Fortunate Son

by David Marlett

  So his plan was set—he would see the Colonies, meet an Indian, do a little work, perhaps as a factor’s assistant or tending horses, then sail home—all within the year. By next spring he would be back at the Anglesea Estate at Dunmain, the richest young man in Ireland. Richard would be in irons. His mother would return. Fynn would be happy. He envisioned himself regaling Seán with fantastic tales of pirates on the high seas, all of it. Seán would be completely awestruck, green with envy. A breeze wafted by and Jemmy’s smile stretched to a yawn. He turned away from the rail and descended to the halfdeck. He would sleep well, dreaming of the white sands and the red Indians of Maryland.

  Chapter 14

  Barnaby Dunn, examined — “In the year 1724 I kept a school in Bluecoat Alley, near the Main Guard, and Master James Annesley was recommended to me as Lord Anglesea’s son by Mr. Cavanagh, a dancing master. I believe he was at school with me for eight or nine months. I cannot remember whether I taught him any Latin, but I am certain that I taught him to read and write. A young friend of his came to see him, but didn’t receive my teaching. His name I believe was Seán Kennedy, the son of a popish fellow who had served my lord. I took a particular notice of something about Master Annesley’s eyes when he came to my school, when he was ten or eleven years old, before the death of my lord. I thought I observed a little cast or turn in his eye.”

  — trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743

  When Britain first, at heaven’s command,

  Arose from out of the azure main,

  This was the charter of the land,

  And guardian angels sung this strain—

  “Rule Britannia, rule the waves;

  Britons never will be slaves.”

  —Rule Britannia, James Thompson, 1740

  Five weeks later, the ocean floor was found. Then the lead-n-tallow, which had proven the proximity of the Virginia Capes, was cut off and fastened to the mizzen mast with “85 fathoms” inscribed beneath it in chalk. Within a day, the sweet aroma of pine wafted faintly across the deck, bringing smiles to everyone onboard. Then, two days after the bottom was discovered, a bony, smallpox-pitted crewman was bestowed with the customary bottle of whiskey for being the first to cry out, “Land! Land!” when the Courtmain finally made landfall beyond Cape Charles. Jemmy had stood on the quarterdeck, completely astonished. He had leaned against the marked rail, face to the west, marveling at the rising foreland. America was there, right before his eyes, just over that small expanse of grey-blue water. The day was warm and dry, and he was intensely happy to see the land, to breathe the new air of the new world. Crew and passengers alike were yelling and dancing on the deck, rejoicing and thanking God for their preservation from the perils of the sea, from the evils of the deep. Even Captain Hendry had come to the maindeck for a reel. Jemmy knew he would be returning to Ireland soon, but on that day—there were the British Colonies, a wonderful apparition, stretching out across the horizon like an unexplored legend—like a wild-eyed, Connemara pony, daring to be broken. He became wistful, completely awestruck by the scene. They had arrived.

  But that was two days ago, and now Jemmy was back in the hold of the fetid halfdeck, miserable, and chained to his bunk. The helmsman and his mates were busy in the steerage, immediately adjacent to Jemmy’s berth, taking and repeating helm orders up through the deck portal as the ship’s crew worked the Courtmain into the long broad bay, slipping gingerly around the tricky shoals and sporadic islands. Jemmy sat listening to the crews, their loud voices tense with exhaustion and anticipation, and the incessant calls and echoes grated on him, like the cold wrist-shackles which were once again grinding against his flesh. At eight o’clock that morning, Jemmy heard the foc’s’le bell peal eight times, closing the morning watch, clanging rhythmically, doling its rich tone across the decks, up the massive masts and down into the bowels of the ship. To him, it meant the helmsman would soon return to bunk in the halfdeck. Perhaps then he would get some answers to the array of questions which had stacked in his mind since he awoke, about two hours earlier, when one of the mangy ship cats had walked across his chest. He had seen the maps and sea cards, and as near as he could tell, the Courtmain was sailing north up the Chesapeake. But where was she heading, and when would they port? Why was he in chains again? When would he be allowed to speak to Captain Hendry? And where was the first-mate, Mr. Parker? He wanted to go on deck and see the land. He could hear people, ships, horses. But these damn chains. He jerked at them, then relaxed slightly, feeling his face hot with anger.

  “Ye’re awake squire!” said the helmsman, leaning forward so as not to rap his head as he entered the cramped quarters.

  “Aye, I’m awake, and I shouldn’t be in these.” He rattled the chains again.

  “Ye know,” the man began unbuttoning his waistcoat to pull off his filthy shirt, “ye say that same damn’d thing every time I come down here.” His sweaty, craggy face sneered at Jemmy.

  “Is the captain—” Jemmy began.

  “Is the captain ‘bout? Ha! That’s the other thing ye’re always askin’ me!”

  “Aye, what of it?” Jemmy clenched his teeth. “Is Captain Hendry about or not?”

  “What do ye think, squire? What’d I tell ye last?”

  “Is he about?” Jemmy repeated firmly, tugging at his chains as if to tell the helmsman he would attack the lying bastard if only he could. When the helmsman sat on the edge of his own bunk, Jemmy could see the man’s swollen legs and the sores on his shins.

  “Nay, good Captain Hendry ‘tisn’t ‘bout. Just as he weren’t yesterdee.”

  “Did he leave the ship at Norfolk?”

  “Nay.” The helmsman was now unbuckling his shoes.

  “Then where is he?”

  “Like I said, lad, the captain’s not ‘bout.” He began rubbing his bare feet gingerly.

  “I must see him.”

  “Well, ye can’t. He’s not ‘bout.” The low roof of the halfdeck held the rancid odor of the helmsman’s feet, and Jemmy could feel the pasty air crawling up his nose.

  “Fine. Then let me see Mr. Parker,” demanded Jemmy, recoiling from the smell. He stared at the man, then asked in a tense voice that belied his burning irritation, “Sir, would ye be so kind as to make arrangements for me to see Mr. Parker?”

  “What fer?”

  “None of yer bleedin’ business!” Jemmy shouted in an explosion of anger. He hated to see those feet, with their red cankerous sores which were sometimes oozing, and the thin crusted blackness which gathered around the man’s toes. And he dared not ask about the raw ball of flesh on the underside of the man’s left foot, fearing the man might swing the hunk of dead meat closer to afford him a better inspection.

  “None o’ me business?” sneered the helmsman, stopping to pick at his brownish toenails. “Well then, I suppose that means the first-mate’s not ‘bout either.”

  “Ye’re a stinking arse, ye are!”

  At that moment, heavy footsteps thumped across the upperdeck, then descended into the halfdeck. It was First-Mate Parker, smiling at them as if all was well.

  “Ach, Mr. Parker! What a delightful surprise,” began the helmsman, “An’ t’ think we were just speakin’ o’ ye!”

  “Oh? And just what might you’ve been saying?” The first-mate’s smile lingered for only a moment, then the warmth abruptly melted from his ashen face. “What in God’s name is that stench?” Jemmy nodded at the helmsman’s open gangrenous feet. “Bless me!” Parker suffered a gasp and pulled his ascot over his nose.

  “Come to unlock me, are ye?” asked Jemmy, ignoring the overwhelming odor.

  “Well, lad, I wish I could,” he answered, grimacing. “If only just to speak on deck.” The helmsman gave an indolent shrug. Parker turned his head and breathed through the porthole. He glanced back, then turned and looked into Jemmy’s eyes. With a slight sigh, Parker’s black eyebrows lifted, then fell back in place.

  Jemmy’s face dropped.
“Captain has the keys, has he?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then surely he’ll see the problem here.”

  “Lad, ‘twas Captain Hendry who ordered you chained. He’s the one who’s going to sell you, and he won’t be having any of you indentees jumping clear.”

  “That’s right,” interrupted the helmsman. “I told ye squire! Ye’re nothin’ but a dirty slave now.” He cackled.

  “On with you, McCauley!” Parker snapped with a glare, still shrinking from the smell.

  “Sir, if I may . . . ‘tis the end o’ me watch, an’ this be me bunk, an—”

  “Out, McCauley!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The helmsman stood on his bare feet and started toward the hatch.

  “And, McCauley, soak those appalling feet in your own givin’s of rum.”

  “Aye, sir,” he replied, then disappeared to the surface.

  Jemmy and Parker were silent for a moment, then Parker waved at the stagnant air, trying to get it to move. “Why am I locked up,” asked Jemmy. “I’m locked up like an animal.”

  “Do you know what’s to happen in Chestertown tomorrow?”

  “That’s where we’re going—Chestertown?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis the main northern port for trade, on the eastern side of the Chess, in Maryland. Captain wouldn’t put in at Williamsburg, or even Cambridge, not this late in the year. Been too many others in those ports already this season for him to get a fair advantage. Not even Annapolis, but I’m not sure why on that account.” Parker’s brow furrowed. “‘Tisn’t usual for him to take us into Chestertown, except for Drummond maybe. He’s—”

  “A fair advantage?” Jemmy interrupted.

  “Aye, a profit. You do understand profits, don’t you?”

  “Aye,” answered Jemmy. “He wants to port where he can get the most for his cargo.”

  “He is, indeed.” Mr. Parker looked plainly at Jemmy, as if studying him, then patted Jemmy’s knee and stood. “I thought you didn’t understand, but it sounds as if you do.”

  “I haven’t seen much cargo aboard. Why didn’t he sell it in Norfolk, where we ported earlier, and let the passengers decide where they want to be put off?”

  “He should’ve sold what in Norfolk?”

  “The cargo,” said Jemmy, looking at the man curiously.

  “James,” began the first-mate, sitting again, “we’ve been at sea for over nine weeks now. Have you never spoken to anyone about being an indentured servant? You signed yourself over for it. The Tholsel officer told you what to expect. Aye?”

  “I didn’t sign for it—I was kidnapped! Ye know that!”

  “I only know what you claimed.” Parker rose to his feet. He walked to the hatch and stood there a moment, breathing the fresh air. “Such a proclamation will only discredit you here. You must put it from your mind…at least for the—”

  “I can’t! How can I?”

  Parker returned to Jemmy’s side of the berth. “You have to. If you stand on deck declaring yourself an Earl, no one will want you. They’ll think you’ll run, think you’re a simpleton, a troublemaker. You’ll stay on board for another two weeks till some soul-driver takes you, placing four pounds out for you, and lumps you in with a bunch of misfits and scoundrels. They won’t buy a rough-hewn boy likely to run on them.”

  “Buy me?”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Parker, faltering, shaking his head.

  “I thought I was to work for a while,” said Jemmy. “Am I not to pursue a labor of my choosin’, to repay Captain Hendry for my transport?”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Parker said, clearly troubled. “Lad, the cargo I spoke of earlier, to be sold in Chestertown….” His voice was freighted down. “That cargo is you. And the seven other indentees on board. Did you truly not know that?”

  Jemmy sat still, whispering toward his heavy chest. “Nay. Not entirely.” He closed his eyes, feeling sick, smothered, as if the rush of the ocean were finally once and for all pouring over him, pulling him to the bottom.

  Chapter 15

  Silcross Ash, examined — “I know the defendant in this case. Immediately after the burial of the late Lord Anglesea, I was in company with Mr. Hawkins, the King-at-Arms. The defendant had come to Mr. Hawkins, and in my presence got into a passion and called the plaintiff an imposter or a vagabond, or something of that sort, and said that he deserved to be transported. Mr. Hawkins refused to enroll his lordship on account of the rumour occasioned by the noise the boy had made at the funeral of the late Lord Anglesea. Upon that the defendant was very angry, and made use of some indecent expressions against Mr. Hawkins. As against the plaintiff, to the best of my belief the word ‘bastard’ was made use of. He repeated that the boy deserved to be transported. At a later date it was said Mr. Hawkins refused to enroll Mr. Annesley on account of expecting his honorary fees, whereupon the defendant said that if that was all, he would go and satisfy him.”

  — trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743

  All my past life is mine no more:

  The flying hours are gone

  Like transitory dreams given o’er,

  Whose images are kept in store

  By memories alone.

  –– Love and Life, John Wilmont, Earl of Rochester, 1680

  By the next day, the Courtmain was anchored and lying at rest in the Chester River, alongside a newly-built dock in Chestertown, Maryland. The mid-morning sun was striking the afterdeck, inciting the stuffy air of the halfdeck, where Jemmy could feel the heat rising. Crewmen had unshackled him and fed him. They had considered giving him a shave but laughed heartily at the apparent lack of necessity. Shortly thereafter, the helmsman brought him some clean clothes. In a lethargic daze, Jemmy put on the fresh white shirt and the light-grey linen breeches over his filthy undergarments, then a green-striped waistcoat that was much too big for him. Next, a man’s blue wool coat was given to him, though he didn’t want to wear it in the heat. As he began to slip on his old shoes, the helmsman handed him a set of stockings and garters, a pair of black shoes with shiny brass buckles, and a round, wide-brimmed, grey hat.

  “Look, mates,” the helmsman called, “Squire’s dressin’ purty fer market!”

  “Shut yer mouth,” growled Jemmy as he snapped his buckles and stood, now fully dressed. He set the hat on his head where it rode down over his ears.

  The men started to ascend from the halfdeck. One asked, “What’s that ‘round yer neck?”

  “Nothing!” Jemmy snapped, realizing he had not tucked the Buckingham key into his shirt. He hurriedly stuffed it under his collar.

  “Wait here till yer called,” the helmsman snorted, already out of sight. Jemmy felt something crawling through his hair and flung the round hat to the floor. He picked several lice from his matted light-brown hair, then scratched at the scrambling fleas. Finding a small piece of wood, he scraped his hair, trying to flatten it. Suddenly the helmsman’s voice was back, yelling down from above, “And take care of that hat. Used to be mine.” No surprise there, Jemmy thought. He kicked at it, knocking it further away. What choice did he have but to comply with these men? Perhaps he would chance it and run. He would look for an opportunity just as soon as he got on deck. After tying his hair in a short tail, he leaned back on his bunk, waiting, lapsing into a small trance, staring blankly at the nasty hat. Mr. Parker had told him about the sale, advising him to be attentive, to declare himself a stable boy skilled with horses, and to hope for the best. At least in a stable he would be out of the weather much of the time. Although Parker hoped the captain might sell Jemmy to a gentry house, he figured Jemmy’s youth would make that difficult. He was to stand tall and answer the questions directly, and by no means was he to say anything about a claim to any House of Lords. The kindly first-mate had also explained that most of the indentured servants were committed to terms of three to five years, and the convicts to seven. But Jemmy didn’t know his term. He had never seen his
indenture papers. What then? Parker said he could expect three years—the typical time necessary to pay for one’s transportation to the Colonies.

  As thunder before a storm, a gathering of men’s shoes and boots began to rumble overhead, jerking Jemmy from his haze. Then the helmsman was back. “Squire, get yer arse up here! What’d ye think—them good buyers would come callin’ on ye down in this stinkin’ piss-hole?” Jemmy picked up the quadrant and rose to leave, then saw the helmsman watching him. He gingerly picked up the hat, holding it away from his side, and climbed up through the hatch. On deck, he paused, instantly intoxicated by the bright morning sun, the pine-laden air. As he stood there, letting his eyes adjust, absorbing the sights, he noticed several well-dressed men onboard were looking at him, as if sizing him up. Near the foredeck, standing with their backs to the river, were the other indentured passengers, most leaning into raspy coughs, scratching their scalps, and tugging at their misshapen clothes—an assortment of dull patched coats and wrinkled hats which Jemmy noticed were not nearly as fine as what he had been issued. The women appeared to have fared better than the men, but not by much.