Within a year, Lady Anglesea became pregnant. About that time, Margaret’s and Juggy’s bellies also began swelling. Juggy heard the women whispering about her unmarried condition. The men leered, calling her Juggy, claiming to have “shagged the Scottish wench.” She ignored them. Having endured such banalities for most of her years, these were no different. And so that winter Mary was carrying Jemmy, Margaret was pregnant with Seán, and Juggy was to have an illegitimate baby boy, whom she would name Daniel, in honor of her brother.
Though Juggy rarely saw her brother, Daniel Mackercher, she loved him intensely. They had been separated when she was ten, seven years after their parents and six other siblings died in a wave of typhus that had rushed through the Scottish Highlands. She had only seen him twice since, once in Dublin, once in New Ross, and both visits had been wonderful. After serving in the Scottish military, Daniel trained as a barrister and had recently offered his sister employment in Edinburgh—an offer she might have accepted had he asked during her dark years at Dunmain. But now she was pledged to Fynn. She belonged in Ireland, with him. Wherever life would take them. All the same, nothing thrilled her more than a letter from Daniel. Each time, no matter what she was doing, she would find Fynn, sit in a quiet place with her eyes closed, listening to Daniel’s soothing, transporting words.
When Juggy gave birth to the baby, Daniel, few around Dunmain House took notice, except when nursing kept Juggy from her household duties. The attention remained on the upcoming birth of the Anglesea heir. And thus it was with little mourning that Juggy’s three-week-old baby became ill and died. Juggy was destroyed. Only the Kennedys comforted her, cared for her. Then on April 25, 1715, blanketed by a celebrated eclipse, Mary gave birth to young Master James Annesley. At the grand celebration, Arthur stood imperiously and announced Juggy would wet nurse the young heir as fate had so blessed her with “bursting breasts from the recent loss of her child.” Within days a coach road was built from Dunmain House to Juggy’s little cottage, allowing Her Ladyship to comfortably travel the half-mile to visit her infant boy. Meanwhile a glass window was installed, the thatched roof repaired, and a magnificent carved bed brought for the child-heir. As Juggy’s smelly hay bed remained, along with her flimsy chair and table, she was directed to only nurse the child by the fire, near his bed.
One month later, Margaret died giving birth to Seán and Juggy’s life fell black. Years later she still shuddered at the memory of holding her dead baby, of Margaret dying so soon thereafter. But she also remembered the pure joy of nursing Jemmy. Jemmy had been her light, her salvation when she might have otherwise lost her mind, her soul swallowed in despair. He made her smile. Always. Just as she was now smiling, leaning on Fynn, watching Jemmy outside, bathed in new sunlight. She closed her eyes, remembering him, a baby in her arms, thirteen years ago, suckling her breasts, his tiny pink toes. God protect her dear boy.
*
Outside, Jemmy had just finished wrapping the dirk and was now entranced, watching a tinker push a lopsided cart up the cobbled street. The cart’s wheels thumped as they turned, clanging and jangling the tin pans and trinkets. Then, as if from a mirage, five men on horseback suddenly galloped up to Purcell’s. The front man tipped his red hat to Jemmy, who sat petrified, instantly recognizing the man’s choleric, thin face.
“Captain Bailyn!” shouted Fynn, stepping from the shop, advancing quickly between the horsemen and Jemmy. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” Jemmy noticed the man riding farthest back was the same man who had spurred his face at the funeral. As their eyes met, the man looked away. Jemmy slid the dirk behind the bench and stood.
“‘Tis him,” said Bailyn, pointing at Jemmy. “Shoot anyone who gets in my way.” One of the men raised his musket.
“Come now,” Fynn sneered, “what do ye think I’ll do, unarmed as I am?”
“Keep yar place, sir,” warned the man.
Juggy stepped outside, then Seán, with Kate Purcell and her two girls close behind. John Purcell burst past them, rolling up his sleeves as he did. “Get back inside,” he snapped. Reaching into Fynn’s wagon, he removed two large clubs, tossing one to Fynn.
“I’ve come t’get the bastard,” Bailyn announced, pointing at Jemmy. He drew a pistol from his saddle holster. “Ye should all get inside.” His saddle creaked as he leaned forward. “All except for lil’ James here.”
Fynn brandished his club, shouting, “I’ll brain the one of ye who touches the lad!”
“Oh my!” Bailyn laughed mockingly. “What are we t’do?”
Purcell stepped forward. “It’ll take more than a lead ball.”
“Aye, ye’re a big’un.” Bailyn cocked his pistol. “But we’ll find a coffin t’fit ye.”
“There won’t be any killing!” the horseman in the rear yelled. “Captain! We’ve no orders to do further.”
Jemmy looked at Higgins, the man speaking, the same man who had sliced his face in the churchyard. Captain Bailyn suddenly began a rumbling chuckle, then lifted his pistol and fired at the butcher’s shop sign, the ball splintering a hole through the wooden cow. He whipped his mount around, shouting with a flourish, “Good day t’all ye swine! I’ll be back for the boy. I assure ye.” He spurred his horse, cantering up Ship Street, three of the men riding close behind. Higgins tipped his hat, then slowly reined his horse around, walking it away. Jemmy sprinted furiously down the street, away from everyone.
Fynn shouted after him, “Seámus!” Jemmy kept running. “Seámus!” He watched Jemmy turn between two buildings and disappear. “Seámus!” Fynn followed him, stopping at the narrow passageway. Seán was close behind.
“Mind the rats,” Seán offered, moving to take the lead.
“Lad.” Fynn caught Seán’s shoulder. “Stay here. Will ye?”
Seán huffed. “Alright, Da. But go to yer right when ye come out back there.”
Fynn squeezed between the two walls. When he stepped out he was standing on the hillside behind the row of buildings that faced Ship Street. “M’God!” Two rats scurried over the rotting rubbish in front of him while a thick fog of flies buzzed about. Sewage odor burned his throat, setting his eyes to watering. He jerked his ascot over his mouth and nose. To his right he saw a worn trail along the top of the embankment. He followed it, crossing six waste ditches, then moved downhill through a clump of trees. There the trail disappeared, fading into the slick grass. He pulled his ascot down and stood in the shadows, his eyes searching the moat’s bank. Rising on the far side was Dublin Castle, its enormous stone walls besieged by vine and moss. “Seámus? Cá bhfuil tú, Seámus?” he shouted, hearing his words echo off the English castle. “Cá bhfuil tú?” he called again. Slight movement on the ground caught his eye—the shadow of a boy, a young man. Looking up into the interlacing limbs above him, he saw Jemmy perched on a plank. Jemmy glanced down, then looked away. “Tá athas orm tú a fheiceáil,” said Fynn, telling Jemmy he was glad to see him. Jemmy nodded, a blank expression on his face. “Sorry I found ye, are ye?” Fynn asked, stepping forward to see Jemmy’s face. He used a hand to shield the sunlight from his eyes.
“Nay,” muttered Jemmy, scratching his chin.
“Hiding, are ye?”
“Wish I could.”
“I reckon ye do,” Fynn offered, smiling. “May I join ye?” Jemmy gave a faint nod. “Well, let’s see.” Fynn grunted, wrapping his arms around the trunk, attempting to pull himself up. But he lost his grip and slid back to the ground. Glancing back at Jemmy, Fynn sighed, frustrated. Jemmy almost smiled. Fynn tried again, struggling a little higher before sliding down once more. “Damnation,” he grumbled with a huff.
“There’s steps ‘round the other side.”
Fynn walked around the elm and climbed up the wooden planks he found nailed there. As he came to the rickety platform, Jemmy scooted to make what room he could. There was barely enough space for them to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, feet dangling in the air. Fynn wrapped an arm around Jemmy’s back.
They sat quietly. Then, like a breeze on a humid day, the moment passed. Fynn sighed deeply, studying Jemmy, seeing the midday sun flittering across the boy’s light hair. It danced and shimmered there, shades of light then dark, shifting and swaying. Like a playful antic, the sun amusing itself with the innocent.
Jemmy was staring off, beyond the limbs above them, high over the castle, watching a peregrine falcon gliding effortlessly on its white-gray speckled wings. He studied it, observing its graceful, deadly actions. Suddenly, with speed-blurred ease, it dived for a small bird, flipped on impact, rolling mid-air, screeching as it missed its prey. “What am I t’do?” Jemmy asked.
“I don’t know. Ye deserve t’be the rightful—” Fynn stopped himself, then continued, “Ye are the rightful Earl of Anglesea. B’God, ye are, indeed.” He looked at the castle, lowered his gaze, then finally closed his eyes. “But we must prove it.”
“Prove it?” exploded Jemmy. “Why must we prove it? I’m my father’s only son! Shouldn’t that arse, my supposed uncle, shouldn’t he have to prove who he is instead? How can he say I’m a bastard? Juggy is not my mother!”
“Of course she’s not,” said Fynn, seeing Jemmy was close to tears. “But this matter won’t be resolved easily, I’m afraid. We must—”
“I should just go away, and not be—”
“I won’t have ye tuckin’ yer tail and—”
“‘Tis my choice.” Jemmy’s voice was surprisingly soft and far away.
Fynn took Jemmy’s chin, forcing the boy to face him. “Aye, son. ‘Tis yer choice.” Jemmy pulled his face away. Not till Jemmy glanced back did Fynn continue. “Think on it. If we let Richard remain unchallenged, let him wrap himself in yer father’s trimmings, let him take residence in Dunmain House, let him collect the Earl’s rents…he’ll be all the harder to remove. People will accept it if they see you accepting it, even if ye truly don’t.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make it right, Seámus. But ye shouldn’t run.”
“I can’t stay either,” Jemmy muttered. “To stay means to put the lot of ye at risk.”
“Ye can’t worry about that.” Fynn closed his eyes, as if in defeat. Losing because he had no alternative, no hope, no promise to offer.
“What will Richard do t’me? Will his Captain kill me?”
“Nay! He’d have to kill me first. He would indeed.”
“Or indenture me. To the Colonies?”
“He may try, but….”
Jemmy sat still, a slight breeze washing over them. “I can’t stay in Dublin.”
“Give us some time. To hire a solicitor. Stay hidden till we find a solicitor to take yer cause to the King’s Bench. But we can’t if ye’re gone, Seámus. James Annesley himself must bring the charges, must make the accusation. In his very person.” Fynn glanced quickly at Jemmy, hoping to see agreement, relief, something in those blue-green eyes. He hoped to see the boy believing the impossible—that a common Catholic like Fynn could afford an English solicitor.
But Jemmy was vacant, resigned. “Why do ye call me Seámus?”
Fynn hesitated before speaking. “Because deep inside ye’re Irish. I see it in ye.”
“But I’m English.”
“Never in my eyes, lad.”
Looking over the fetid valley and moat, Jemmy saw the rough ancient stones of the castle wall standing beyond. They had been there for over six centuries, protecting the Irish from countless attacks. But now they just held back the refuse of the people, protecting the English nobles inside from all others, from all else. What good were those stones? Who would want to wade through Irish sewage to capture an English castle that held nothing? Another fleeting wind whipped through the canopy of leaves, carrying the smell of rain with it.
“Best be going back, Seámus,” Fynn prodded, his voice almost a whisper.
“Aye,” muttered Jemmy, looking away, seeing the falcon had returned. Or perhaps it was different one. It climbed, dove, snatched its prey mid-air, then soared once again straight into the azure sky. He watched intently, pleased to be so momentarily distracted from his dread.
Chapter 6
Dennis Redmonds, examined — “The child was christened James when it was about three weeks old, by Lord Anglesea’s chaplain, Mr. Lloyd. The nurse who nursed the child was Joan Landy. Yes, I am familiar that she was on occasion known as Juggy. I was told that she was preferred because she had the best milk. There was a bonfire made and other rejoicing for the birth of the child. There was great drinking and carousing, and some of them were found drunk in the ditches next morning. The child was nursed about a quarter of a mile from Dunmain House, in Joan Landy’s house, which was upon my lord’s land. Lord Anglesea and his lady often went there to see the child and to bring him to Dunmain, and Lady Anglesea had a coach road made on purpose to go and see the child. The child, which was dressed like a nobleman’s child, remained with the nurse about a year, and was then removed to Dunmain where Joan Landy continued to have charge of him, as dry nurse I believe, as if he were her own.”
— trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743
My grief and my affliction
Your gates are taken away,
Your avenue needs attention,
Goats in the garden stray.
The courtyard’s filled with water
And the great Earls, where are they?
The Earls, the lady, the people
Beaten into the clay.
– from Kilcash, Irish Gaelic, Anonymous, 1700
By late afternoon, pelting rain had doused them, thrashing Dublin into the evening. But as the black of night settled in, the clouds passed and the moon and stars peered out, dropping their light on the quiet, wet city. Above the butcher’s shop, the Purcells urged their girls to sleep, then excused themselves to another room, while Fynn and Juggy whispered near the stove. Jemmy and Seán were out front, sitting, plunking stones into a luminous puddle. Jemmy watched the reflecting ripples course out, an ever-widening eye in the dark. Pulling his cloak tight, he looked up, face to the night sky, studying the stars, white stones on a black veil. Glimmering jewels. Each out of reach. Then he saw something familiar in the northeastern sky. As he stared deeper, a shape gradually appeared. One he had recently seen. Subtle and returning. He would lose the image, then regain it. He could see the rounded crown, the hairline crack. “Seán, the skull!” he exclaimed. “B’God. The one in St. Stephen’s.” The starry skull flickered, staring back.
“Where?” asked Seán, looking up.
“The stars…there, near Jupiter,” Jemmy said, pointing. But suddenly the star skull was lost in the wash of beady lights. He focused harder but it was useless. “I thought I saw it.”
“I was thinking,” Seán began, “when ye go tomorrow, if I’m trying t’ find ye….” His voice faded to mask the emotion. “Perhaps if I’m trying t’ tell ye something….”
“Aye?”
“A signal. If to say….”
“Aye Seán, we need a sign. The skull?” Jemmy offered. Seán nodded, rolling a pebble between his fingertips. Jemmy drew shapes in the mud, imagining how it should look. “Circles. Like this. Two eye holes, with an ‘X’ below them.”
“That’ll do.” Seán turned to wipe a tear.
Jemmy put an arm around his friend, squeezing him. “Stop it.” He took a deep breath. “Promise me ye won’t say where I’m going. Not even t’ yer da. I’ll have no one hurt on my cause. I won’t be having that on m’soul.” He kicked a cluster of rocks from the edge of the street. “Promise?” Seán nodded. “Promise on the skull of St. Stephen’s,” Jemmy pressed, pointing at the muddy skull image before them.
Seán squatted, drawing another two circles and an “X.” “Aye, I promise.”
“Good. I’ll go t’ the barn on Frapper Lane,” Jemmy said, nodding. “Then I’ll leave Dublin when I can.” His lip quivered. “Seán, ye’re….” As his voice faded, he looked at the stars with newfound interest, as if they had just
spun round, become new, trying to distract him. High over the two birch trees across the street, a meteor flashed through the blackness.
“Jemmy!” exclaimed Seán, startling Jemmy from his thoughts. “Look there.”
He turned, seeing four horsemen guiding their mounts down the street, hooves clomping on the cobblestones, steadily advancing. The lead horse stepped through a puddle, then came into the full cast of the moon, revealing Captain Bailyn on its back. “Go inside, Seán,” whispered Jemmy.
“I’ll get Da!” Seán bolted into the shop.
“No,” Jemmy tried, but Seán was gone. He slumped back into the shadows, focusing on the four men. He could hear Seán’s feet pounding up the stairs, then loud voices.
Suddenly Fynn came bounding outside, turning back to yell, “Stay inside, Joan!” Purcell followed him out, brandishing a meat hook. Juggy was there at the door.
“Ya have no pistol, Fynn!” Juggy’s voice was shrill, scared. “What are ya thinking? ‘Tis madness!” Jemmy knew she was right—no Catholic was allowed to have a sword, dagger, or dirk. And certainly not a pistol or musket. When Seán maneuvered by her, Juggy came farther out, persisting. “Fynn, this is no way—”
“Hush!” he snapped, his eyes fixed on the approaching men. “Seán, go inside.” Seán returned to the shop. The horsemen were now only two buildings away, the hooves growing louder.
“Take this!” she pleaded, giving a shiny object to Fynn.
The dirk! Jemmy’s mind raced, his sour fury rising.
“So what do have ye there?” Captain Bailyn’s voice snarled in the darkness.
Purcell stepped forward. “Did ye not hear us this mornin’? Ye deaf lump of shite.”
“My fat Irishman,” Bailyn said, leering, “before ye start swinging that silly hook, trying t’ keep yer oaths, let me introduce who’ll be killing ye tonight.” Jemmy studied the three other men, one being Higgins who was once again trailing the group—he appeared devoid of emotion, staring blankly at his companions. “Behind me, on my right,” announced Bailyn, “this is Mr. Parks, the new chief constable of this stinking city. On my left is Mr. Byrne, another recent addition to the constables. We were in such need of more law, what with all the wretched Catholics and all.” He tipped his hat at Juggy, adding, “And of course, all their whores.”
Fortunate Son Page 5