Black Wreath

by Peter Sirr

  ‘No, it’s not true,’ James said. ‘I was forced here against my will by a trick of my uncle. My father was–’

  There was no chance to continue the story, for Mackenzie had appeared on the verandah and was calling down to his friend. ‘What’s going on, William?’ he asked as he strode from the verandah to the carriage.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ James said quickly, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’ He reached to take the note, but just as the man handed it over Mackenzie came alongside the carriage and snatched the letter from his hand.

  ‘What’s this?’ His eyes were bright with a quickening anger.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ James said. ‘It’s just a private letter …’ James was at a loss to say anything more. Nothing he said now would make things any better.

  Mackenzie broke the seal and scanned the page, his face growing redder with every line. ‘Just as I thought,’ he said. ‘The knave is plotting to run away.’

  ‘I was kidnapped,’ James began, but before he could say anything else he felt Mackenzie’s fist connect with his jaw and then the man, the carriage, the day itself vanished in a glare of blinding white light.

  When he woke, his face was still numb from the blow. It was dark and when he touched his jaw he found his right hand shackled with a heavy chain. The chain was attached to the wall, and as his eyes got used to the dark he saw that he was in a corner of the same stable he had been cleaning out today or yesterday or whenever it was before Mackenzie had knocked him out. He heard the horses in their stall and the stench of their urine filled his nostrils. He was hungry and thirsty and poked around in the straw in case there might be a crust or a bowl of water, but there was nothing. Maybe Mackenzie meant to starve him – he wouldn’t put it past him.

  A sudden shaft of light almost blinded him. Someone had opened the stable door and slipped in. He braced himself for another attack, but none came. Instead, a familiar voice spoke softly to him. Amelia. Thank God for that, he sighed in relief. He drank the water and gulped the bread she had brought.

  ‘How long does he mean to keep me here?’ he asked her.

  ‘I don’t know. He was very angry. He wanted to tie you to the apple tree.’

  James pictured Connolly’s back lacerated by the cowhide whip and groaned.

  ‘I told him you mightn’t survive it, and he’d be left with a dead servant on his hands, which would be a poor return on his investment.’

  ‘Not much of an investment,’ James said. ‘He got me at a knock-down price since I had no trade and no muscle.’

  ‘Any investment is a consideration for him,’ Amelia said. ‘And there would be the embarrassment. It’s not considered good practice to kill the indentured servants. Slaves are another matter.’

  Amelia looked anxiously at the door. ‘I can’t stay,’ she said. ‘He may come here any minute.’

  She touched his forehead. ‘Don’t give up, James. This will pass soon enough.’

  Amelia slipped out of the stable and he closed his eyes. How often had he heard words like these? That he mustn’t give up, must be brave, must be careful and do his utmost to survive? Why? Wouldn’t it be better just to accept that his life was hopeless and sink into it like a dumb animal? What was to be gained by endless striving when his situation was so hopeless? He looked into the future and all he could see was years of labouring in heat and cold with no respite. This stable was exactly the right place for him to be, he thought bitterly. He was a beast among beasts, nothing more.

  But Amelia’s gentle touch came back to him. She had taken a big risk to come and see him. The thought made him feel a little ashamed of his despair. And then Sylvia’s image came into his mind. He had tried not to think of her because it was too painful and only made his imprisonment worse. But maybe that was wrong – maybe, instead of trying to forget, he needed to think of her; he needed to keep her alive in his heart to remind him of who he was and what might yet be possible. He let his mind drift back to Dublin and imagined he was walking with Sylvia from the Haymarket to Phoenix Street. He saw the traders, the beggars, smelled the meat and fish, heard the gulls screeching and the din of carriages and the shouts on the streets. He began to name all the names of the streets he could remember: Dame Street, High Street, Thomas Street …

  In his wanderings through the city he didn’t notice Mackenzie come in, but when he opened his eyes, he saw the farmer standing above him. He sat up and looked at Mackenzie.

  ‘If you ever try anything again, I’ll string you up on the apple tree and flay you alive. Do you understand that?’

  James nodded.

  ‘Answer me, if you don’t want to feel my foot!’

  ‘I understand,’ James said. He made his voice as flat as possible, with no edge of resentment or rebellion that Mackenzie might pick up on.

  ‘Well, you can stew in your juices a while yet,’ Mackenzie said, and turned on his heel and left.

  Three more days James spent chained in the stable. By the time Connolly was sent to release him he was weak from hunger and still badly bruised. He accompanied Connolly to the boundary of the land, where they worked on repairing fences. Connolly did most of the work, letting James sit and watch.

  ‘I’ll give you the nod if himself shows up,’ he said.

  James was grateful. He hardly had the strength to lift his arm. He stared out at the land beyond Mackenzie’s, a broad, sloping expanse that gave way to thick woods at the brow. Somewhere beyond the woods was the river, and on its banks the town where Amelia went for household supplies. James had never been there, but he knew it was a sizeable enough place, and that it was well connected with other towns across the land.

  Connolly handed him a hammer and a couple of nails. ‘Better at least look like you’re doing something,’ he said.

  As the days passed, slowly James’s body got itself back into the groove of labour and he set his mind to it with grim determination. He wouldn’t give Mackenzie any reason to find him wanting. He wanted to disappear from Mackenzie’s mind, to be an unnoticed and unremarkable labourer on the farm.

  For he had made his mind up. There was only one way out of this miserable prison, and that was escape. But if he was to succeed, he first of all had to make himself invisible. He wanted to quiz Connolly on his escape, to find out as much as he could about the terrain, the neighbouring farms and towns, to find out the best direction in which to strike out and the obvious pitfalls to avoid. But the risk was too great. Connolly might say something, or might be forced to reveal whatever James told him. Nor could he afford to implicate Amelia in his plan; it could place her in danger and he didn’t want anyone to suffer on his behalf.

  So James decided that he would have to plan and act alone. From now on, he wouldn’t work blindly, but would force himself to watch and listen to everything that happened on the farm. He would be the most alert creature there – not a thing that occurred would pass him by. Every broken twig, every skein of news or gossip would be gathered up, stored and added to the map of the district he must make in his mind; only when he knew everything he could, when he was ready, would he make his move.

  The new, quieter James didn’t go entirely unnoticed.

  Amelia saw that something in him had changed. ‘What’s going on with you these days, James? You’re not thinking of anything foolish, are you?’

  She was concerned, and she looked at him with such clear eyes it was hard not to blurt out everything in a rush.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The truth is, I’m not thinking of anything at all these days.’

  Amelia gave him a hard look as if she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t say anything.

  The trees had lost their leaves and the weather had turned cold. Runaways tended to favour the warmer months, so the cold suited James. It meant that fewer people would regard him suspiciously. Escape, he thought, was not a matter of how far you might run, but how you behaved, how you spoke, how you acted. He was determined that he would escape with his brain and not become one of those
runaways who are caught within a few days and dragged back for a whipping and a life ten times more miserable than before.

  As the days passed, he was careful to reveal no sign of preparation, and to show every outward sign of accepting his lot on the farm. He forced himself to smile a little more often than was his habit, and generally to give the impression that he had settled into his servitude in a spirit of submission and good cheer.

  Mackenzie was not a very social man. He didn’t throw parties. He rarely received visitors, but he did, every so often, go to Philadelphia on business, and when he went he was often gone for several days. James learned from Amelia that he would be gone the following week and that the farm would be run by an overseer hired for the purpose. As soon as he heard this, James began making his plans. He began by putting aside what bread and corn he could do without, concealing it in the small box where he kept his scant supply of clothes. From the tool shed he managed to acquire a knife. Then he waited anxiously for the day of Mackenzie’s departure. When the morning came, he rose well before dawn and went to work in the woods, waking Connolly to tell him where he would be if he was wanted.

  When Connolly joined him later that morning, he looked at James in some puzzlement. ‘What’s the idea, getting here so early? Who are you trying to impress?

  ‘No reason,’ James said. ‘I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I had to be up and out in the air.’

  Connolly didn’t look convinced, but didn’t say anything. The real reason for James’s early start was his desire to avoid the attention of the overseer. The less he saw of James, the less he would be disturbed by his absence. He managed to get through the rest of the day without encountering the man, who, as Amelia reported, was happy enough to spend most of the time in the house sitting by the fire and reading Mackenzie’s newspapers.

  James took this as a sign that the gods were on his side. After they had eaten their meal, James quietly gathered his few supplies and walked out into the night. He desperately wanted to take his leave of Amelia but didn’t want to put her in the position of knowing what he was about, and he knew too that she would do her best to talk him out of his plans. She would say he was foolish and headstrong, that he should serve his time and then walk out a free man.

  ‘You only have to wait,’ she’d often said to him, the knowledge of her own endless servitude in her eyes.

  But James couldn’t wait. He had only one thought, to get as far away as possible from Mackenzie’s farm and on a ship back to Dublin.

  He had to content himself with a last look back at the sleeping quarters before walking towards the boundary where he had been working all day. It took him a lot longer than it had that morning, and his heart beat wildly as he clambered through the dark, torn between the need to pick his way carefully through the undergrowth and the desire to run as fast as his body would allow him. He forced himself to be calm. It would be madness to give in to panic now. Eventually he reached the fence. He heard nothing behind him to indicate that he was missed. Ahead of him lay a vast expanse of alien land. He shivered in the cold night air. Then he climbed over the fence.

  Twenty-Eight

  ‘We have to bring him back’

  Her father was telling a long story about some incident in the market. Sylvia heard the words but didn’t take anything in. She speared a little meat with her fork and lifted it half-heartedly. She seemed to be doing everything half-heartedly these days. It was hard to concentrate on anything. The world that had been so familiar to her was now a strange and cold place, and her position in it very uncertain. Her sleep was filled with images of ships tossing and turning on wild seas, as if her own bed was a frail boat caught in a storm. Who knows if James had even survived his terrible journey? And if he had, what had happened to him then? She knew he had strength, but he was not a big, brawny lad, and his life on the streets hadn’t left much meat on his bones.

  She felt a rush of tenderness as she thought of him. Her parents didn’t know about her dealings with Jack Darcy. They would have been shocked to find out she’d been consorting with a criminal like him and horrified if they knew she’d put Darcy up to committing an attack on Lord Dunmain. But she’d have to tell them what had happened to James because she couldn’t bring him back herself. She didn’t intend to sit on her knowledge – the information she’d extracted from the ledger in the Tholsel was only the beginning, and she wouldn’t rest until she’d put it to some use.

  Her father was still talking. Her mother was listening in a kind of dreamy, abstracted way. She didn’t talk about James much any more, but Sylvia knew she missed him.

  ‘I know where he is,’ Sylvia said suddenly.

  Her father stopped his story. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘I know where James is.’

  There was a startled pause. Nancy’s look of dreamy abstraction had vanished and she looked hard at Sylvia. ‘Where is he?’

  That was a good start, Sylvia thought, not how do you know but where is he?

  ‘He is on a ship on his way to the New World. Given into servitude by his uncle.’

  Her father’s eyes narrowed. ‘You didn’t find that out by reading a newspaper. Who told you?’

  Sylvia shrugged. ‘I found someone who knew.’ She pressed ahead. ‘We can’t leave him. We have to go there. We have to bring him back.’

  She didn’t mean it to come out so nakedly. Her parents looked at each other.

  ‘Sylvia,’ John Purcell said, ‘you know how much we care for James, ever since that day I carried him back from Smithfield. But if what you say is true, I don’t think we can save him.’

  Sylvia’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘How can you say that?’ she said. ‘We can’t abandon him now that he needs us most. We have to do something.’

  ‘But what?’ her father said. ‘We’re simple people, Sylvia. What can we do? We can’t just jump on a boat and rescue the lad. It’s not that easy. It’s the most dangerous crossing in the world. We’d be lucky to get to the other side alive.’

  ‘It may not be easy, Father, but we still have to do it. He’s one of us now,’ Sylvia said.

  She meant much more than that, but she couldn’t say it out. She looked at her mother for support. Her mother’s face was creased with worry.

  ‘I don’t know, love,’ she said. ‘It’s such a long way. To lose James is terrible. But I couldn’t bear to lose you and John as well. I couldn’t bear it.’

  Sylvia reached across and took her mother’s hand.

  ‘You won’t lose us,’ she said. ‘Many people make that journey and live to tell the tale. Isn’t that right, Father?’

  John Purcell was no more convinced than his wife, but he tried to look as if they talking about an undertaking no more perilous than a trip across a river ferry.

  ‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘After all, there’d be no New World if people couldn’t get there.’

  But Nancy wasn’t to be fobbed off. ‘I know you want my blessing, child, but no matter how much I love James, I can’t bring myself to give it.’ And she left the room without another word.

  They sat in silence a while. But Sylvia couldn’t keep quiet for long.

  ‘We have to try, don’t we? We have to at least try?’

  There was such force in her voice that John Purcell gripped the edge of the table.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I knew you’d help. For the moment all we can do is wait until the captain of the ship returns to Dublin. Then we can find out what happened to James.’

  ‘Don’t tell me any more,’ her father said, ‘I can guess the rest. It will take some doing to get your mother used to the idea. And we’re going to need money, lots of it. Did you happen to think about that?’

  Sylvia was relieved that his objections had crumbled and they had progressed to practical matters.

  ‘I have some ideas about that,’ she said. ‘There are many here who know James, who might be persuaded to
give a little for his release. Maybe the school might help.’

  She had other ideas too, but these she kept to herself.

  ‘You really want him back, don’t you?’ her father said.

  There was no hesitation in Sylvia’s voice. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’

  She didn’t waste any time putting her plan of action into effect. She let it be known throughout the neighbourhood that a fund was being created to rescue James.

  ‘Is it Lord Bluecoat you mean?’ she was asked more than once, and she discovered that the name was widespread in the area. As she travelled further, she found that James’s nickname and his story had spread there too. When she crossed the river to tell Harry her plans, she was surprised that Lord Bluecoat’s fame was even well known in the southern districts.

  ‘Many knew about him before,’ Harry said, ‘but the name Lord Bluecoat seems to have stuck. It’s a good thing, too – it keeps his name alive. The more famous his story, the less his uncle will like it.’

  Harry looked directly at Sylvia. ‘There’s one other thing,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Harry shifted on his feet. ‘I know I don’t have any means,’ he said. ‘And a shoeblack isn’t worth much in the world, but I want to help …’

  ‘Of course, Harry, that’s very kind. And all help is very welcome.’

  ‘No,’ Harry said, ‘I mean I want to come with you. I want to help you find him.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not the tallest,’ he added, ‘but I’m handy with my fists. You never know when that might come in handy.’

  Sylvia was taken by surprise, but of course it made sense. And it would be good to have Harry along.

  ‘You’ll need sea legs as well as fists,’ she smiled, and Harry saluted.

  ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’

  Contributions to the fund flowed in through the weeks that followed. Even the habitués of Red Molly’s were persuaded to part with some of the fruits of their trade and, though she knew it was wrong, Sylvia accepted the money for the greater good that might come out of it. And Darcy even funded Harry’s passage. ‘You can thank a drunk old lord for his generosity,’ he grinned, and Sylvia thought it prudent not to inquire further.