But she was not swayed. “Didn’t your lordship just say the laws of an Englishman don’t always apply to an Irishman? Or Irish woman?”
“Infernal woman, Ireland is a dependent state by right of conquest! Just say the words! You are not yet even on trial! This is a very simple procedure!”
Edward shook his head.
She’s either decided she can’t win, so she’s having her revenge, or she’s being bold because she’s innocent, or wants it to look that way, he thought.
He was still unsure if her previous boldness had been authentic or pretense. He suddenly felt strangely compelled to defend her, perhaps by the natural result of his mistrust of all courts of law.
“Molly,” he said firmly, “this is just a formality. Say the words, please, and we can go.”
She shrugged. “I will be tried by God and country,” she said loudly and, apparently, sincerely, all questioning truculence absent from her tone.
“Good, Mistress O’Meary. We thank you,” the judge said, too weary to thunder anymore.
“God send thee a good deliverance,” the clerk said.
“God send us all a good deliverance,” the judge said, to a few laughs from the audience. “Mistress O’Meary, you will post a bond and enter into recognizances to appear at the Court of the King’s Bench in Dublin. As you seem intent on understanding the law instead of leaving your defense to the judges before you and to your own truthful words, I suggest you avail yourself of another lawyer before trial, for Captain MacNaughton is not truly even a Scots lawyer, much less one of ours, although I suppose he might advise you well in spite of his official deficiencies. I do know of a good man here in Kinsale, Cormac his name is; he just had a bastard daughter by his maid, or so I hear, name of Anne, not that this matters in any way. Don’t note that in the record, mind you, clerk. Or any lawyer in Cork or Kinsale will do, if you must indeed have counsel. I warn you, though, most won’t understand the law as it relates to criminals and treason as well as your judges will. It is the jury who will decide the facts of the case, and a judge who will see that law and justice are done.” The judge looked up from Molly and cast his eyes across the room. “Sir William!”
“My lord?”
“I’ll see you tonight?” the magistrate asked as if there were nothing indecent about the obvious conflict of interest.
“Of course. My servants have already dropped my baggage off at your house.”
“Excellent. How many guests did you say? Twenty? A nice round number indeed. I’ll quickly dispense with these next issues and we can open a bottle or two before your guests arrive.”
Sir William, Edward, Molly, and the remainder of Sir William’s entourage headed out the door as the magistrate took up his next case. On the courthouse steps Edward excused himself, slipped his arm through Parson Waters’, and drew him down the street in opposite direction to the rest of the party.
“Walk with me, my faithful friend, if you please,” he said pleasantly.
“Sir, I must see Sir William!” the parson replied, his voice filled with the indignation of the coward made bold by badge of office or patronage.
“Sir William won’t miss you, nor would he help you in any case. He’s none too fond of you, you know.”
“What do you want, sir? I am not a man to be accosted in this way!” the parson replied, his face red.
“You know I’m not a Jacobite,” Edward said, less pleasantly.
“I don’t know that for certain, sir.”
“Well, you may take my word for it. But I’ve been accused of it before, and struck the accusation down with a sword,” Edward said, as if simply reciting a common truth. Parson Waters stiffened and tried to pull away. “Relax, parson: your faith is too small to give you the strength to escape my grip.”
“You’re threatening me, sir!” the parson hissed, showing incipient signs of angry panic common to the entitled when confronted by their own impotence.
“Not yet. But someone’s been pretending Mistress O’Meary has been playing up to Jacobites, including her betrothed; thus this sudden arraignment, which does seem to be little more than an attempted land grab. Someone close to her. Someone too conveniently present, too watchful, too interested in others’ affairs. You, in fact.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now release me!”
“Sir William is often in ill health, you know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And his shit of a papist-hating brother will inherit when he dies. I think you’ve been talking out of turn to that ungrateful wretch, telling lies about Molly in order to make sure you’ll keep your position when the brother inherits. Certainly Sir William is no friend of yours, no matter that he’s given you employment. From experience I know you to be afflicted with a cowardly nature quite incurable even by your pretended faith. Therefore, by simple deduction it’s obvious that you’re acting under the protection of his brother. You may have the intelligence to perceive a base opportunity, but you lack the courage to undertake it except under someone’s aegis. You spy on Sir William and his household for his brother, you get to feed your papist-and woman-hating hungers, and in the end, when Sir William dies, you get your reward. Or so you hope.”
“All lies!”
“No matter, I simply want you to know how I’ll reward you if we ever sail together again. I’ll make sure the crew knows exactly what you think of them—and that they’ll be better off letting you play Jonah with the fishes. It might even change you for the better. It did Jonah, or so the Holy Bible says. I have read some of it, at least the nautical parts and the Song of Solomon.” He paused for the length of several seconds. “And I also want you to know that if you give any testimony against Mistress O’Meary, or cause any to be given against her ….” He let his voice trail off.
“You’ll murder me?” the man whispered hoarsely, panic setting in. “I’ll have you arrested for these threats, sir!”
“Calm yourself, parson. You must collect yourself.”
“Damn you, I’ll see you arrested!”
Edward leaned in to whisper in the parson’s ear. To any observers the Scotsman seemed a man suddenly taken with religion. “I’ll kill you? No, I’ll be putting this Irish mess behind me soon, I won’t have the opportunity. But Sir William will. You may trust me, Parson Waters, when I say that only the bold may test their standing with Fortune.”
Chapter 16
...by which Means we were in hopes to have outsailed
the Privateers, but one of them still came up with us...
—Capt. Nat’l. Uring, Voyages and Travels, 1726
The next morning, with the luck of fair wind and tide, the Virginia Galley finally sailed, alone, from Kinsale harbor, intending a quick passage to Bristol. She had already made a swift run from Jamaica, stopping at Kinsale, intending only to seek shelter from a French privateer. Unfortunately, the captain of an English man-of-war had sent a press gang to impress several of her crew. Several more had deserted to a lighter just before the warship’s boat boarded, but they were soon captured by the garrison at Charles Fort and turned over to the man-of-war, forcing the Virginia to seek more crew in Kinsale while she waited on wind and weather. She was still shorthanded, and had wasted two weeks in port, just shy of her destination.
Edward stood tired and ill at ease on deck as the ship made its way across an untroubled sea under a clear sky. The various letters and their import, not to mention troubling events of the past evening, held his attention, but hand-in-hand was his concern that a French privateer or privateers might still be cruising the area. Although he had no status aboard the ship, he felt it his place to be on the quarterdeck and ensure that a proper watch was set and that all appropriate steps would be taken in the event of a chase. And yet he knew he had little cause to be worried: the Virginia Galley, formerly a small French man-of-war and now an English runner or running ship, was swift and weatherly, perhaps as much as any ship he had known. As soon
as they had enough sea room they would be safe from most privateers.
“Coffee, sir?”
Edward took the stoneware mug from the cook and nodded his head.
“Thank you.”
“The captain said you looked like you needed it.”
“Please send him my compliments,” Edward replied with a smile, then turned and nodded at the grizzled commander near the helm.
Edward needed the stimulation, given his mere two or three hours of sleep in his tiny cabin—practically a kennel, one of a pair aft on the quarterdeck—after the events of the past day and night.
Sir William had arranged an important dinner at the magistrate’s house in support of Molly’s cause. The company had been eclectic and included a dozen local notables, including Jane Hardy, several army and navy officers.
While they waited on supper, they were entertained by a blind traveling minstrel whose skill with the great Irish harp was unsurpassed, and whose array of songs of his own composition ranged from the celebration of whiskey to the laments of body and soul. Turlough O’Carolan was his name anglicized, Toirdhealbhach Ó Cearbhalláin in his native tongue. Poet and bard, he had been taught the harp from the time the smallpox had blinded him, a common practice in Ireland. One of the airs he played, of his own composition, was “Once Upon a Sweetheart.” Edward recalled hearing fiddlers play it the day of the duel with Ingoldsby.
How ironic, he thought: If Ingoldsby’s sweetheart had married him in London, he’d still be alive. On the other hand, if he hadn’t been such a pompous ass, he’d still be alive. Better to blame him than a woman, even one in the service of Fortune.
The guests were soon called to eat. They filed past the fireplace, its intemperate glow lending them sinister countenances as it illuminated their faces from below. Yet when they sat down, the gentle flames from the candelabra and sconces made them look warm and friendly.
The conversation ranged from war to sea stories, from business to politics, and all in-between. Edward found himself called upon often to describe his adventures, something he seldom felt comfortable doing unless he’d had a few glasses of wine, and tonight he was trying to maintain his sobriety among the merry band of drinkers and soon-to-be drunks.
The gathering had moments, some curiously unforgettable. Mrs. Hardy flirted outrageously with Edward off and on, at least in the eyes of the wives present, who were probably more the object of Mrs. Hardy’s intentions and devices than was he. Molly stood silently by, tense yet newly alluring, with a curiously subtle hint of instability, the wine perhaps. And perhaps jealousy, too.
Edward’s surgeon, Dr. Cross, drunk enough to be garrulous, but not so drunk that he could not walk a straight line, gave Edward advice.
“Be bled, sir, be bled! At least once more to manage your occasional pain. I have my lancets with me, sir, I can bleed you now.”
“Thank you, doctor, but I’ve spilled enough of my own blood already, I won’t waste what’s left.”
“As you please, sir—but remember, I wouldn’t tell you how to sail a ship, and you shouldn’t tell me how to practice surgery!”
“Don’t worry, doctor, it’s likely someone will soon enough take your advice and try to bleed me,” Edward replied wryly.
The doctor raised his glass in salute. “In that case, make sure you bleed him too, and well!”
The army and navy officers, as expected, spoke of war, warfare, and women, and waited for an appropriate moment to take leave and visit their mistresses—after, of course, the pickings of politicking or provender were consummated or consumed. A visiting businessman wondered aloud whether the Hollow Sword Blade Company, in which he was a significant investor, might not make more money buying confiscated Irish properties and selling them off in smaller portions. The only thing that stood in the way of his grand idea, or so he proclaimed, was that the Crown had not yet granted permission for their purchase.
The large meal, normally eaten earlier, but had been postponed for this gathering. Each dish served was delicious, if simple in preparation, and rich in fat: shoulder and rack of mutton, a haunch of venison (the best course by far), Neat’s tongue, marrow bones, veal hash, fricasseed chicken and rabbit. Wine was abundant: claret, Malaga, Canary sack, sherry sack. Attendants and servants not busy serving dined in the kitchen on roast veal and mutton, washing the meat down with beer and common wine.
When the meal was finished—but never the drinking—everyone retired to play at cards.
“Edward! Come join us! What say you, hombre or whisk?” called Lieutenant Fielding. His mistresses could wait: games of chance were afoot.
“Piquet, sir,” Jane informed the officer. “I prefer to take everyone’s money one at a time. Someone bring pen, paper, and ink.”
“Twelve penny, then?”
“Six penny, sir: this is Kinsale, not London.”
“Six, then. Edward?”
“Start without me, I’ll join you in a moment.”
“Hurry! There soon won’t be anyone left standing!”
Eventually Edward obliged, and so it went, port and piquet first, followed later by wine, whisk, and whiskey. He grew weary of the games long before everyone else and intended to take French leave. He must be early aboard the Virginia Galley, his adventure in the offing. Edward glanced around to see who might seize on his escape, and noticed Molly missing from the company. No one could tell him when she had departed. Sir William and the magistrate were now each asleep, or passed out, in tall carved leather-backed chairs by the fire, and Edward did not want to ask too many questions of the guests still awake, if not entirely sober, for fear of starting more rumors.
“Careful, there, lad.”
“What?” Edward asked, the silky, wine-soaked voice catching him off guard.
“Lay where you please, sir, but remember my warning: she’s no simple maid. Beware the allure of consorting with the enemy.”
“I’m not sure how many of my enemies I’ve consorted with so far here in Ireland,” he replied, wine making the accusation a bit too obvious.
“You’ll hurt my feelings if you keep that up, Edward.”
Still jealous? he wondered.
Jane Hardy recognized the look. “No, sir, not jealous, as I’ve told you before. But do be careful of her and hers—she might want to marry you now, or worse. It’s her last opportunity and her tail’s in the air. I hear her betrothed has gone; some say he’s really Captain O’Hanlen, and he fled after the hue and cry. Whether rumor or truth, Sir William’s sot of a parson is spreading it around.”
“So I’ve heard. As a matter of fact, I discussed this with the good reverend.”
“Was he amenable?”
“I think so.”
“Whose part did you take: Mistress O’Meary’s or Sir William’s?”
“Whose do you think? By the way, I’ve also heard that there’s a spy in Kinsale.”
“Spies, I’d say.”
“In this room, perhaps.”
“Foolish man, I’m a gossip, not a spy. One day we’ll have to revise your philosophy in earnest—you can’t keep aloof from women and Fortune, at least not if you want to weather their outrageous whims. Ireland just taught you that.”
“And in a few hours Ireland will be behind me.”
“Alas, sir, alas!”
She slid her hand around his neck, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him in front of three wives, all still sober enough to note what they saw and gossip about it later.
“Off with you then, lad, to bed and to sea, with a good ship and an easy gale! And don’t forget to write!” she said, then whispered, “Unless you wish to slip away with me one last time!”
“I’ll consider it, my darling Jane—but don’t wait up.”
A hint of annoyance, even of anger flashed briefly across her face. Then, lustful again, she whispered close into his ear: “You know where my room is when you change your mind. I’m sure the innkeeper is already sound asleep; he’ll never know you came to me.”
&
nbsp; And with these words Mrs. Hardy, her skirt and petticoats swirling as if suddenly animated, slipped away, smiling at each of the three wives, one-by-one, as she did.
In this brief confusion of startled semi-sobriety and common drunkenness, Edward also slipped away in the opposite direction.
Once outside, he kept alert, watchful for an ambuscade of assassins. More than once had Jane been astutely prescient in her warnings: did she know something now too? The thought of her indirect and implied warnings gnawed at the edges of the still-lingering kiss, as did the new idea that she might be, in fact, an enemy. After all, she knew more of his comings and goings and business than anyone, with the exception of Sir William.
And her prescience? It was a sign that she had good intelligence. She knew of his duel in Bristol, even that it was occasioned by an accusation of being a Jacobite, and that by a man who was strongly rumored to be a Jacobite himself. And she knew of Lydia Upcott, whose father had been a Jacobite—the same Lydia Upcott who may have sent a spadassin to wound or kill him in a duel. Edward was half-tempted to return and carry the merry widow off to his room and have her, or she him, until the first light of dawn, in this way discovering whether she were indeed the spy, and if not, at least pleasurably allaying or distracting his sense of watchers, spies, and assassinators.
But he was only half-tempted. The lure of danger ahead kept him away. At his waist was his Spanish-hilted smallsword, and in each coat pocket was a loaded and primed turnoff pistol. His left hand rested on his sword hilt, and his right on one of his pistols. If the letters he had recovered on the road indeed suggested an assassination, wouldn’t Tory and Jacobite plotters try to have them back at any cost before he left Ireland? And wouldn’t this be their last occasion to obtain them? It didn’t matter if he no longer had the letters on him; they would have to make one last attempt just in case.
But he arrived safely at his door, accosted by none save for a dog, who came up silently and jumped at him, a friendly begging. Edward had sensed the dog as it came, so the startle died at birth and he kept within his skin. He patted the dog, who then followed him to his lodging, never giving sign of man or beast lying in wait, save only a cat at whom the dog only growled and who in return only hunched down, hissed, and made a petty roar, but never retreated a step. Each then ignored the other, the dog perhaps sensing that there was greater reward in following Edward than in chasing a cat who might fight instead of run. At the boarding house, a gray-haired old man opened the door, still awake in spite of Mrs. Hardy’s assurances.
Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1) Page 19