Fortunate Son

by David Marlett

  After five days and nights, covering ninety miles, he was finally in Yorktown. He had footed the mud roads, fields, creek beds, hid in barns, crossed the James River at Jamestown, spoke to no one, ate what he carried, avoided any eyes, slipped south of Williamsburg, across the soggy peninsula and down the Great Run Creek, over the crowded Tobacco Road to the endless wharves of Yorktown. Now he was tired and hungry and rethinking everything. He had only twelve shillings and his clothes, his boots, his hat, and the key on its leather wrapped in a paper on which she had written, Be safe my Acushla. And he had his wit, he reminded himself. Fourteen years earlier he had come past this point of the Chesapeake in shackles, carrying not much less. Fourteen years of struggle. He had lived as many years in the Colonies as he lived in Ireland, perhaps more. What had he learned? Or did it matter at all? No, none of it really mattered, he told himself. Not now. Not in this alley. He was where it had all begun, in a damn alley. But even that didn’t matter. All that mattered was what was here and now before him. And for that whole quandary he chided himself. His clothes and twelve shillings indeed. What a fool he had been. Twelve shillings would not be enough. He would starve to death before ever seeing Ireland. And there what would he do? Hire a solicitor? He imagined himself wandering Dublin again—only now a grown man skulking from one solicitor to another, scrounging charity. Captain Bailyn pursuing him like a wolfhound. It was a dullard’s plan. But he could not return to Richmond. Its constables were trailing him. He could feel them. And he had seen the runaway announcement. Now bounty hunters were surely in pursuit as well. But only a four-pound reward? At least it said he was tolerable and well made. He was committed, invested. Nothing could alter that. He must focus on one thing—not getting caught. Nothing else mattered. Not food. Not sleep. Not worrying. Not anything. He had made it this far. He must find the Kathleen, run her gangway, disappear between her decks and be gone. Blackwell said she would be tied alongside at the main wharf, flying an orange and white jack below her standard. After an hour of searching up from the south, James had still not seen her. He estimated he had another hour before dark.

  The wharf, dock bay and harbor beyond were choked with more ships than he could have imagined in one place. There were hundreds. Maybe a thousand if one counted the small ketches and skiffs, the sloops, the frigates, schooners and in the distance the ships-of-the-line, coming in, sailing out, anchored in the mouth of the river. Almost all flew Union Jacks of one size or another, most massive and draping. Many with Royal Navy pennants and man-of-war flags. A monstrous British armada. Probably part of the West Indies campaign, he guessed. Perhaps the entire campaign fleet under the command of Admiral Vernon. Though he believed Vernon was already in Jamaica from the reports he had read. Recent newspaper accounts had detailed a new war with the Spanish. He had seen solicitations for seamen, promises of prizes, uncountable riches and immense spoils. That meant hundreds of men ambling Yorktown were also runaways, like him. Only they were attempting to find work, passage of some sort, to conspicuously disappear—which was risky at best as the streets were undoubtedly crawling with bounties. It was a dance between two starving lots, the poor runaways and the poor bounties, each seeking a reward, to return home with a jingle in their pocket. Who won depended mostly on raw instincts for the hunt, the chase, avoidance and capture. For many runaways the only hope was to be quickly pressganged onto a man-of-war. Always good for the Royal Navy. They needed more men to fight, to die. James thanked God for his fortune. At least he had his passage arranged on a merchantman. Though he feared the pressgangs more than the constables, he tried to force himself to not dwell on either. To worry was to stay still. To stay still was to get caught. To be caught meant seven more years of slavery, or to die of malaria off some Spanish island. Damn. Everyone passing the alleyway had the face of a pressganger or bounty. He was worrying again.

  His body receded further into the shadows while his mind tried to rally him back into the open, back to the long open wharf. He studied what he could see from there—the forest of topgallants over the roofs, beyond Water Street. He scanned the thicket of poles and arms and ropes and flags for the orange colors of the Kathleen. He knew it was ridiculous but he stayed anyway. Up the alley a door creaked open, startling him. He turned, hiding his face from whoever was coming. He heard a metallic scratch. He glanced around to see a cragged old woman scraping a pan into the sewer trough. The image instantly transported him to the stinking alleys of Dublin, the Long Alley rats, Copper Alley with its chalked skull. He shuddered. It was time to leave the alley. To never return. The shriek of a man in severe pain split the air. James jumped, spun, crouched, turned, looking around wide-eyed. The sound had come from within the building behind him. The old woman was watching James. The man cried out again, then another voice shouted, “Hold him! Hold him!” Then more thrashing and moaning.

  “Ye nocks?” the plump hag asked James. She was closer now. He could smell her foulness. She peered at him, awaiting an answer as if he had understood the question.

  “Ye nocks?” she repeated with a gin drinker’s crackle, a gnarled finger pointing away.

  “Next? For what?” he muttered, turning to leave. The loud moaning continued.

  “Doc’s plierin’ teeth. Ye nocks?”

  “Nay!”

  She waddled in front of him and her eyes came alive. “Lookin’ for a lil’ swivin’, eh?”

  “Swivin’?” He smiled meekly. “Nay, ma’am. I’m best on m’way now.”

  She curled her lips back in what might have been a smile and revealed her absent teeth. “Magic with m’mouth, I am. And only a ha’shillin’ for ye,” she wheedled, before erupting in a wrenching cough.

  Giving her a half-smile, a bless you, and a tip of his hat, James was past her and out onto De Grasse Street where he turned on Water Street now filled with seamen, merchants, women and children, wagons and horses, streets smelling of horse manure and boiled beef. He brushed shoulders, kept his eyes averted, kept moving, crossed the street where he could, pacing quickly toward the wharves. Keep moving. Don’t look at them, he told himself. He had to find the Kathleen. A symphony of ship bells rang out the first-dog watch, the sound echoing softly against the shanties, taverns, the Custom House, the churches and homes. He stopped, unsure if he was going the right way. Then resumed. It was getting darker quicker than expected. A waft of fresh bread tightened his stomach. Only a bit longer. He regained a swift step. Only a bit. Soon he would be aboard the Kathleen, eating with the second-dog watch. He walked past the colossal war ships. He would keep working north now.

  A group of seamen stepped boisterously from a tavern and into James’s path. He shuffled to avoid them, darting his gaze to the dirt. “Ho there!” one exclaimed in a loud Irish brogue. James kept walking, passing them into the street, into the maze of people. “Ye there! Stop!” it came again. This time James dared a glance back. The group was laughing about something. All but one—the one staring at James. Through the flicker of faces and wigs, horses trotting by, the sounds and dirt, a slight fog forming, James only saw the man’s eyes. They were on him. An alley cat locked on a mouse. James kept going, but he felt the eyes remain. Compelled, he looked back again. He could scarcely see the man, the eyes now. Gone. Then back again. In an opening here and there, between the people. There they were. Not menacing, just fixed, almost curious in their demeanor. Why was he still staring? Damn, he recognized me from the announcement! He’s a constable from Richmond! Damn! Another glance. There was something piercing, something familiar in the man’s eyes, the way he focused on James. A jaunting car momentarily blocked their view, then cleared. The man was still there. Panic hit James. He picked up his pace, made three turns, backtracked down an alley, and didn’t walk nor breathe easier till he was back on Water Street, well out of view of those eyes. He was shaking on the inside. Find the Kathleen. Find the Kathleen. He forced his mind back.

  Fog was dropping, ushering the following darkness. He passed ship after ship docked bo
w to stern, their hulls moving up and down, tied alongside the wharf. He studied the jacks. He scolded himself for waiting so long on De Grasse Street. He should not have stopped. Now this was becoming useless. How could he see an orange-and-white jack in this thick grayness? He moved closer to the ships, reading their sterns. The Montclair. The Fortitude. He would find her. The Monarch and Warwick. He would not ask anyone. The St. David and the Hillsome. Certainly not one of these seamen or marines. Not anyone. The Falmouth and the Breda. They all had bounty eyes, the look of constables on the prowl. No talking. The Good Hope. Keep moving. She is here. The Guernsey. Somewhere.

  And she was. Over an hour later, he found her. He couldn’t help grinning, thanking himself for keeping going, for not giving up. She had been nowhere near the main dock. She was a half-mile north, sandwiched longwise between the hulls of what appeared to be two British warships whose seamen were crowding the pier. He approached slowly. By the light of the dock lamps he could see her, a merchantman, an orange and white jack, the name Kathleen on her stern. It was her. He watched the seamen closely, then slipped into the black space between round hogsheads, tobacco barrels standing eight-foot upright on the wharf. He would wait till the pier was mostly empty, then walk slowly along her bow, careful to not draw attention, then hurry across her gangway and find Captain…. Was he on board? What if he wasn’t? Could he be sure? What if Captain Blackwell was spending the night ashore? The first mate might hand him over for the four pounds. He could not go till morning, till he was certain Blackwell was aboard. He felt in the dark, further in, finding a hidden gap where three hogsheads were pushed together. He gathered a soft pile of coiled ropes and plopped down. His stomach ached hollow. He leaned over, drifting in heavy nods. Soon he was dreaming of a ship named Acushla. A toothless woman shoving him overboard. A man with the piercing eyes pulling him ashore.

  *

  Awakened by an urgent need to relieve himself, James eased onto the pier. Cold first light set the mist aglow as it rose over the York River with the Chesapeake beyond. His feet were cramped, his right arm dead, and his stomach growled a cacophony of base expletives. A pair of red eyes were watching him. He stretched his back, then kicked at the rat, shooing it away. He could see the Kathleen a bit more clearly. Her name painted in orange on her green stern. She was quiet, rocking her inhabitants slowly, not a soul on her decks or gangway. He urinated off the pier then returned to his nest of ropes. He pulled the wrapped key from his pocket, considered it a moment, then slipped it around his neck.

  An hour later he was again awakened, this time by a warship’s morning bells. Now the fog was completely gone and the hogsheads were stretching long shadows down the wooden pier. He stepped into the open, then immediately staggered back, astounded by the sight before him. Docked immediately behind the Kathleen was a massive British war ship. He had known it was there, but hadn’t realized the entirety of its size. He stared at the hull a city block long dotted with three decks of gunports, room for over eighty cannon, below towering masts, the massive Union Jack nearly touching the poop deck, the broad pendant flicking clouds. “M’God!” he muttered, humbled by the formidable strength. He had read about these. It was a Royal Navy man-of-war, first class. An armada in itself with over eight hundred men. He could see many of them high in her rigging, others along the rails. On her stern he read: H. M. S. PRINCESS CAROLINE. He leaned against a dock house wall, settling in to watch for the captain of the Kathleen. But his gaze was on the Caroline.

  By ten o’clock, the three hogsheads had been loaded aboard the Kathleen, the wharves were crowded with seamen, and he still hadn’t seen Captain Blackwell. The sun, stretching to get over the Princess Caroline, was throwing a gigantic shadow across the Kathleen, graying the smaller ship’s rising sail, darkening her hull and the greenish water around her. He studied the decks, looking for Blackwell. He had to be there. He noticed crewmen in the Kathleen’s ratlines working the rigging, setting her forecourse for departure. Below skiffs were in the water, tow ropes secured for… Departure! The Kathleen was about to get underway! He quickened. He had to get aboard. What was he doing? Why had he been standing there? Crewmen were near the gang board, preparing to pull it in. James sprinted along the pier, cutting through a group of seamen and ship-chandlers, and knocked over a stack of galley crates as he ran for the gangway. Leave the gangway! he shouted silently. Men stared as he passed and some shouted, but he ignored them, focusing only on boarding. He was almost there, almost to safety. He hit the wooden gangplanks at full speed, but then stopped short, avoiding a collision with two crewmen dragging a last sea chest up. “Pardon me!” he blurted, panting, his mind shouting at them to get out of his way. They ignored him. He was in the open. “Please sirs, I must get aboard,” he barked.

  The crewmen just scowled at him. “Hold yerself, lackey.”

  Then James heard the worst thing he could have imagined at that moment, or any other moment since he left Richmond. A voice shouted, “Jemmmmy! Jemmmmy!”

  “M’God!” James shuffled back, head snapped around.

  “Ho there! Jemmmy! Up here!”

  James searched frantically, looking up into the ratlines of the Kathleen, back across the wharf, the piers, everywhere. But he couldn’t see the fool who was shouting. Must be another Jemmy. Stop panicking, he scolded himself. Stop it!

  “Jemmmmy!”

  Yes, another James, another Jemmy. Keep moving.

  “James Annesley!”

  “O’ Christ!” He said aloud, freezing, mind racing. It must be Blackwell—the damn fool! Suddenly he leaped on the sea chest and over it, shoving the crewmen aside, ignoring the hail of curses pelting him as he reached the ship. He sprinted for the stern of the Kathleen, jumping over chains and blocks, pushing men, pivoting around the capstan, then climbed to the quarterdeck and raced to the far side, sliding to a slippery stop beyond the shrouds. Panting, he leaned over the starboard railing, his heart pounding. Alright. At least he was safe on board.

  “Jemmmmy! Up here!”

  “For the love of Christ!” A dark fluttering motion caught James’s eye. It was down the length of the Kathleen, beyond her bow, up, almost in line with the sun. He saw the silhouette of a man high on the poop deck of the Princess Caroline waving his arms wildly, swinging a black cloth in a wide arc over his head. Who the bloody-hell is that? James held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the sun. The seaman was gesturing something else, waving his hand. A signal of some kind. Then it came into focus. The man was holding up three fingers, sweeping them back and forth, high in the air.

  “Jemmmy!”

  “Seán?” The name tumbled from his mouth.

  “Jemmmy!”

  “M’God!” he breathed. No, the man was too old. “Seán?” he yelled back.

  “Aye! Seán!” came the reply. “Jemmy!”

  Seán? He had to get off the Kathleen before she was away! James turned and ran down the weather deck, thinking of nothing but to get clear before they pulled the gangway. It was too late, the gangway was in, the bow was coming around.

  “What the devil!” Captain Blackwell appeared from nowhere, putting out a hand to stop James. “What are you doing, Mr. Annesley?”

  James didn’t stop. Besides, how could he answer? He didn’t know what he was doing. Only that he had to get off the Kathleen. “Sorry, sir!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Changed m’ mind!” He shoved past a cook, then two crewmen manning the pier ropes. There was nothing left to do. He leaped from the side and fell, crashing into the cold harbor water. Flopping to the surface, unable to swim, he flailed, thrashing for the pier ladder. The water pulled at him, doubling his weight. Men on the wharf were pointing, but no one moved to help. Grasping the ladder below the waterline, he pulled at the rungs, lifting himself and his overflowing boots up to the top of the dock wall.

  “Ye’re a fool,” said a man as James gathered himself to his feet, the cold water coursing down and off of his head and coat. His hat was gone. He s
oggy-stumbled toward the Caroline.

  Two British marines in red coats were attending that gangway. “Halt!”

  James quickly complied. “Aye. I’m stopped,” he panted, dripping. “Need t’ get—”

  “Mr. Annesley?” The question came from a midshipman at the top of the gangway.

  “Aye. I am,” James said, his heart beating wildly.

  “Seaman Kennedy cannot remove himself from his post. Wishes you to meet him on the hour at the Swan.”

  Seaman Kennedy Seán? “Very well,” James mumbled. The midshipman was gone. “The Swan,” James repeated. He looked at the two marines. “The Swan?”

  “A tavern,” one replied. “On Main. Near Ballard Street.”

  “Thank ye,” James offered quietly, still shock stunned, astounded and shivering wet. He scanned the Princess Caroline again, but didn’t see Seán. This was absurd. Astonishing. Clearly impossible. But real. Was it? How could it be? His mind bickered, an angry crowd of thoughts trying to shout the others down. Backing away, he gaped up into the warship’s thicket of shrouds as if he might see Seán again. Finally, he turned, melding into the crowd and walked down the pier to the next row of docks. Near the end, he turned back. The square sails of the Kathleen were swelling in the morning wind, pushing her into the Chesapeake, to the Atlantic beyond, bound for Ireland. He watched her. Just below her billowing standard was her orange and white jack, fluttering, snapping, waving farewell. She was leaving without him. She was gone.

  Chapter 22

  Richard Tighe, examined — “I heard no more of the boy after his leaving Dublin, a matter of fourteen or fifteen years ago, till I received a letter about him from a friend in Jamaica, while Admiral Vernon was in the West Indies, in which he related the most amazing story of James Annesley encountering a childhood friend by chance in Virginia. He then related the troubles and misfortunes that the boy had gone through. The friend assisted in the removal of Mr. Annesley from America. It was later related on to me the friend’s name being Seán Kennedy.”