“Only accused.”

The boy gave a disappointed groan. “The man didn't die?”

This was a bit much. “Actually, he did.” James lowered his head. “'Twas an accident.”

“I can guess,” the boy said with a pugnacious turn, “you shot him in the back.”

James cringed, pulling himself to his feet. “I said ‘twas an accident.” He clinked his shackles back to his wall, muttering, “‘Twas a horrible mistake.” The room was thick with coughs and raspy throats. After a few minutes he felt a tap on his foot. It was the boy. James scowled. “Ye're an ill-mannered lad.” The boy didn't move. “All right, sit.”

The boy settled on the nasty stone floor next to James and leaned against the wall. “Gonna transport me to the stinkin' Colonies,” he offered. “They gonna hang you?”

“If they don't believe me.”

“Maybe they'll transport you too.”

“Not likely,” replied James, feeling his stubbly beard.

“Gonna swing from the Tyburn Tree?”

“‘Twas an accident. I imagine I'll be freed.”

“But if they don't believe you?”

“Then, like ye said, they'll probably hang me.” James thought for a moment, then asked, “So, ye think ye'll be transported to the Colonies?”

“Aye!” The boy's eyes brightened. “Ever been there?”

James smiled softly. “Once. I have indeed. Ye afraid of going?”

“Nay,” the boy professed grandly, then turned. “You afraid of dying?”

Though the whole of New Ross and the surrounding villages mourned the death of Fynn Kennedy, only a few courageous souls attended the funeral—being outlawed as it was. And no one, not even Seán, risked holding a wake. The Catholic rites were held secretly at Fynn's grave, on a paltry hill nestled among tens of thousands of Anglesea acres, four miles south of New Ross. Ancient Kennedy land, though for eighty years in the control of the Protestant Annesleys, under the presiding English Earl of Anglesea. A mere parcel in the vast amalgam known as Dunmain. And the fact that Richard was the current Earl made those few brave mourners in attendance all the more nervous. Under the existing penal code, which Richard was known to frenetically enforce, they could all be arrested, the priest hanged, and Fynn's body exhumed and burned. Thus the ceremony was a clipped affair, with guards posted to survey the mile expanse toward Dunmain House.

Now across the hill's crown, a small stand of ash spoke in Gaelic shivers, covering the last of the mourners as they quietly receded, having tossed their handful of black earth to Fynn and sober blessings to Seán. Then the guards returned, filled in the grave, and ushered Father O'Brady away. When done, all that remained was Seán and a mound of grey and earthy stones.

Though dauntless all morning, standing resolute with the others, he now let the emotions come. “Da,” his voice quivered, “ye're with Juggy now and pleased. I'm sure.” He closed his eyes, bitterness filling his stomach. “I'm not sure of anything. T' tell the truth.” He collapsed to his knees, tears overflowing in pain. Minutes passed. He rolled onto his back, wiped his eyes, and stared past the ash leaves into the sky. “I'm sorry Da. So sorry. Everything's gone awry. ‘Tis terrible. Jemmy, Seámus, was arrested. He's in London now, awaitin' his trial. They're callin' it murder. I could've stopped them.” He grimaced. “I don't know why I didn't.” He heard footsteps approaching, someone ascending the hill. He sat up quickly.

“You shouldn't torment yourself, Seán,” said a man thirty feet away. He was dressed neatly in an expensive suit, pintail wig, his accent a mix of English and Irish.

“Ye shouldn't slink up on others, sir!” Seán was on his feet. The man was clearly English, landed, Protestant—a threat. Seán grabbed the pommel of his sword, a naval cutlass.

The man gave a deferential nod. “I've come to pay my respects.”

“Then pay them,” barked Seán, “and kindly take yer leave.”

The man stepped closer—a menacing move cloaked in gentility. “I know why you left James to fend for himself. And truly, you know as well.”

“Who are ye?”

“Ah, we've not been introduced.” His gaze was firm. “I am Lord Richard Annesley.”

Seán froze, glaring.

“I can assure you, I am no fiend nor reprobate, as you've been told.” Richard smiled. “Walk with me?” He turned, gesturing in the direction he had come.

“Remove yerself from my Da's grave,” growled Seán.

Richard snapped, “Seems you've buried the fellow on
my
land. Pity. Now walk with me. Perhaps I'll not snap O'Brady's neck. And I might leave your Catholic ‘Da' to rest.”

“Damn yer mouth!” Seán clutched hard the cutlass hilt. “I'll not be played upon, sir.”

“But you've already been played upon, Mr. Kennedy. Mind you, not by me.” He took another careful step. “I regret the burden of bearin' such bad news, especially on this day.” He motioned toward the grave. “But you've been betrayed by the very man you most trust.”

“What are ye sayin'?”

“Come now, Seán. James Annesley has deceived you. We both know what happened that day in Aberfoyle. My assistant, Captain Bailyn, was in Edinburgh when they found James.”

“Coming t' kill the lot of us, was he?”

“Ney.” Richard looked across the open meadow. “Just James.”

“Go to hell.”

“Maybe I will,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe not. But mind you, ‘tis one thing to tell a man to go to hell. ‘Tis a matter entirely different to make him go.”

“I'd have no qualms in making ye go!”

Richard smiled, nonplussed. “I think you'd have to agree, had the good Captain arrived a day earlier, he might have saved your father's life.”

“Ye're an arse,” Seán snarled. “How'd ye know Jemmy was in Aberfoyle?”

He lowered his gaze, pretentiously dour. “'Twas Fynn, God rest his soul.”

“Damn ye! And over his grave!” shouted Seán, drawing his weapon.

“Easy, friend.” His voice now English gravy. “Shall I tell the charges against
you
?” He saw Seán frown. “Unless I prevent such, you're to be tried as the murderer's accomplice.”

A flash of rage hit Seán. “Ye lie!” He jerked up his cutlass, lunging forward, driving the tip toward Richard's heart. Richard sidestepped, swiftly drawing his own sword. In a steel blur he had parried the lunge, brought his rapier to Seán's throat, and was pressing him against a tree.

“For a navy man, you're a bit rusty with a blade,” Richard said with a reproaching smirk. “Do I now have your attention?”

Seán nodded with his eyes, feeling the tip of the rapier brush his neck.

“Two English constables are in route from Dublin to New Ross, as we stand here. They're coming to arrest you for your complicity in James's deed. Shall we have that walk now?” He sheathed his rapier, eyes locked on Seán, then walked away.

Seán followed, sheathing his cutlass. Descending, he shouted, “All right, damn ye.”

“'Twas no accident,” Richard offered back loudly, slowing his pace.

“That all ye know?” Seán grumbled, catching up.

At the foot of the hill was the Dunganstown-Dunmain Road, and as they broke from the trees, Seán saw a black coach standing in the ruts, its driver watching them intently. Richard stepped through an open a gate in the low stone fence defining the road, then walked toward the coach. He stopped and leaned against the stones. “You Irish like stories, don't you?”

Seán glared.

“As you know, your father wanted revenge for Juggy's death at the hands of the brutal Mr. Bailyn. Mind you, I had no hand in that unfortunate event. But Fynn needed, in a manner of speaking, a means for getting to Bailyn. Bailyn, on the other hand, was intent on killing the young boy, your friend James—though I most strictly forbid it. That leads us to Higgs, who hated Bailyn perhaps as much as your father did. So Higgs and your father agreed…. And please understand that I'm merely relaying what I was told—perhaps you'll make some sense of it.” He waited for an expression to form on Seán's face, but nothing came. “Thus, fifteen or so years ago, Higgs agreed to kill Bailyn if your father located James. That way Higgs got the boy transported. Mind you, I convinced Higgs transportation was best. Certainly better than leaving him on the streets to be killed by Bailyn, wouldn't you say? Captain Bailyn can be so unpredictable. One of his finer qualities. But I digress.” Richard plucked fern tips that dangled from crevices between the tight stones. “So an agreement was made.”

“My father would never—”

“Ah, now, he loved Juggy and he loved Seámus. Isn't that what he called him?”

“Ye know nothing,” Seán fumed.

“Perhaps.” Richard gave a dramatic shrug. “As I said, these are facts presented to me. Apparently your father followed you to some alley. Regardless, James was transported. Higgs didn't kill Bailyn, though. Obviously. He can be quite the Scottish lass.”

“You ordered Juggy killed. My father hated ye more than Bailyn. He would never—”

“James is a bastard child, born to my brother and Juggy, his wench. I had no hand in killing his mother. Think on it, son. Why would I want her dead? By now she would have admitted James was hers. There were only two options for young Master James: stay in Dublin, embarrassing the Annesleys' respectable name, or disappear. I was generous. I did the kindest thing I could. Had he remained, he would have starved, been killed, come to some bad end. Your father and I both knew it. And we knew you were moving him around, protecting him. Or so you thought.” He paused as a wagon approached. It was carrying high mounds of peat. Because Richard's coach refused to clear the road, the peat wagon squeezed along the stone wall, dragging loose stones and scraping ferns to a green smear.

“Ye're a lyin' blackguard,” Seán murmured, after the wagon was gone.

Richard grinned. “I don't give a rat's papist arse whether you believe me or not. I'm not here to convince you. Trying to help you. Hoping you won't be hanged as an accomplice.”

“I'm no—”

“Of course not, but you did bring your father to James, did you not?”

“I'll kill any man claiming my hand was in my father's murder.”

“Murder. Yes, that is what it was. And of course you had no hand in such vile things. But I wonder if the Ross judge will understand. As best I figure it, Higgs told James in Bristol or Scotland. He clearly wanted James to know. He hurried off to Bristol though I advised otherwise. Must have told him your father helped get him transported. James then sent for your father.”

“Why would Higgins tell James?”

“Perhaps it made Higgs feel better to confess the truth. He's an odd man. Again, I'm merely piecing together the cloth of the thing. Perhaps you'll come to some other conclusion. As soon as they arrived in Aberfoyle, Mackercher left for Ireland to stir up trouble here. Higgs went to Glasgow, leaving James there alone. That's when I'm guessing James devised his plan and sent for your father. You, unfortunately, brought the lamb to the lion. I'm sorry, but that makes you an accomplice.”

“This is insanity.” Seán felt woozy.

“Certainly you weren't aware of this, or that James was capable of killing for revenge. If so, you wouldn't have gone on that
tinchal
, of course. And you most certainly wouldn't have let James follow with his musket loaded. I know that. Rest assured.”

Seán said nothing.

“If he gets out of Newgate, James will hunt Bailyn, perhaps even me. But most importantly, you.” He looked away, a concerned scowl crossing his face. “That young man has lost all his senses. Such a shame. But he always did have his father's arrogant, vicious side.”

Seán slowly shook his head, eyes closed. “This is bloody unbelievable.”

“Aye. But thank the Lord I have sway with these English constables and Irish judges.”

“Can ye call them off?”

“I can try. But you'll need to tell that London jury what you know is true. That you saw James shoot your father, in cold blood.”

“James loved my father,” Seán said, his voice trailing far away, “Perhaps more than I.”

“Of course you loved him. You were his only son,” Richard said, his voice warm and momentarily Irish. “And so did I. Fynn was a good man. For Christ's sakes, ‘twas me who let you bury him on my land! And I have no mind at present to dig him up.”

Seán slumped his face into his hands.

“So, you'll help right this wrong? You'll go to London?”

Seán stood straight and looked about. He stared into the distance. Over there, just past the next tree line, were creeks and fields where two boys used to play. Beyond that was a black forest where mysteries were discovered. And then there were the barns of Dunmain where they had sat, imagining the world. “I will,” he whispered.

Richard sighed triumphantly, clapping his hands. “Very good. Swift justice.” He picked up a stone that had been knocked loose and shoved it back into the wall. Then he wiped his hands together, cleaning off the dust. “James's trial is in a few weeks. Tell the jury the truth.”

Seán kept silent, looking away.

“Find my solicitor at the White Horse Inn, near the Old Bailey. His name is John Giffard.” Richard produced a sealed envelope from his pocket. “Give him this letter of introduction from me. He'll tell you how you can help.” He gave a cold laugh. “He'd better—he's charging me ten thousand pounds for this prosecution.”

As Seán took the envelope, he glanced up, astonished by the amount Richard has said.

“I want justice as much as you do,” Richard popped.

“Ye're not in this for justice.”

“For swear though,
you
are. Tell them James made certain you unloaded your musket, then your father's. That he saw his chance and fired. Deliberately.”

“Said ‘damn yer blood' before he fired,” Seán muttered.

“No! Did he?” It took Richard a second to remove his smile.

Seán glared. “Don't look so pleased. Make no mistake, ye cur—this is a matter between me and Jemmy. Ye'll be dancin' in the streets when Jemmy's hanged. But not me. That'll be the blackest day of my miserable life. I'll do this thing, but not for you! I'll do it for my da.”