Fortunate Son

by David Marlett

  “Get off him!” demanded the teamster, throwing Jemmy aside to the wet ground.

  Jemmy was no less enraged. “Ye’re a fackin—”

  “You’ve damaged him.”

  “But he said—”

  “Shut your ignorant trap!” the teamster snarled. He rolled George over.

  Jemmy sat back hard in the brilliant red and gold leaves, winded, staring at the blood trickling across George’s forehead. The sight stunned him. The idea of it. His breath shortened to the point of dizziness for now he saw the terror of what he had done. “Is he…?”

  “Nah,” the teamster whispered angrily, still studying the unconscious young man. “You’re not a murderer. Not today you’re not.”

  *

  By the time the teamster brought George and Jemmy back to camp, George was conscious. Other men took him from the wagon and rushed him up to the plantation house. Jemmy jumped down and ran inside the cabin to his bunk. He lay still, ignoring the curious glances of the others. He listened through the wall as the teamster stood on the porch informing Mr. Clowes of the fight. Jemmy’s stomach tightened into a knot of swarming bees. Ben Clowes, the foreman, was the kind of man Fynn Kennedy would have enjoyed knowing, which made Jemmy respect Mr. Clowes all the more. He even looked like Mr. Kennedy, in a way, though Clowes was taller and a bit stockier. Heavily religious, Clowes was a compassionate, gentle giant who never cursed, never raised his voice. And he had taken to Jemmy, the youngest in his crew, in a fatherly way, giving him counsel on more things than just the art of felling trees. Jemmy liked the man’s soft voice and the way he would spend time talking, teaching him things, telling him about Indians, the Colonies, Drummond and God, showing him how iron and steel were made, taking him to the workers’ chapel on Sundays. Now nervous tears welled in Jemmy’s eyes as Mr. Clowes stomped inside. Without a word the foreman grabbed Jemmy by the arm and led him forcibly out to the collier’s hearth. “What happened, James?” Clowes asked in a grumbling whisper. He released his grip and ushered Jemmy to sit beside him on a giant, ten foot diameter stump. They were away from the others where no one could hear. Jemmy relayed how George had called him names and slighted his mother. “That was it?” Clowes asked. He leaned into Jemmy’s face. “That was it? That was sufficient for you to club him over the head?”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Jemmy, looking down sheepishly. The smoldering smoke from the collier’s hearth rose over them, casting a black veil across the evening sky, bringing on an early night.“That boy nearly died. Do you know that?”

  “Aye, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? You’re sorry?” Clowes’s voice was going deeper, tensing. “Do you realize what would’ve happened had you killed him?” Jemmy nodded, then looked away. A light autumn leaf landed gently on his head, then slipped to the ground. “This may be Quaker land,” Clowes continued, “but they’ll still hang a murderer.”

  “I didn’t kill the fackin’—” Jemmy whispered.

  “Watch your tongue! These Quakers don’t take kindly to such vile language either.”

  “Aye, sir. So I’ve heard ye say,” said Jemmy, hoping to keep the subject off the fight, even if they were now discussing something else he had done wrong. He glanced around quickly. “But there’s not a Quaker within a mile, I’d reckon.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” snapped Clowes. “Quite frankly, your swearing offends me. No more. Even when I’m not around. Even when there is not a woodcutter or a teamster for a mile, and you think you’re all alone. Especially then.” He paused, glanced about, then back at Jemmy. “Lad, when you think you’re alone…you’re not. You never are. God is always with you, listening to you.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Clowes?” a man shouted from behind them.

  “Aye?” Clowes stood. Jemmy saw the approaching man was at the far end of the collier’s hearth, leading a horse.

  “You’re wanted at the furnace,” continued the man.

  “Very well.” Clowes turned to Jemmy. “Stay here, lad. Don’t move. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be back shortly. Then we’ll get you something to eat.”

  “Aye, sir.” As Mr. Clowes rode away, Jemmy began pitching bits of bark into an abandoned badger hole near his feet. Then he found a short, crooked stick and took to crushing a cluster of mushrooms. Once the mushrooms were decidedly dead, he leaned his head back and stared curiously into the canopy of leaves overhead. They seemed to be burning, roasting with flittering red, amber and golden-orange—on fire, yet not devoured. Then he focused on a gap in the canopy, a hole where the dim light from the greying sky fell through the brilliant autumn foliage. Was God truly up there, listening to him? How could God hear a man’s words from way up there—way up there in heaven looking down through that unconsumed blanket of blazing leaves? He watched as the breeze made the burning trees drop their embers, floating them effortlessly down, filling the voids of the forest floor. Was that where he would go when he died, up above the forests, up to heaven? Where Juggy was? He looked harder into the underside of the trees, through them, beyond them. Was Juggy up there, watching him? Could she see him from heaven? What did she think of him? Was she also furious with him for nearly killing George? He focused on the brightest of the red leaves—a burning hell. That was where his father was, probably, and certainly where Richard, Bailyn, Captain Hendry, Drummond, and fellows like George deserved to go. No, he stopped himself—not George, and perhaps not Drummond either. No, Drummond too.

  *

  Nearly an hour later it was dark and Jemmy’s stomach was complaining loudly. He sat illuminated by the massive mound of crackling embers at the base of the charcoal hearth just fifty feet away. They threw a peculiar reddish light, a warm glow, and in that light he could see Mr. Clowes returning. “You stayed.” Clowes sounded surprised.

  “Ye told me to,” replied Jemmy. Where else would I have gone? he thought. He saw his quadrant in Clowes’ hand.

  “This is yours. So I’ve been told.” He handed over the brass object.

  “Aye, sir,” Jemmy muttered, holding it. “Thank ye, sir.” He wanted to know how and where Clowes found it, how Clowes knew it was his, why was Clowes bringing it to him now, of all times. But he was too afraid to ask.

  Clowes sat in the same place he had been earlier. “So, tell me now lad, you said George called you a liar. What was it he said you were lying about?”

  Jemmy hesitated. Earlier he had overheard the teamster telling Clowes some of the details. He sagged his chin and mumbled, “Might ye already know, sir?”

  “Perhaps. But I want you to tell me.”

  Jemmy looked at Clowes, wondering if the man would believe him. “I simply told him the truth.”

  “Which is…?”

  A deep breath, then, “My father was the Earl of Anglesea.”

  “But he’s not now?”

  “Nay. He’s dead.”

  “So you are now the Earl?”

  “I should be. But my uncle claimed it. Then he sent me here.”

  “So you’re the rightful Earl?” Clowes’s warm eyes studied Jemmy. “Are you?”

  “Aye. I am.” Jemmy looked away, wondering about the point of these questions.

  “All right.”

  Jemmy looked back. “Ye believe me?”

  “Can you prove it?”

  Jemmy touched his chest. “I have a key from my mother. It has—”

  “Let’s see it.” Clowes held out his hand. Jemmy pulled the brass key from around his neck and handed it to him.

  “The ‘B’ is for Buckingham. My grandfather is the Duke. And—”

  “Your grandfather is the Duke of Buckingham?” said Clowes. “My goodness!” Jemmy studied the man’s face, weighing the sincerity. “A key ‘tis hardly proof,” Clowes concluded, handing it back. “‘Tis nothing more than a fairytale meant to stir men’s ire if you have not the means nor intention to prove such a fanciful claim. ‘Tis best left unsaid.”

 
“But, I can’t prove—”

  The foreman raised his hand, stopping Jemmy. “Then perhaps you aren’t an Earl a’toll?” Jemmy’s face reddened. “You’re not going to pummel me for saying so, are you?”

  “No. Sir.”

  “I’ll tell you my mind, lad,” Clowes added with a wink. “If I was a betting man, I’d wager a heavy shilling, if not two, that someday I’ll be hearing ‘bout you again, hearing that you are the Earl of Anglesea after all. That you’d proved it.”

  Jemmy nodded slowly, staring blankly at a clump of moss a few feet in front of him. The man was right; someday he would have to do just that. He would have to go back to Ireland. He would have to face Richard. He would have to somehow make this right, prove who he was. He scratched his cheek, then muttered, “Ye will. Ye will, indeed, Mr. Clowes.”

  “But in the meantime, if you’re fighting again, I’ll throw you in the blocks. Are you hearing me?”

  “My hand to ye. No more fightin’.”

  “That’s right. There won’t be. Is that how you came by your scar? Fighting?” He pointed at Jemmy’s cheek.

  “Nay. ‘Twas a spur.” Under his breath he added, “‘Twas a sort of fight, I suppose.”

  The foreman flicked a few ants from his boot. “You must watch that temper of yours, James. ‘Tis yours, nobody else’s. You’re the only one to control it. Your temper is your sword—it can inflict harm and it can protect you, but if you do not respect it adequately, if you hold it too loosely in your grip, it will slip from your fingers, be taken from you, and used to take your very life.” They sat in silence for a moment before Clowes announced, “You’ll learn fencing. That’s what you’ll do. Let those angry passions escape you.”

  Jemmy glanced up. “I don’t know how.”

  “Of course you don’t. That’s why you’ll learn. You’ll come with me tomorrow to Sands Furnace. On our return we’ll stop at Mr. Bird’s slitting mill. He makes swords. He can instruct you in the art of the weapon. We’ll arrange lessons for you.”

  Jemmy nodded agreeably, but was confused. “Why do ye tell me not to fight, then want me trained in dueling?”

  “Not dueling. Fencing. It teaches the mind…” he tapped Jemmy on the head, “as well as the heart…” he tapped Jemmy’s chest, “as much as it teaches the body. Perhaps more so.”

  “Aye. Sir.” Jemmy grinned, excited by the prospect but not certain how much to show.

  “’Tis too cold. You go eat,” Clowes announced, standing. As they walked back toward the cabin, he asked, “So that I may be certain, James—what are your plans regarding your claim?”

  “I’ll keep it to myself.” Jemmy gave a slight smirk. “Till I’m ready to prove it. Ye have my word.”

  “Good.” Clowes pat Jemmy’s back. “Before you turn in this eve, go inquire of George.”

  “Aye, Mr. Clowes. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, James. Hurry up before you get too chilled.”

  Jemmy walked fast up the muddy lane toward the big house. He smiled, feeling more at peace than he could remember. He would keep his promise.

  PART TWO

  Virginia

  Fourteen Years Later

  1742

  I had now attained to twenty-seven years, more than fourteen of which I had languished in miserable bondage, but I was so far from being more easy by being so long injured, that my impatience to be eased of it grew stronger every day.

  O time—in whose tremendous womb the seeds of all things lie concealed, and who, sooner or later, ripens them to full perfection, now fly swiftly, as when happy lovers meet, and bring me opportunity and means of gratifying the righteous, so as the event may give honor to justice; and to oppression, fraud, violence and cruelty, the shame and punishment they merit.

  — Memoirs of an Unfortunate Young Nobleman, James Annesley, 1743

  Chapter 18

  There is a lady sweet and kind,

  Was never a face so pleased my mind;

  I did but see her passing by,

  And yet I love her till I die.

  Her gesture, motion, and her smiles.

  Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles;

  Beguiles my heart, I know not why,

  And yet I love her till I die.

  — Thomas Forde, 1607

  The music filling the small Richmond farm house poured from a harpsichord, swelling against the papered parlor walls, soaring around the corner, through the kitchen and up the straight staircase to the two bedrooms above. In the larger bedroom the sound engaged Hanna Johansson as she leaned over a bed, straightening the freshly washed linens. Her gauzy dress, cheese white, matched her skin, wrinkled in places yet beautiful, worn yet elegant, aged yet full of life. This bed would soon be too small for Pehr and Gunnar, she reasoned. Her mouth creased to a small smile as she pictured them—her riotous ten and eight-year-old boys. She retucked a strand of her graying, long blonde hair back into its bun. They were probably down at the pond gigging frogs. She left the room. In the front bedroom she retrieved more clean linens lying on the bed she shared with her husband, Bjorn. Turning back toward the door, she saw the little bed he had dragged into their room last night. It was Sonja’s, their youngest at the age of five. Though Sonja was still afraid of the dark she had mastered the intricate subtleties of father-manipulation. Hanna started to move it back, then stopped. Why? A few passionless nights and Bjorn would return the bed himself.

  Back in the children’s room, she changed the last bed—Laura’s. Laura was the gentle one, the one who comported her father’s mild-boar temperament. She had his contrarian, melancholy nature melded with his inscrutable energy, his passion for all things. She would be leaving soon. Not this month and perhaps not this year, but soon she would be gone. Married. Perhaps moved away. Though they never spoke of it, they could feel it. It was as if to talk about Laura leaving the nest would only hasten the moment’s arrival. So they silently found themselves holding their eldest tighter, longer. Watching her more. Absorbing these last months as if they were the last fall sunsets before the grey skies of the Chesapeake brought down the soft snows of winter. The music hit an ill-chorded bump, jarring Hanna alert. “Laura!” she shouted down the stairs. “He’s not in the kitchen anymore!” After hearing the same yearning, lovesick tune of Greensleeves eight times over and again, Hanna had grown decidedly weary of it. Downstairs, the music stopped.

  “Where’d he go, Mama?” The melody of Laura’s soft voice rose through the floor slats.

  Hanna moved to the casement window and leaned out, linens still in hand. “My mind he’s with yar papa and Sonja, out in da drying barn.” She heard the stool scoot back from their old harpsichord. What would Bjorn say if those two decided to marry? Certainly he would give his blessing. He loved that young man. But it would no less break his heart.

  *

  Laura stepped into the dark barn, her golden hair carrying the radiance of the day into the cool shadows. “Papa? Is he out here?” Her blue dress glided across the packed dirt floor.

  “Aya,” said Bjorn, a Swedish giant, “up there.” His fingers were thick, his arms the trunks of small elms, his bald head held by a neck the size of most men’s thighs. He nodded up toward the drying loft. “Tying more sticks far me an’—”

  “Can ya help me put this on?” Sonja interrupted, struggling to pull a burlap bag around her shoulders like a cape.

  “Aya.” Laura knelt to the task. “What a beautiful cape ya have!”

  “It isn’t a cape. I’m a butterfly.”

  “Of course! A butterfly,” said Laura. “And never a prettier one vas seen.” Overlooking their blonde hair and light eyes, Sonja and Laura would not have been easily paired as sisters. Sonja’s face was oval, sleekly Scandinavian, whereas Laura’s was round like her father’s, almost English in breadth. Her small, freckled nose sat daintily over the seductive arc of her mouth, each lip drawn into a perpetual bow, two red ample curves. Yet, as pretty as her
lips were, it was the perfectly straight white teeth behind them that set others in awe. She could not remember a time in her childhood when neighbors didn’t come to see her teeth. “Smile Laura,” her mother had instructed when she was eight. Two biddies from the competing quilting group were there to discuss a “rule infraction.” Her mother wasn’t smiling, but Laura had to. “Show them yar teeth,” her father had ordered on her eleventh birthday, buying seed at the Elkton mercantile, the one that burned that spring. All the men muttered in admiration and debated the cause of such an aberration of nature. How could a child that lived among them, who ate what they ate, who was no more healthy, no less dirty, no different from their own children, have such astonishing teeth? Her father bought her birthday candy after each showing. Everyone was amazed and Laura soaked in the attention. By the time Laura was fifteen, Hanna was firmly whispering, “Close yar mouth!” as Laura fondly offered unsolicited viewings to passing strangers. Her mother was afraid some might think her oldest a simpleton, brandishing her white teeth at everyone.

  When she turned seventeen and left her schooling, the suitors began to appear. Though their arrival disconcerted her father, it was Laura who was disappointed as none seemed the least impressed with her teeth, always fawning over her more feminine attributes. Now, over a year later, she was accustomed to the parade of purveyors of masculine wares. And she never made a fuss of her teeth. The suitors came by the ox-load. Since spring there had been three seamen, two merchants, an old school teacher, a minister, a toothless blacksmith, six farmers, eight soldiers, a French convict, a Spanish pirate who was later killed by one of the soldiers, two captains, and even one of the sons of the Governor of Virginia—who left his linen card in the shaking hands of her mother while she whispered, “Laura, show him yar teeth!”—each suitor more enthusiastic than the prior one, each no less discouraged nor deterred by rumors that a transported convict, a servant, and Irishman of all things, had stolen young Miss Johansson’s heart.