by Peter Sirr
She looked away. ‘You must go, but you must be careful. He’ll kill you if he catches you again.’
The two were silent awhile before Amelia spoke again, her voice full of ache and loneliness, ‘God speed you, James. I’ll say goodbye now because there will be no time later. And you mustn’t give anyone the impression you intend to go. No one, you understand?’
James nodded. He understood too well. ‘I only wish you were coming with me, Amelia.’
Amelia shook her head sadly. ‘It will be hard enough for you to get away. If I were to go with you, they would stop at nothing to hunt us both down.’ She gripped his hand. ‘Just remember me,’ she said. ‘Remembering would be enough.’
* * *
This time James packed nothing, not even as much as a hunk of bread. He didn’t care about food or clothes; his only thought was to follow the instructions in McAllister’s letter. His old friend must have got hold of a map, for his directions gave evidence of a good knowledge of the layout of the farm. The spot McAllister had chosen for their rendezvous was the same place James had made his first escape from, in the wood at the northern extent of Mckenzie’s land. Feeling that it might be cursed with bad luck, James wished McAllister had selected somewhere else, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
He did everything just as he did every night, checking on the horses in the stable, bringing in a stack of logs from the pile in the yard, eating his usual meal with Amelia, Connolly and the others. He made the same small talk and shuffled off to his usual hard bed, but he did not fall asleep. He listened intently to the sounds of the hut and the others sleeping, and at about fifteen minutes to midnight he lifted his blanket, raised himself carefully from his pallet and pulled on his clothes. He carried his boots outside and pulled them on in the grass, keeping his eyes peeled in case his absence had been registered. There was no sound, and no sign that anyone had heard. He crept away from the hut and the house and made his way slowly through the undergrowth to the edge of the woods where he had been working earlier that day. It was as if he was re-enacting the night when he had first escaped from the farm, and he tried to put all the crowding thoughts of the misadventures that had followed that flight out of his mind. It wasn’t easy, and his eyes darted nervously from tree to tree, half-expecting someone to leap out and attack him. He was much more afraid than he had been the first time, not least because he knew exactly what he could expect if he was caught.
Someone did step from behind a tree so close to him he had no time to turn and bolt. He cursed his stupidity, but the hand that reached out didn’t strike a blow; it simply rested on his shoulder, and a soft voice whispered his name.
‘It’s alright, James. It’s me, McAllister, you got the message then.’
‘Is it really you, Mr McAllister?’ James fell into his old way of addressing him, as if they were still in Trinity College.
‘No need to “mister” me any more, James.’
McAllister looked closely at the boy. ‘I’d hardly recognise you, James. You look worn out.’
James shrugged. ‘I can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave.’
McAllister started suddenly. ‘Did you tell anyone you were coming here?’ he whispered urgently.
‘Not a soul,’ James said. ‘Why?’
‘There’s a light over there; it looks like a lantern.’
McAllister pointed back in the direction James had come from. James saw it too, a swaying light like a lantern held on a horse. He remembered very clearly the last time he saw a light like that. He had been so careful. Who could possibly have seen him?
‘Quickly,’ McAllister said. ‘The sooner we get out of here the better.’
He untied his horse and mounted, and then reached his hand down to James. ‘Hold tight,’ McAllister said as they galloped through the trees.
Soon they’d leaped across the boundary of Mackenzie’s land and were moving swiftly up the slope of the adjoining meadow to the thick woods on the crest. James chanced a quick look around and saw to his horror that the light was now near enough for him to make out the clear outline of a horse and rider.
‘He’s close behind,’ he shouted in McAllister’s ears.
‘Damnation!’ McAllister swore, and urged his horse on.
They reached the shelter of the trees and pressed on. McAllister had committed the map to memory, but a forest at night isn’t friendly to maps or map readers. He rode blindly, his one objective now to put as much darkness between him and the following horseman as he could. But the rider with his lantern seemed surer of his territory, and the sound of the hooves was clearer with every passing second. Then came the loud, unmistakable voice. ‘Stop there! Stop or I’ll fire!’
‘Mackenzie!’ James shouted. ‘How in God’s name is he here?’
So he didn’t believe my story after all, McAllister thought. He must have guessed I would try something. Unless someone told him. Unless Amelia, but no, he couldn’t imagine Amelia would have given them away. He didn’t have time to think about that now. He wheeled his horse around to the right and plunged into the thick of the forest, but it was as if that was exactly what Mackenzie expected him to do, for his own horse wheeled round too, and, in a second, McAllister fell from his horse as James heard the deafening report of Mackenzie’s pistol. Before James had time to steady his horse, Mackenzie was upon him, his second pistol levelled right between his eyes. James could hardly believe what was happening. It didn’t seem possible that his escape could be over before it had even begun. He glanced down to where McAllister lay groaning on the ground. He was still alive then.
‘You must think me an utter fool,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Do you think I’m that easily taken in? It was clear as day from the minute your fancy friend showed up that something was afoot. Well, the law can take care of him, but by God I’ll take care of you.’
James fell from the horse as if the sheer force of Mackenzie’s words had struck him, but his fall was calculated, and he landed on his feet and ran like a demon into the darkness. Mackenzie followed hard, and no matter how fast or what way James ran, the horseman was right behind him, pounding through the undergrowth. If only some great hole would appear to swallow me up, James thought, his breath coming in gasps, his body weakened by fright and exhaustion. He was no match for Mackenzie, who leapt from his horse and pinned him against a tree.
‘Our appointment won’t wait,’ he snarled at James and struck him on the head with the butt of his pistol.
When James came to, he was tied to the tree and Mackenzie was standing in front of him, his coat thrown on the ground and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up for action. James closed his eyes and tried to force his mind to picture any scene other than the one he was confronted with. He fell back into Phoenix Street and found himself walking slowly with Sylvia on a bright, clear day. He could hear the gulls screech above the streets and the heavy smell of the river filled his nostrils. Sylvia’s voice came to him as if she was standing right in front of him. The first blow crashed into his cheek and loosened a few teeth. James felt the blood seep into his throat.
‘If you hit him again, I’ll kill you’ came the voice, and as James slowly opened an eye he thought he must have died already. There, astride a horse neither of them had heard approach, was a figure in a cloak brandishing a pistol. But that voice …
Mackenzie spun around and, as he took in the figure, he drew his sword and rushed. The horse shied and the figure fell to the ground. The pistol ended up inches from Mackenzie’s boots. He laughed and bent to retrieve it. He aimed at the cloaked figure and cocked the pistol. But a second figure now stepped from behind a tree, a figure James recognised with a shock. Could it be? The slim figure held a pistol and, for the second time that night, James was deafened by a shot. Mackenzie fell in a heap on the ground and was utterly still. The hooded figure who had been hurled to the ground now clambered up. She undid her hood and James gasped. Now he knew for sure that he had entered the land of the dead.
The
girl spoke to him in Sylvia’s voice. ‘James, are you alright? It’s me, Sylvia?’
She cut the rope with a knife and released him. He looked around. It seemed to be the same dark world he had left behind him. But what was Sylvia doing in it, surely she wasn’t …? His straying thoughts were quickly gathered by the pressure of her arms around him.
‘James,’ she kept saying. ‘My own James, is it really you?’
‘I should be saying that,’ James said. He still didn’t trust his senses. ‘Is it really you? And how do you come to be here?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Sylvia said, ‘but we don’t have time for it here.’
The figure with the pistol now spoke. ‘Need your shoes shined, old friend? They look a bit mucky to me.’
James gasped. ‘Harry? Is it you?’
‘It’s me alright. Couldn’t leave you to your own devices.’
James could hardly believe it. He still wasn’t sure he was not dreaming, but as he stepped forward he almost tripped over the unmoving form of Mackenzie. When he looked up, Harry and Sylvia were still there – it must be real, then.
‘Do you think he’s dead?’ he said.
He pulled Mckenzie’s head to one side and saw the wound in the middle of his forehead.
‘I don’t think we have anything more to fear from him,’ Sylvia said.
‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ a voice announced in the darkness.
Sylvia wheeled round. ‘Jeremy!’
McAllister came limping towards them. He was clutching his arm where the ball had hit him. James and Sylvia both ran over and embraced him.
‘You’re hurt,’ James said.
‘It went straight through,’ he said, ‘but I hit my head when I fell and just came to.’
Sylvia examined his arm. She made him take off his coat and rip a sleeve from his shirt, and with that she fashioned a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding. His head didn’t seem to be cut.
‘What did you mean, about Mackenzie?’ James said.
‘Dead men talk,’ McAllister said. ‘They can tell who killed them and where they might be. We need to conceal his body.’
They set about digging in the hard ground with their hands, but the work was slow.
‘There’s no time for this,’ James said. ‘What if he should be missed, and someone comes after him?’
‘I can’t think who would miss him,’ McAllister said, ‘but you’re right, we need to go.’
They dragged Mackenzie’s body into the shallow dent they’d made and heaped leaves and brush on top. It wasn’t much of a concealment, but it would have to do.
Harry helped Sylvia onto the horse she’d fallen from.
‘I’ll try and keep her on it this time,’ he grinned. ‘You go with Mr McAllister here,’ he said to James.
‘We can’t all go back to the inn,’ McAllister said. ‘It would arouse too much suspicion. When we reach the outskirts of the town, you can go back to your father and James will ride with me back to Philadelphia.’
‘But that will take days. Are you sure you’re alright?’ Sylvia said.
‘We’ll take the most circuitous route we can,’ McAllister said, ‘in case anyone should think to follow. But we’ll be alright. When you return to the city, go to the inn you first stayed in, and we will look for you there.’
They rode through the night without further adventure and separated when the town came into view. James hugged Sylvia so tightly she could hardly breathe. Then he shook Harry’s hands and held his shoulders as if he still couldn’t quite believe he was a real creature.
‘I wanted to make sure you’re really here.’
‘Don’t worry, James,’ she said. ‘We’re here, all of us, flesh and blood. But you’re not all here.’ She looked at him with concern. ‘You look like you’ve left a good half of yourself on that farm. You look like a ghost, James Lovett.’
‘Well,’ James said, ‘I’ll try not to haunt you too much. But you’re a sight for ghostly eyes, Sylvia.’
Sylvia laughed. ‘So the haunting begins. I hope there’s plenty more where that came from.’
Thirty-Three
Reunion
Richard Lovett was pacing his drawing room. His informer stood near the door, intimidated by the gusts of anger his news had raised.
‘Back, you say? How can that be?’
‘I don’t know, my lord. I only know that he came ashore from the Princess with the butcher and his daughter and some ragamuffin. He looks a bit different from the scrappy boy he was. Taller, stronger, something more …’ He searched for the right word, which was slow in coming. ‘More definite about him, if you see what I mean.’
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ Richard Lovett responded. He had no interest in what the boy looked like. It was beyond comprehension that he should have returned; it was scarcely to be believed that he was still alive. A perilous journey on a disease-ridden ship followed by punitive labour in desolate, sun-baked fields should, one or other of them, have done for the boy. It should have been as good as a knife through his heart. Yet here he was in the streets of Dublin with his damnable butcher. It was a devilish provocation. He threw a coin at the skinny, hard-faced little man who brought him the news and called for his thug.
‘We should have settled this business long ago,’ he shouted at Grady once he had arrived and heard his master’s news.
The thug nodded his long head in agreement. ‘It’s not too late,’ he offered.
Lovett bristled. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near him,’ he said.
Grady struggled to hide his disappointment.
‘Find me a good pistol man,’ Lovett said. ‘I’ll put an end to this once and for all.’
* * *
Some things you never forget. The sight of the city in the distance as the ship approached the twin arms of the bay. A new life seemed to call out to James and, even though his memories of this place were dark enough, the bells pealing in the distance made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Sylvia held his hand as if she read his thoughts.
‘It will be different now, James, you’ll see.’
And those early days had been all he could have wanted. Phoenix Street was a miraculous place, and a flood of well-wishers filled the house from morning till night. Nancy was beside herself with happiness to see everyone back under her roof again. She’d grown thin from worry.
‘Where’s the rest of you?’ John had asked as he hugged her.
‘Out hunting for her lost family,’ Nancy said. ‘But who knows, maybe she’ll come back now that I can put my feet up and be waited on by all my prodigals.’
It was only when she saw her mother that Sylvia realised what a perilous journey it was that they had undertaken. In her mother’s eyes, and in the eyes of everyone who greeted her, she read the pure surprise that she was alive, that the three of them had made it back. Most people had given them up, she realised. And James found out that he had become something of a legend in his absence. People constantly stopped him in the street.
‘Is it Lord Bluecoat himself, returned from the dead?’
‘You’re not the Lord Bluecoat that was kidnapped by his uncle and sold for a slave?’
‘Will ye look who it is! The blessin’s of God on yer honour.’
There didn’t seem to be anyone in the city who hadn’t heard of him and what the man who called himself Lord Dunmain had done to him. Of his uncle he heard little enough, except that he still paraded in public, usually accompanied by his thugs, and was fond of strolling in Stephen’s Green on Sunday morning. James filed away that piece of information. When the ship had approached the landing place James’s first instinct had been to rush ashore and take a carriage to his uncle’s house and confront him immediately. But the instinct was soon governed by the understanding that that would be the very worst course of action and would play right into his uncle’s hands. He was not, after all, the same raw boy who had been bundled out of the city like a rag doll. He knew a little of how t
he world worked, and how men like his uncle worked. No, he would wait a little before confronting him, and he would enlist the protection of the law, even if he was by no means confident the law could be trusted to do right by him.
Several days later, he walked down Capel Street and crossed the river. Exactly as before, ships crowded the water near the Custom House dock, and the bridge was loud with the clatter of horses and carriages. The beggars, the hawkers, the men and women about their business, the ragged children – it was all just as he had remembered it; nothing had changed. The city, like the river, went on as it always did; it didn’t notice if you stepped out of it and it didn’t register your return.
He stepped into Essex Street. For a moment, his heart sank when he saw the blank space where Harry plied his trade. Harry had wasted no time in returning to his work. Once the ship had docked, he was off before James could speak to him.
‘You know where to find me,’ he’d said, and hurried away with his small bag.
In spite of the crowds, the street had a strange emptiness to it. Then a familiar figure emerged from under the arch and took up a position by the wall. James watched him for a few moments. It was strange to watch him here again, almost as if nothing had happened and he had been here all the time. A gent came up and Harry set to work with spudd and wig. The wig at least looked unchanged, still the same filthy skein of ancient hair, but it did the work as proficiently as ever. When Harry had finished, James went to him and touched him on his shoulder.
‘Need a shine?’ Harry said.
‘No more shining, Harry,’ James said. ‘We’re friends now, equals. I should shine your shoes.’
‘The world’s not like that,’ Harry said. ‘And you shouldn’t try to make it so.’
‘Just you try and stop me,’ James said.