In Edinburgh, he put away his broadswords and dirks, and set about building a small, successful law practice. Weapons aside, other than the occasional dress sword, he kept himself in his Highland tartan unless before the King’s Bench. He wanted a peaceful life. So it was. Though punctuated with restlessness. Known to be genuinely cheerful, every few months an unseen shadow would nevertheless succumb him, delivering a two-week melancholic stew of resentment and depression. It was then that his unabating fury over Joan’s death would burst upon him in a different way: a mopey, angry sadness. A polar volcano erupting from the ocean floor. A bleakness that kept him cold—the knowledge that Richard and his men would never pay for their deeds, their crimes. Not in this realm. Richard’s mortal sins were to be relegated to the justice of the afterlife. But to Mackercher that was questionable justice at best. Indeed, it was a failure of true justice. Earthly deeds required earthly retribution. But he knew the irony of his captor. He had commissioned his professional life to the system of law that proclaims justice supreme. But it was only when unbound by that very rule of law that such honest retribution could be executed, and thus prove itself superior, more fair in its finality, more complete in the balance, than anything a heavenly adjudication would afford. The paradox fed his rumbling temper.
Not long after he returned from Dublin, he married a young Lowland widow. They had twin girls who both died before the age of three. They never tried again. Never spoke of it or much else. They built a fine home south of the burgeoning city, settled into a rhythm, an ease of kindness—from separate bedrooms on separate floors, along the length of their long dining table overseen by a duteous staff, across parlors at frequent social functions, beside one another on Sunday pews. It was a good marriage. Love had died with the girls; even earlier for Mackercher—during the war when he was young, then again with Joan fourteen years ago. He focused on his work, on friends at the shooting club, on Edinburgh, his city.
And his law practice grew. He took on another solicitor partner, then another, and soon the offices comprised four solicitors, counting Mackercher, and six barristers. But that was years ago. One partner died, another group split away, and finally it was just he and one other, which suited Mackercher fine. This other fellow balanced Mackercher in the way that north balances south, and fire balances the winter cold. The man was too obsessed for Mackercher’s style, too involved with the rules and punctuality and specifications of the law. Whereas Mackercher enjoyed the areas of the legal profession where a bit of lawlessness ruled, where to win meant bending things, thinking fast, winning favor with the enemy and surrounding them before they even realized a battle was afoot. This was Mackercher’s strong suit. While his partner practically lived at their offices, rehearsing opening arguments and rhapsodizing long with professors of law—Mackercher was out, preparing cases. He trolled taverns for loose-lipped clerks. He was ever-reprising his role as poker-fool at the gaming tables of opposing counsel. He sipped the silver quaich with Loyalists and Jacobites alike. He sponsored pheasant and fox hunts for judges at his Highland home near Aberfoyle. He negotiated impeccable settlements rivaled only in denseness by the smoky dens where they were inevitably signed. In this manner he and his partner were a formidable team, even if no one could remember the last time they were seen together. Never socially. Once or twice at an Episcopal mass, but never in open court.
“Mr. Mackercher!”
Mackercher turned to see his fellow solicitor’s young son, sprinting down St. Giles Street, a newspaper flapping in his hand.
“Mr. Mackercher!”
Mackercher watched the boy come close. “Andrew. What have ya there?”
“Father told me…to find ya.” The boy was panting as he came to a stop.
“Did he?” Mackercher forced a smile, mildly perturbed at the interruption.
“Aye, sir. Said business requires ya. That ya had to return. To yar office.”
“What business? Did he say?”
“Nay, sir. He just told me—”
Mackercher raised a hand. “I’m on my walk, Master Andrew.” He resumed his pace.
“Aye sir, said ya’d be ‘round the Nor.” The boy walked alongside him.
“And so I am.”
“But father said ya have urgent business and that—”
“Aye. Ya said that already.”
“Ya have a guest.”
Mackercher slowed. “Do I? I made no appointment.”
“Aye, sir. A man ya’d be wantin’ to see. And he told me to give ya this.” The boy handed the newspaper to Mackercher. “Suggested ya read the back.”
“All right then,” muttered Mackercher, stopping, flipping the sheet. As he read it, he froze, eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “Tell me, Andrew, the man in my office, what’s his name?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Is he Irish?” Mackercher had already turned.
“I don’t know, he sounded like a Scot—”
“Come now, lad! B’jingo! Let’s go!” He hurried up the street, the boy close behind, both disappearing against the lagging sun.
*
It was nearly dark when James saw Tobias Smollett, the surgeon’s mate, strolling toward them on the foc-s-le. “Good eve to ye, Tobias,” James offered.
“Lieutenant Random. Seán. Where’s our minds tonight?”
Seán shrugged. “Pondering Jemmy’s fate, what’s awaiting him when—”
“Not much to talk about,” James interjected. He had still not settled with the moniker Smollett had given him: Roderick Random. Upon first introduction by Seán, Smollett had confused James with another, named Roderick, and it stuck. The Random came when weeks later James and Seán were discussing a good alias for James to use in his travels across England. Smollett had remarked that any random name would be best, as a determinate name would seem just that, and thus lend itself to discovery.
“Ach, sure there is,” pressed Seán. “I saved his arse, got him into this bloody navy and now he won’t listen to my advice for going ashore. Doesn’t seem fair, now does it Toby? Ye know these nobles and their highbrow ways.”
Smollett gave Seán a dismissive shrug. “Right, Seán.”
“Ye agree with the bugger?” exclaimed James.
“Have I ever?” Smollett smiled. “Ya know, Seán, seems to me the lieutenant did you the favor. If he hadn’t been in Yorktown for ya to stumble upon, well then, ya might’ve stayed aboard the Caroline, and ya’d most likely be lying in our between-deck now. Worse, ya might’ve been sent to the Boyne. By now ya’d be shark shite.”
“Well said, Tobias!” James patted him on the back. “Well said, indeed.”
“Who the bloody hell invited ye up here, Toby?” snarled Seán. “We were just havin’ a pleasant discussion on the weather, and up ye pop with yer bleedin’ Scottish mouth.”
Smiling, James pulled Smollett aside. “Still wantin’ to be a writer, do ye?”
“Aye, Roderick. That I do.”
“Well then, my friend, ‘tis time ye heard the epic tale of Seán and the great centipede!”
“Ach, Jemmy, ye never tell it right,” protested Seán. “Don’t believe him, Toby. He’s an Englishman telling an Irishman’s story.”
“The great centipede?” asked Smollett.
“Aye,” said James. “It had seventeen legs and two enormous fangs.”
“Seventeen?” Smollett was ginning. “And fangs ya say?”
“Nasty fangs, aye. Seems one day this odd orange creature ‘twas minding its own affairs, just crawling along, ye understand, and the hoyden Seán here sees it and screams to—”
“Ach piss off! Ye threw the damn thing on me!” yelled Seán. “Tell the story right!”
Chapter 24
This is the heir:
come, let us kill him,
that the inheritance may be ours.
— Luke 20:14
The morning sun shimmered off a gia
nt white sail fluttering loose overhead, snapping back and forth in the chilly breeze. A rhythmic pop, to and fro. Its duty done, its ship to shore, the mizzen sheet flicked anxiously, as if yearning to be filled again, to return to open sea. It flew in the air, regaling its grander moments from its voyage past; no doubt exaggerating its importance amongst its thirty-three fellows. Yet it too knew its fate. Within an hour they would come. It would be furled and tied, lowered and stowed in some dark, windless place. There to await its resurrection, its rejoinder with sun and wind. Suddenly a fresh gust hit and it snapped wildly in reply, its shadow a gray flurry across the boards, across James and Seán who were down the Falmouth’s aft gangway, walking to England.
The Bristol wharf sounds were rich and curiously intoxicating: the creaking of hawsers, the hoarse shouts of dockworkers heaving their loads, the crackle of sails being rolled, barking dogs, the clatter of wagons on cobbled paths, the aching creak of wooden cranes as they pulled and turned. In the distance, immigrants, indentured servants most, queued along another pier, for another ship, other indeterminate fates yet to be resolved. James and Seán neared the awaiting crowd, the ones come to greet those leaving the Falmouth —those men now shedding from the ship’s hold. The last green leaves shaken from an autumn tree. Discards. Distinguished only for having survived this long. Unique for the life still found within them.
Shore eyes studied debarking eyes, all in hopeful recognition. Too much familiarity for James and he quickly lowered his nose, eyes dropping behind the sharp brim of his green three-corner hat. Though these were mostly women and children, they were staring nonetheless, disturbingly so. Peering at him with faces locked in anxious alert, open eyes, brows peaked as if to ask, ‘Are you my father, my brother, my husband, so changed by the war and sea as to be unrecognizable? My God at least you are alive! Oh, no, you are not him.’ And the brows would momentarily fall, till the next was likewise examined. Many were already in despair, already wailing at the news that their man would never return, their sounds melding with the ever present screeches of seagulls overhead. Mixed in, like a marbled concoction of the most discordant groups, were those who also cried, but deliriously, clinging with near faint to their loved one, resolved to not notice the missing limbs, the sallow gaze, the stench, the pallid vacancy that greeted them. They quickly shuffled their living away from that remaining mass, that ceremonial throng of mourners, where hope breathes its last.
James, with Seán close behind, moved with the departing, anxious to get off the docks. After endless months of standing on decks, the earth was a bizarre surface to his feet and legs. His knees were jelly, the dirt giving and swaying beneath him. He moved as best he could, his mind racing to remember how to walk on solid ground. When clear of the shoulders and elbows, he half-turned to Seán. They stood a moment, just looking. “I guess this will be it then,” James said quietly, as if to himself.
“A couple of months.” Seán nodded. “Then ye’ll get the honor of seeing me again.”
“Indeed,” James murmured seriously. It was not that Seán didn’t amuse him; it was simply an instinct. He was uncomfortable in the open. He saw no value in stopping to chat up each other regarding plans they had long discussed in detail. They knew where to go, where to meet, what they would do. He would secret away, hopefully to his mother’s family in England. Seán would hop a sloop back to Waterford, on the southern coast of Ireland, then make to New Ross and survey the doings of Dunmain. They would meet at a later date, at a place to be designated by letter from James. It was that simple. Nothing more. James would travel under the name Roderick Random. There was no need to loiter, canvassing in front of who knows what unseen, lurking enemies. He felt his heart thumping, chill overcoming him, panic coursing his veins. He hadn’t felt it since Yorktown. Not even in the heat of the sea carnage with all the pressing men aboard. That had been different. Those seamen had other matters at hand. No informer, no wisp of evil had been prowling behind them. Not as in a street crowd like this one, here on the Bristol docks, on Broad Quay.
If Seán shared, or even noticed, James’s anxiety, it was disguised as he rested a foot on his sea chest and leaned over his knee. “My friend, when ye get to London, watch yer back. Do ye hear? Don’t let a stranger get near ye. Keep yer sword within reach, Jemmy. I am still under the Admiral’s orders to protect ye’re bleedin’ hide. Never forget. Don’t have me brigged on account of yer foolishness.”
“My foolishness?”
“Just keep it at yer ready.”
“I will.” James put a hand on the hilt of his rapier, a gift from Admiral Vernon. He wished he also had a pistol. “I’ll have a week or so before there’s word—”
“Ye stay hidden all the same.”
“I can’t well find a solicitor if I’m shriveled in a London boardin’ house, now can I?”
“Hear me now, Jemmy. Ye’ll have to watch out for that bastard Bailyn, and Higgins too. Ye never know where—”
“I’ll be careful,” said James, placing a firm hand on Seán’s shoulder. This was not wise, rehashing this on the public quay.
Suddenly a hawker boy materialized. “Coach to London and all points between!”
James nodded, taking the boy’s only flyer. Across the top, it read: Shelby Stables — High Street. He refocused on Seán. “I’ll write ye when I get in a place to do so,” he said, gesturing with the flyer. “Give my finest to yer father.”
“I will,” Seán said, standing tall. He held up three fingers, pointing them at James. When James returned the gesture, he noticed Seán’s hand was shaking. They embraced, gripping each other’s shoulders tightly for a moment before pulling away.
James was surprised by the flush that now suddenly jolted through him. He felt his lip quiver and held it tight. “Seán,” he began, his voice cracking despite his best efforts against it. “I don’t know what I would’ve done—”
“Ach, what ye would’ve done? Ye’d already be in Ireland by now. And most certainly ye would’ve missed Cartagena.”
“Ye know my meaning.”
Seán nodded. “I do. But must ye be reminded? I’d be out there fighting the stinkin’ Spaniards still, I would. If I hadn’t seen yer ugly mug. Ye remember that.”
“I will.” James gave his friend a smile, then pulled in a breath. “See ye soon?”
“Ye will. Unless I see ye first, ye ol’ rogue.”
James chuckled, though he didn’t mean it. “I’d best be gone. God speed, Seán.”
“God be with ye too, Jemmy.”
James turned away, tugged his lips in, cinching his face, refusing to let the tears come. In a moment he was gone, melded into the thick crowd.
*
Up Broad Quay, past a merchant’s counting house, a tavern, a small glasshouse, then another tavern, stood a sugar refinery twenty yards offset from the bustling street. In the courtyard formed by that offset, hauliers worked their handtrucks from the quay to the refinery’s iron gates and back again. Also there this day was a rickety faded green wagon, turned round to face Broad, its driver’s box just visible; its driver, Patrick Higgins even less so. He was peering through a brass scope, observing the two seamen disembark, talk, take the flyer, embrace, then go their separate ways. He kept his focus on the taller, darker one in the green hat. That was James Annesley. Certainly no other. “I’ll be damned,” Higgins whispered, thinking he saw the scar he had long-ago rendered the man. The other young man, who was that? Seán Kennedy? Must be. Same reddish hair, boyish grin. Yet how could it be? It hadn’t made sense when he had heard it predicted; yet who else was the ‘schoolfellow at whose father’s house he boarded?’ Must be Seán, just as they had told him. Very good. He disliked surprises nearly as much as he disdained rash behavior. He turned again, searching the faces for James. There. Damn! He was startled to see James approaching so briskly. He collapsed the scope, dropped his chin, hiding his face behind his hat, and watched as James passed by. Then he eased his wagon forward, joinin
g the stream of horses and people moving along the quay, the reins slippery in his sweaty palms. James was ahead, moving away. This was not going to be easy. If only Bailyn would keep his bloody distance.
But he knew it was too late for that. Bailyn was already near. He might have known by the feeling alone—the chill of a demon’s presence. But it was the tail of that pathetic, brilliant white wig wagging in the breeze which alerted him: Bailyn was a hundred yards up Broad Quay, on horseback, watching them all.
Higgins pulled gently on the bit, slowing to keep a safe distance from James. At Corn, James spoke with a passerby, then turned toward High Street. “Very good, Mr. Annesley,” he mumbled nervously under his breath. “To the Shelby Stables ya go.” Higgins reined the old horse to the right, then whipped it to a corky run down a muddy alley leading across one street and on to the next where he turned left, still cracking the whip to keep on a stuttering pace. The wagon jostled, banging under him, pitching loose hay from the wagon bed. “Come on, ya colicky nag!” he ordered, whipping new life into the beast. When he reached another alley, he tugged hard left and charged. Directly ahead, down the alley, he could see stables across the coming street, the large doors standing wide. Higgins whipped the straining nag yet again, bolting across the traffic and into the stable’s dim shadows where he pulled to a stop and leapt from the driver’s box. As he faded into the dark reaches, a bald, white-bearded man gave him a nod and led the horse and wagon back to the street. There the old man cooed at the nag, patting its jaw, hitching it loosely to a post. He closed the giant doors, ambled to a bench and sat down.
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