— trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne!
— Auld Lang Syne, Robert Burns, 1788
The Swan Tavern was stuffed with seamen and sprinkled with whores. For a dire moment, James thought one was the old alley hag till she revealed a slightly younger face and full head of hair. He chose an empty table near the back, a step from the cavernous stone fireplace where logs blazed, crackling, sending sparks up the great chimney to battle the afternoon chill. Its warmth began to dry him. He sipped a jar of beer and waited, trying to slow his anxious breathing, to idle himself, keeping an eye across the raucous room, watching the door for Seán. As he adjusted to the golden smoky dimness, he began studying the faces around him. Was the bearded one a constable? The one in the fur hat, was that the look of recognition? Would one of them come haul him away at musket-point? But none seemed to pay him much mind, which pleased him immensely. They all appeared seamen of some sort or another, navy or otherwise, sun dried, wind battered, and salt-water hardened. Some quiet, playing whist or working the iron tavern puzzles. Most a rowdy lot. Except the ruddy-cheeked round man at the table beside him. The man was alone. Silent. A tankard of beer in one hand, the other clutching a soggy piece of bread turned soupspoon. From his attire he was plainly not seaworthy. Something landed, though not of money either. A tradesman perhaps. The man kept a sharp eye on the others, listening intently, then scribbling notes in a parchment book. A writer perhaps. He reminded James of Mr. Morris, how Morris looked when scouting stories.
Yet, of what consequence was it who these men were? Perhaps there was a constable among them. Or seamen seeking conscripts. What if this fat man wrote his runaway announcement for the Virginia Gazette? He had chosen this path, to stay in Yorktown, to see Seán, to let the Kathleen fly. The minutes passed. They ticked by slowly. No Seán. James weighed his options, the scenarios. Perhaps he should have stayed on the Kathleen. How could he? Knowing Seán was so near, of course not. He reasoned one of three things would happen now: he would be returned under arms to Richmond for an additional term—he would return by his own accord and plead Morris’s lenience—or he would sail to Dublin with the Royal Navy. He shook his head with a silent chuckle—he was to be pressganged after all by his own choosing. He exhaled a sigh at the sheer absurdity of it all, then sipped his thick warm beer, wiped the foam from his lip and listened to the room.
“Ya’re right, begob! T’ hell with Port Royal!” a scabby exclaimed to his mates. They ardently echoed the sentiment. “Vernon will rot us all on that island, that cesspool!” A young crewman stood with hands clasped behind his back, then he puffed his cheeks and stomped about the wooden floor. The men around him hooted. “Aye, aye, Admiral!” shouted one. “Ahoy Ol’ Grogam!,” yelled another. The parading young man stuffed his right hand into his open coat, dramatically flaring the front flaps wide and marched about sternly. Laughter gushed the tavern.
James chuckled, feeling oddly at ease with this place, these men.
A swishy wench approached. “Nother pint fer ye?”
“That’d be grand,” he replied, almost in a whisper. His gaze made its rounds—the clamorous seamen, the wigwagging whores, the long bar, the entrance, the plump beside him—snap back to the door. A man was there. Something familiar. Grizzled. Hair flattened wet, a hopeless attempt at civility. His beady, smiling Irish eyes were surveying the room, then locked on James. By the time James sprang to his feet and stepped from the table, Seán was already running toward him, oblivious of the men he dodged. He grabbed James, knocking him backward, laughing deliriously, hugging him. “Jemmy! I can’t believe!”
“Seán, m’God!” yelled James, stammering, beaming.
“Damn ye, Jemmy!” Seán shouted, grinning. “I thought ye were dead, I did. Then I read the runaways and figured ye’d be headin’ here. I’ve been lookin’ fer yer ugly mug since! When I saw ye yesterday, I wasn’t sure, but—”
“Kennedy?” asked one of the seamen.
Seán beamed. “Aye, Chester, this is the friend of m’youth, Jemmy.” He shook James by the coat. “Jemmy Annesley! I thought he was gone from ‘dis bloody world.”
James could not take his eyes off Seán. It was too inconceivable—Seán Kennedy, standing right in front of him, the same mischievous eyes, the same smile, that same unruly mop of hair. Yet somehow, Seán had changed. “Ye’ve gotten old, ye old Irish sot!” James teased.
“And ye haven’t?” snorted Seán. “M’God, how long’s it been? Fifteen years? Twenty?”
“Fourteen.”
“Bloody hell!” Seán shook his head. They stood face to face, grasping each other by the arms. “Ye look fit, Jemmy. Have ye been here all this time?”
“I have. Look upon ye, ye navy man!”
The tavern door flew open, and two men in white campaign wigs stepped inside with three aides and a marine in tow. Seán’s smile disappeared as he released James and snapped to attention. The two men made their way toward the fireplace. Screeching chairs and rumbling shoes filled the room as every seaman jumped to his feet, eyes on the officers. The older one was a head above the other, menacingly large. The tavern keeper appeared. “Good day Admiral. Captain Knowles. May I offer ye gentlemen—”
“No thank you, Mr. Smithers,” replied the admiral, removing his three-cornered blue hat, tucking it abruptly beneath his arm.
The captain also removed his hat. “Aye, Smithers, just a bit of rum would—”
“Nothing at present,” the admiral interrupted.
Knowles winked at the keeper, then turned to Seán. “Master Seaman, this your man?”
“Aye, Captain.” Seán nudged James forward. “May I present Mr. James Annesley.”
“Is that so?” The tall admiral stepped closer with an inspector’s gaze. The aides, two lieutenants and a warrant officer, stayed close, silently watching James, listening to everything. The marine remained near the door.
“Jemmy, this is Admiral Vernon,” Seán said firmly.
“Sir. I’m honored,” James offered with a faint tip of his head while looking directly into the man’s green eyes. As amazed as he was to stand before the famous Admiral Vernon, he was still reeling with the inexplicable presence of Seán. He extended a hand and was pleased the admiral shook it.
“And I as well, Mr. Annesley.” Admiral Vernon’s face was strong and imposing, with a broad forehead and long chin. He pointed at the scar along James’s cheek. “The mark of a dragoon.”
“Stirrup, sir. When I was a boy.”
Vernon chuckled, nodding his approval. “Bless my soul, you are him indeed.”
Knowles arched an eyebrow at Seán.
“And this is our flag captain,” Seán interjected carefully. “Captain Knowles.”
James turned politely. “Captain. Pleased to meet ye, sir.”
“Shall we sit?” asked Vernon, stepping back, his question an order. The four moved to James’s table near the hearth and took seats. The others remained standing, all close. Behind them the room also sat with another loud scuttering of chairs. The hum of conversation resumed, only now dampened, peppered with curious remarks about the admiral’s presence and wonder about James. All but the lone man. He remained distractedly dabbing his soup.
“Mr. Annesley,” began Knowles, “Mr. Kennedy is fond of stories. He has spun us many yarns of his youth. Including much of you, sir.”
“Indeed? I confirm only my heroics are true,” James said, hoping for humor.
“What heroics?” Seán huffed, playing along.
Knowles continued, unamused. “Upon discovering your presence in Yorktown, he relayed such to me, and I t
o the admiral. Thus we are here.”
Vernon had two fingers under his wig, scratching his scalp. “I shall be direct. I am familiar with your family.” He paused, watching James’s reaction.
“If I may ask, which sir?” James asked. “The Annesleys or the Sheffields?”
“Both, assuredly,” he replied, then smirked. “When I’m not smashing Spanish privateers, my favored occupation—” Several gave an approving cheer and he waited for them to settle. “Then I’m found in the House of Lords contending with that other breed of blood-sucking vermin. I can attest many are so aptly described.” His eyes fixed on James again. “And they too tell stories, Mr. Annesley. Some true. Some lies. Some honestly retold. Some slanderous, contrived for political gain. Some told to set matters straight. A most curious one was that of a young lad, the son of an Earl, cut with a spur, sold into servitude, his title robbed of him.
“Aye, sir,” James said solemnly, his breathing nearly gone.
“I am familiar with your story, Mr. Annesley.” Vernon rubbed his crooked nose. Everything else, his eyes, his face, everything about him was fronting James, focused on him. “And I know Richard Annesley. I know his perjury. Of which I was never inclined to believe.”
James was momentarily stunned just at the utterance of the name. “My uncle lives?”
“Aye. On occasion he takes that appearance. But not in quality. He’s a chuff. An odious man. My fellow lords and I must transact with him in Parliament. An unpleasant endeavor as he is a liar of the worst class.” The admiral raised his hand, materializing the tavern keeper. “Mr. Smithers, we’ll have a brandy round.”
James’s mind ran the fence of facts and events, unable to hold on anything in particular. There were just too many horses in the corral. Everything was coming too quickly. He wanted to stop everyone and talk only with Seán. How had he become a seaman? When did he see him yesterday? What had he told these men?
“You are a runaway?” asked Captain Knowles, breaking the brief silence.
“Some might say so,” James cautiously replied. “I am…was…returning to Ireland.”
Seán cut in. “On that wee tub ye were boardin’?”
Just the sound of Seán’s voice had James beaming again. To think he was right there, right beside him. “The captain’s an acquaintance,” James replied. He put a hand on Seán’s shoulder. Both men smiled at each other and for a moment James felt as if he might choke up. But tears at this moment would never do, not in front of a White Admiral of the Royal Navy.
Vernon leaned in. “So, are you prepared to tangle with your imposter?”
“There is no better time, sir.”
“That’s courage, Mr. Annesley.” Vernon gave an affirming nod. “Mind you remember it in England. Hold it tight.”
“I will sir.” James looked at the man curiously. In England?
The keeper returned with the brandy. “Here lads,” said Vernon, standing, thus pulling everyone else to their feet. He distributed the small bumpers then lifted his high. The others followed. “To the health and courage of Mr. Annesley. The true Lord Anglesea!”
“To Lord Anglesea!” they all replied, including Seán, then tipped their drinks.
“Mr. Annesley, you are surprised?” Vernon asked.
“To be called Lord Anglesea,” James said softly. “Aye, surprised.”
“You are the Earl of Anglesea, are you not?” The admiral lifted his chin at James.
James glanced at Seán. “Aye, sir. I am.”
“So you are.” Vernon clapped James on the back, and with that the air decompressed, the sails luffed, formality slackening as if left where it stood. Before the toast James was suspect. Now he was avowed, accepted, and in this presence, an English Earl.
After everyone resumed their seats, Knowles began. “I was in Dublin not long after you disappeared. I remember the notices posted for you.”
“They placed notices, did they?” James asked. “Who—”
“M’ father, Jemmy,” said Seán. “He had advertisements printed for yer discovery. Kept them posted for months.”
“Fynn?” James brightened. “How is yer father?”
“He is in good health. In New Ross. He’ll be so pleased t’ hear ye’re well.”
“Perhaps you will see him soon,” declared Vernon, reclaiming the conversation. “You’ll sail with us on my flagship, His Majesty’s Princess Caroline. Once to Port Royal, in Jamaica, you can transfer to the Falmouth and sail for England. Of course, you’ll sail as an officer of your station. Will First Lieutenant suffice?”
James knew his mouth was again holding a ridiculous grin. He nodded. “Yes, Admiral. That will be most kind of ye. Far more than I could ever have imagined.”
“And you, seaman.” Vernon peered at Seán. “What is your name?”
Seán popped to standing attention. “Master Seaman Seán Kennedy, sir.”
Vernon turned to Knowles. “This man is to serve as officer’s mate for Lieutenant Annesley, responsible for his well being. See to it that he transfers to the Falmouth as well.” He stood, and again the room clamored. He shook Seán’s hand. “You’ve done the navy a great service, Master Seaman Kennedy, bringing this man to me.”
“Thank ye, sir!” Seán was nodding, smiling.
“I am charging you with his health. Do you understand me?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Until relieved you are to remain his aide.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Very well then.” Admiral Vernon gathered his hat and Knowles gulped his brandy. “Lord Anglesea,” Vernon continued. “May I beseech a favor?”
“But of course.”
“When you’ve recovered your title from your imposter uncle, you’ll take your place among your peers in the House of Lords.” He hesitated, looking at James.
“I am certain, sir.”
“When you do, then we’ll talk as brethren, and I’ll remind you of this day when I saved your arse.” He winked knowingly. “Then perhaps you’ll assist me in rebuilding His Majesty’s fleets. How’s that?”
“Aye, Admiral. And so I will.”
“Very well. I’ll see you on board, Lieutenant. After Cape Henry, I hope you’ll dine with me and tell us the length of your story.”
“Indeed, sir,” replied James stiffly, still reeling from the whole affair.
Admiral Vernon walked away with Knowles and the other officers close behind. Just as they reached the door, Vernon turned back and announced loudly, “Men, your attention please.” He dramatically shoved his hand in his grogam coat causing a flurry of chuckles across the room. “I am honored that you would name your new rum ration after me. Mr. Smithers, if you will, a round of grog for everyone!” He grinned, donned his hat and left as nervous laughter erupted behind him, with many asking “How did he know?”
As the commotion abated, James and Seán sat again by the fire and began to talk, to stitch together those fourteen years, to relive their youth, regaling stories of their lives apart, finding common threads, moments when they were near, weaving lost time and space together month by month, year by year, tragedy by tragedy, joy by joy, sewing the semblance of one past, the way it should have been, every significant event told through and through up and till that moment, that shared present, that whole cloth that dared not be questioned due the miraculous nature of its very occurrence. The tavern keeper brought them drinks and dinner for no charge. After two hours, James had had enough of the fat man’s apparent eavesdropping and stood to confront him. But before a word could be exchanged, the man gathered his things, paid the keeper and left.
Chapter 23
October 10, 1742. A seaman lately entered on board the Princess Caroline, to sail to England on the Falmouth, is said to be the right Earl of Anglesea. He declares that he was sent from Ireland by a certain Nobleman, in his 13th year, and sold as a slave for seven years into Pennsylvania, before the expiration of which having attempted his escape, he
was retaken and by a law of the country oblig’d for his elopement to serve nine years more. A gentleman who was his schoolfellow, and at whose father’s house he boarded, believes him to be the same person. Another gentleman who remembers the advertisements published when the boy was missing, corroborates this account. Admiral Vernon has shown him so much regard as to make him a lieutenant. We can expect the Falmouth to arrive in Bristol early next year.
— The London Daily Post, Extracts from our correspondent in Virginia. February 12, 1743
A cool breeze swept down the slope of an Irish hillside, swirling, gathering wintered leaf cannonballs to explode against the garden walls of Dunmain House. Scaling those defenses, the bluster whipped into the house, through the drawing room, puffing flames and riffling a newspaper held by lanky hands in lace cuffs. Richard Annesley’s eyes, cold black marbles, twitched back and forth as he took in each phrase, each word, each threat, each breath, each tick from the parlor clock. He held his patrician’s face taut, unexpressive. Then, with a priggish lift of his nose, he examined Patrick Higgins before him.
Higgins shifted his weight from one boot to the other, otherwise dissembling any regard for the summons. Seeing Richard’s glare, he parried it with a turn of his head, glancing over his shoulder. Behind him, in a grey leather, wrinkled chair was a grey, wrinkled, leathery man with a face pinched at a crow’s nose, beady eyes through sharp squints below a white wig that to Higgins seemed comical in its inaptness, gauche for the base man it adorned. Though the three men in that room were within five years of age, the previous fourteen years had imbued each entirely differently: no doubt who was richest, who most alive, who most inconceivably decayed.
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