“Coward!” Fynn thundered.
Bailyn grinned. “How are ye, m’lady? Still on yer game?”
Fynn charged Bailyn. “Come down! Deal with me directly!” He grabbed the reins of Bailyn’s horse, forcing the beast’s head around. “Get down! Or aren’t ye man enough!”
“Fine,” Bailyn muttered. He drew his pistol and then began dismounting. Just as one leg swung around, Fynn grabbed Bailyn’s other knee, pulling him off balance, sending him crashing to the dark mud. The impact knocked his pistol away and sent his red cocked hat flying. Bailyn immediately curled, clambering to get to his feet, but Fynn stomped a boot hard on the man’s chest, driving him deep in the muck. Before Bailyn could pull his own dagger, Fynn had the dirk against his throat. “If ye cut me, papist,” Bailyn growled, “the boy will hang with ye tomorrow.”
“No Fynn!” Juggy pleaded. After a long, prickly silence, Fynn slowly backed away.
Bailyn stood, shaking mud from his coat. “Now give me that blade.” The constables had nervously drawn their pistols and were now cocking them.
Fynn looked around slowly, saw Jemmy, then scanned the rest of the crowd as if taking note of where everyone was standing. He eased forward, handing over the dirk. “Seámus,” he said flatly, “‘tis time t’ run, lad. Be gone with ye.”
Bailyn bellowed, “Shoot the boy if he runs!” Jemmy was paralyzed. Bailyn looked back at the dirk, studying it, the steel shimmering. “Fine Scottish blade ye have here.”
Fynn stepped closer. “If ye mean t’ take this boy, ye’ll have t’ kill me first.”
“Very well.” In one swift motion, Bailyn surged forward, lunging with the dirk. Fynn jumped back, stumbled, and everything exploded. Jemmy clambered against a stack of crates, ducking as pistol cracks lit the sky, and in the rush of mens’ shouts, heard Juggy screaming “No!” Back to his feet, Fynn saw the long beef hook on the ground. He lunged for it, rushed and drove it straight through the chief constable’s leg, deep into the flesh of the man’s horse. The horse thrashed, whinnying loudly, throwing its rider into the air. Just as the constable hit the ground, Purcell jerked the hook free and thrust it into the man’s neck. Blood splattered Purcell’s face. Jemmy stood, scrambling to run. Another gunpowder blast exploded. Smack! A stinging slap ripped Jemmy’s side, spinning him down. He crumpled behind the crates. I’m shot! Oh God, I’m shot! his mind squalled. He grabbed his side, cringing, his blood leaving him. He could hear the chaos of horses, men falling, yelling, the splashing, the ringing of swords. Then everything fell silent, except for the rapid clomp of a riderless horse running away. Jemmy crawled forward to cautiously peer around the crates. He saw the twitching feet of the dying constable. Purcell was holding a sword to the throat of the other constable, who was standing unsteadily. Captain Bailyn, still clutching the dirk, was on the ground, breathing hard, staring across his dead horse at Fynn, who was standing, panting. Behind Fynn was Higgins, still mounted, aiming a musket at Fynn’s head.
“This has gone much too far!” shouted Higgins.
“Shoot the son of a bitch,” ordered Bailyn.
Fynn looked at Higgins. “Are ye a demon too? Like him,” he motioned to Bailyn. “Would ye shoot an unarmed man?” Higgins didn’t move. Jemmy watched intently, feeling nauseated and weak as he held his side, the warm liquid oozing across his hand. Suddenly Fynn leaped over the dead horse and the blast of Higgins’s musket shook the air.
“No!” Juggy shrieked. Jemmy saw Fynn falling, Bailyn hurtling forward with the dirk, Juggy throwing herself across Fynn, screaming. Then silence. A gurgled gasp came from Juggy. Fynn rolled to his feet, Higgins’s shot having missed its mark. Captain Bailyn stumbled backward empty-handed. Juggy was on her knees by the dead horse, her back to Jemmy. He could see her long auburn hair fluttering, her body swaying.
“Oh God!” cried Fynn, eyes fixed on Juggy. She slowly slumped, pitched forward, then crumpled to the ground. Jemmy stared horror struck. The hilt of the dirk was protruding from her chest. Fynn wailed, kneeling beside her, lifting her head in his arms. Blood sputtered from her mouth as she coughed. “Damn ye!” Fynn yelled. “Look what ye’ve done! My Joan, my sweet Joan.” A peal of cathedral bells announced the ten o’clock hour—a rhythmic knell from the darkness, wafting over them, metering out the agony, the disbelief.
“Let’s go, Bailyn. Now!” demanded Higgins. He reined his horse around, spurring it into a quick trot. The staggering constable glanced down at his dead companion, then turned and ran after Higgins. Bailyn calmly walked to the remaining horse, caught the reins, mounted, and followed the men, disappearing in the dark.
Seán stepped into the street, then stopped—terror and tears on his face. No words, just petrified, fixed. Fynn was rocking Juggy, pleading, “Don’t go, Joan. My sweet Joan.” The moonlight cast a white glow over her dying face.
“Juggy!” Jemmy tried to stand, then collapsed. He crawled toward her, ignoring the searing pain, and grasped her limp hand. He pulled himself closer, pressing her muddy palm against his face, sobbing into the hollow of her hand.
“Jemmy. Seán.” The names gurgled from her mouth.
“Right here,” said Fynn, stretching a hand toward Jemmy, motioning for Seán.
“I can’t…see him.”
“I’m here,” cried Jemmy.
“Juggy,” sobbed Seán.
“Seán,” she said with a wisp of a smile. Then her eyes focused on Jemmy. “M’lad, Jem…. Fynn, do care for him.” Each breath a long wheezing heave. “He has no one else.”
“I do. I will,” said Fynn. “Of course—”
“Fynn….” She raised a hand, grasping his wrist. “Don’t fret, m’love.” She pulled herself against him, as if to rise. “Ya’ll always be my husband.”
“God! Don’t take her! Don’t—”
“I love….” Her last small gentle breath moved over Fynn’s face and was gone, the flutter of a loosed feather, floating away.
“I love ye…my sweet,” whispered Fynn, leaning forward, trembling. He kissed her, but he could not pull back, could not pull away, his mouth pressing her open lips, quivering, her blood smearing his face. He wept with his whole body, his whole soul shaking.
Her shimmering eyes were staring blankly into the black sky, and in them, Jemmy could see the faint reflection of the stars. “Don’t die, Juggy,” he mumbled. His brow tightened, another surge of tears slamming into him. “Please? Stay.” The reflections in her eyes slowly faded, slipping into a haze. Finally all was gone and Jemmy could see the stars no more.
Chapter 7
Mr. John Turner, examined — “Lady Anglesea told me that she had a son. About a year and a half afterwards I saw the boy at Dunmain: he was two years old then. I stayed two nights or thereabouts at Dunmain, and I had the child in my arms. I saw Lady Anglesea leading the child across the parlour two or three times. I saw Lord Anglesea kiss the child. I afterwards saw the child at Ross when he was about three years old. (How was the child treated at Ross?) He was dressed as the son of a nobleman, and the servants called him master. He went by the name of Jemmy.”
— trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743
Are they shadows that we see?
And can shadows pleasure give?
Pleasures only shadows be
Cast by bodies we conceive,
And are made the things we deem,
In those figures which they seem.
–For the Lady Margaret, Samuel Daniel, 1610
The night Juggy was killed, Jemmy stumbled off into the black Dublin streets. A week later he was gone. Lost to everyone but himself. Except Seán. He knew where to find Jemmy. After a day of persistent effort, trying to get Seán to reveal Jemmy’s hiding place, Fynn gave up. Though he would not say it, he respected Seán for keeping his word. But he did insist food, blankets, and clothes be bundled and taken to Jemmy, wherever the boy was. This afternoon, as he had done the previous day, Seán pulled the wagon off Frapper Lane
, easing it cautiously down the stone-walled carriageway of the stables, toward the rear, where the hay barn stood. If anyone asked what he was doing, he was there to fetch hay. He leaped down and creaked open the big door.
“Don’t worry. No one’s about,” Jemmy blurted.
“Ach!” Seán exclaimed. “Ye scared me!” He saw Jemmy’s uneasy movement, his grimace. “What’s hurting ye?”
“Nothing,” muttered Jemmy. The musket ball had grazed his right side, and the wound had only begun to heal. He didn’t want to say anything because Seán would be too worried and would tell Fynn who would undoubtedly demand Jemmy return. He had already disposed of the bloody shirt and was now wearing the shirt Seán had brought the day before. If only he had a different cloak. He tugged at it, yanked it around so the large hole and bloodstain could not be seen, then took the bundle from Seán. “Thank ye for the food.” He gave an empty smile.
Seán glanced away. “Daniel Mackercher is coming from Scotland.”
Jemmy furrowed his brow, to which Seán explained, “Her brother.”
“Aye,” said Jemmy. “He was coming for the wedding. Does he know about—?”
“Da sent a letter. He arrives tonight.”
“He’s coming for blood now.”
“Aye. Da said if he had known Mr. Mackercher was arriving so soon, he would’ve waited with the funeral. ‘Tis too bad he wasn’t here for his sister’s funeral. If I had a sister—”
Jemmy grimaced. “I should have been there too.” He watched Seán fidgeting with a shoeing nail, scratching a line in the soft wood of the doorframe.
Seán dropped the nail. “I must tell ye something. Yer mum is here, in Dublin.”
“I know.” He looked puzzled at the statement. “But where—”
“She wants ye t’ go t’ England with her and—”
“Did ye see her?” Jemmy’s eyes grew large. “I told ye I saw her that day on—”
“Nay. Charity came and told—”
“Charity is a lousy whore if there ever was one!”
“Aye, but….” Seán pulled a shiny key from his coat pocket, handing it to Jemmy. “She asked me t’ give ye this,” he continued. “Said it would prove ‘twas yer mum.”
Jemmy took it, studied the “B” engraved in the key’s handle, then turned it over. As he expected, the word “Buckingham” was inscribed in the brass shaft. “What’d Charity say?”
“Said yer mum was sailing for England tomorrow on the Courtmain, a merchanter, ported down near Ringsend.” Seán was less than enthused. “Wants ye t’ join her.”
“That’s wonderful Seán!”
“She’ll take ye overland t’ it, t’ the Courtmain.”
“Where am I t’—”
“She’ll be waitin’ for ye in Christ Church tonight. In the chapterhouse.” Seán’s dejection was palatable, yet Jemmy scarcely noticed. His mother was going to rescue him. He could not believe his ears. She was taking him to England. He was going away with her. Hope surged through him. “When Seán? When this evening?”
“I don’t know. Said tonight. When ye hear the bell of Christ Church. Just once. It’ll ring just once. That’ll be yer signal t’go to the chapterhouse. That’s what Charity said t’ tell ye. And ye’re t’ wait in Copper Alley. T’ wait there for the bell.”
Jemmy’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Why should it matter where I wait?”
“So ye’re nearby, I suppose. I don’t know.” They lingered in silence for a moment, each gripped by his own imaginings. Seán turned, looking out. “I’ve got t’ get back. Da wants me t’go…t’do something for him. I think.”
“Right,” said Jemmy, watching Seán. He reached out and grabbed Seán’s arm, then hugged him briefly. “Then I’ll see ye in England. Soon. Someday soon, Seán. I promise.”
“Aye. In England. Jemmy….” Seán’s voice was fluttering again.
“Go now, will ye?” Jemmy urged. “Before we both start weepin’ like lasses.”
But Seán remained, his eyes fixed and glossy. “Will ye send for me? Ye comin’ back?”
“I will. I promise. Seán, ye’re my best friend.”
“I’m yer only friend.”
“So ye are.” Jemmy’s lip curled at the jab. “So don’t ye think I’ll find you soon? I will. London ‘tisn’t so far away.”
“Far enough.”
“Go on now,” he said softly. Feeling the sadness mounting within, Jemmy gestured toward the carriageway beyond the half-open door. Seán dragged his feet out to the wagon, then climbed into the box. He stared at Jemmy, then gently reined the horse to go. Jemmy smiled, forcing back tears, holding three fingers high in the air—through ice, together forever.
Seán saw Jemmy’s hand, then stood in the wagon, his arm up straight, waving three fingers back. “Good-bye, Jemmy!” he shouted.
“So long, Seán!” Jemmy hollered, watching Seán hold his balance as the wagon moved slowly up the carriageway. Both boys held their salutes high until Seán rounded the end of the long stone wall and was gone.
“Good-bye, my friend,” whispered Jemmy. Taking a deep breath, he felt his throat tighten, tears rushing forward. He held the brass key, rubbing it methodically between his fingers, tracing and retracing the letter “B.”
*
Daniel Mackercher and his band of seven Highlanders stepped onto Merchant’s Quay at a quarter-past five that evening. Fynn was there to greet them with horses for the men. He had been waiting for their currach’s arrival since three.
“Mr. Mackercher,” said Fynn, stepping forward. It had been eight years since he had seen Daniel and he was not entirely certain which one he was. All the Scotsmen were imposing, Farquarsons all, draped in pale brown and green tartans, basket-hilted broadswords strapped to their sides. Each had a pistol tucked into his kilt belt, along with one or two dirks. Fynn was impressed, having never seen such well-armed civilians.
“Aye, Mr. Kennedy,” replied Mackercher. The two men embraced firmly. As they pulled back, a small chill ran through Fynn as he saw Juggy’s eyes, the same lucent green.
“Daniel,” said one of the Scots, pointing up Bridge Street, “we’ve wolves upon us.” Five English cavalrymen were coming from the Brazen Head Tavern. Having spotted the Scots, they had mounted and were now approaching the quay.
“Good day to you sirs,” said the lead officer, tipping his hat, eyes on Mackercher. From the insignia on the five red coats, Fynn knew they were guards from Dublin Castle.
“Good day, Lieutenant,” replied Mackercher.
Another soldier moved his horse forward. “These men are Jacobites!”
Mackercher shook his head. “A man’s tartan doesn’t portend his politics. No more than yar uniform tells yars. My name is Daniel Mackercher. I am a loyal subject—”
“Daniel Mackercher?” exclaimed one of the soldiers. “Same man who captured the regimentals at Sheriffmuir?”
“Aye. Very same,” said Mackercher. “I fought for the Duke of Argyle. I’m as loyal to King George as the one of ya.”
“Mind you,” growled the lieutenant, “do not weigh our sovereign loyalty.”
Mackercher’s good humor fell away. “Then mind ya not weigh mine, sir, and we’ll get along marvelously.”
“What business brings you and your men to Ireland?”
“‘Tis a family matter,” replied Mackercher.
Fynn listened, admiring Mackercher’s boldness, his courage. He wished he had that nature of vigor, that spirited strength. Daniel Mackercher was tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. Even on foreign soil, the man was confident, certain of himself. How long had it been since he had felt that confident? Years. Now he had lost Joan. Now Seámus was leaving. He had never felt so fragile and drained. He hated the feeling. If Mackercher had been on Ship Street that dreadful night, things might have been different. Mackercher would not have been so foolish. Joan might still be alive. Seámus would be safe. Joan would be there with them. They wo
uld be marrying. He shook off the bitter thoughts. Mackercher was in Dublin now. For revenge. This would be dangerous, but it must be done.
The lieutenant eased his horse among the Scots. “Well armed for a family matter.”
“‘Tis a private affair.” Mackercher was resolute. “Of no concern to the crown.”
He stopped directly in front of Fynn. “What is your business here?” Before Fynn could answer, the officer turned back to Mackercher. “This papist with you?”
“He’s here t’ fetch horses,” said Mackercher. Fynn gestured agreeably toward the horses.
The lieutenant continued to Mackercher, “Best be gone from Dublin shortly.”
“I will not tarry in the execution of my affairs.”
“Very well. Good day to you sir.” After saluting Mackercher, and receiving Mackercher’s salute in return, the lieutenant led his men away.
*
Within an hour it had grown dark, and Fynn was pacing Purcell’s small kitchen, trying to reason with Mackercher, who was sitting in front of him, pensive and glowering. Purcell was listening, leaning in the doorway. “But ye can’t,” Fynn protested. “It wouldn’t be just you who’d be hanged. ‘Twould be the rest of us too. They saw me at the quay with ye. They’d arrest us all.” He stopped walking, took a deep breath, then blew it out in a sigh. “Ye’re far off yer native heath here, Mr. Mackercher.”
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