*
Captain Bailyn was cursing himself for losing sight of Higgs. But as he rounded the last turn, he sighed. There ahead was the horse and green wagon Higgs had been driving; now hitched in front of a stable. No driver. No Higgs. Bailyn moved forward, cautiously trotting his mare past the stables, across the street and into an alley opposite. He turned to face the street. From there he could see anyone approaching, yet stay removed from conspicuous sight. He leaned forward, creaking the saddle’s black leather, and peered around the corner. The sight down the street made him grin. James Annesley was coming.
Looking back Bailyn watched a disheveled old man sitting in front of the stable. He imagined Higgs lurking inside, waiting to spring out and slide a knife between James’s ribs. No, Higgs wouldn’t have that kind of courage. Higgs will shoot him in the back. With that thought, Bailyn raised his musket, removed the plunger and began loading the barrel. If James Annesley didn’t go into those stables, or if he overpowered Higgs, or if that pathetic Scot botched this in any way, he would be ready. He took aim at the old man, judging the range. By damn, if James even sticks his head out, he could shoot the English bastard right through the eye and still stay mounted. He glanced behind him. This alley would allow for a quick flight. For all of Higgs’ idiocy, at least the Scot had chosen an ideal location for a quiet killing.
*
James walked quickly, keeping a hand on the hilt of his sword. Finally, there it was, straight ahead, a swinging sign with the words SHELBY STABLES emblazoned in red letters across a poorly drawn white horse. But he didn’t see any carriages or coaches in front, just an ancient hay wagon hitched to an obviously experienced nag. He slowed as he neared the building, noticing an elderly man who seemed to have about as much life left in him as did the horse. “Sir?” James said as he approached.
The man watched James carefully. “What do you want, seaman?”
“A coach east.” He handed the flyer to the man. “I can obtain such a fare here?”
The man studied the flyer as if he had never seen it before. Suddenly he bellowed, “Of course! What’d you think this place was, a dancin’ parlor? Eh?” The man grinned, baring his gums. “A dancin’ parlor?”
James glanced at the sign overhead, then back at the wagon. “I just didn’t—”
“The coach east, certainly. That’s what you want. A hackney to Bath and on to London.” The man stood on his shaky legs. “Begob seaman, you’ve come to the right place, you have indeed. To London you said?”
James stepped back. “I didn’t say. But aye, to London.”
“Well, come inside, seaman. Come inside.” The man shuffled toward the entrance and opened one of the large doors. “I’ll make your arrangements here, begob I will. Have you gone in two shakes of a dog’s tail, I will. Two shakes. You’ll see.”
As James followed the old man, he brushed past the panting horse. “What sir,” he began, “what is the fare for the—” He stopped as the horse fidgeted, sidestepping against him.
“Fifteen shillings. Never mind the old mite. She needs a bit o’ hobblin’, I’d say. Aye, a bit o’ hobblin for the missus. Just fifteen, I said.”
James noticed the horse’s neck was lathered in sweat. He touched its withers, feeling the dissipating heat. Then he glanced at the old man who was already disappearing into the blackness. “Somebody drove this one hard,” he said, studying the horse again.
“What’d you say?” the man called from within.
“This horse, sir. A bit ragged, wouldn’t ye say?”
The man re-emerged. “I told you, seaman, don’t mind that mite of a horse. She’s not the one that’ll take your coach.” He showed his gums. “I can assure you of that. Nay. Not to pull the likes of you.”
“Good,” said James, not sure what was meant by ‘the likes of you.’
“Humph! You coming in or aren’t you? Eh? What’s it to be?” The man again vanished into the cool stables. This time James followed. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. The sound of horses’ hooves pawing the ground reassured him, their snorts, the rattling of their harnesses. He walked farther, following the slow-trodding man who kept glancing back over his shoulder with a polite, uneasy nod. About fifteen paces in, the old man stopped abruptly and turned around. James stopped, immediately alarmed. But it was too late. He felt the cold muzzle of a pistol press hard on the back of his head.
*
Across the street, Bailyn was braced. “Come on, Higgs,” he muttered, “just kill him. I’ll get you on the road.” As he said it, nodding to himself, the image hit him that someone might see Higgs’s body, recognize him as James’s killer, and that might bring it back to Richard. Thus he would need to disfigure Higgs’s face. He would shoot him with the blunderbuss. No, he would use his broadsword. Or maybe a large branch.
*
James was frozen, the pistol jammed against his skull. “Come now, Mr. Annesley. ‘Tis time for ya t’go,” a voice behind him whispered in a brusque Scottish brogue. “Keep yar hands where I can see ‘em.”
“Ah, Patrick Higgins, ye’ve found me,” replied James, trying to stay calm as he glanced over his shoulder, pushing his head against the barrel. “Well done. Shelby Stables and—”
“Shut yar mouth and move forward.”
“By God, ye’d better pull that trigger, Higgins. I’ve waited a long time to kill ye and Captain Bailyn, and I won’t lose my chance now,” James said, daring, turning slowly, reaching for his sword.
“Face ahead!” Higgins pulled James’s sword from its sheath and flung it into the darkness. He growled quietly, “Walk to the coach.”
“What coach, Higgins? Where’s yer buggerin’ friend, Bailyn? He’s in the coach, aye?”
A hand grabbed James’s arm and spun him to face the stable’s open door. “Look outside. Across that street. Who do ya see?”
James complied, bracing himself against a feed trough as he leaned forward, peering into the bright street. He saw a man sitting on a gray mare, holding a musket across his lap. “Ah, faith be! ‘Tis Captain Bailyn, the devil incarnate.”
“Mark my words, James. He wouldn’t let ya live more than three steps outside. He can’t see us here, but if ya try to run, or even—”
“Ah, straight to hell with ye!” James took another step toward the door. “I’ll take my—” He halted at the sound of a cocking flintlock. “Higgins. Ye plannin’ to shoot me in the back? Why not give me a pistol and we’ll stand our paces?”
“I’m quite serious. Don’t go another step into that light. I swear Bailyn will shoot ya.”
James made a half turn. His eyes had somewhat adjusted. Now he saw a black carriage beside them, hitched to two horses, and beyond it was a large blue coach with a team of four. “Is that the coach?”
“Aye. Keep moving,” whispered Higgins.
James walked forward, purposefully slow, hoping for an opportunity to run out the back of the stable. But where? Then he saw it: a flitter of light. In an instant, he pivoted, shoving Higgins against a post, slugging him in the stomach. Sprinting around the carriage, he found his sword and lurched ahead, further into the darkness. He lost sight of the rear exit. He stumbled over something, clambered to his feet, then heard boots scrambling around him. Raising his sword, he slashed at the sound. “Get back!” He sliced the blackness till steel found flesh.
“Auuggghhh! Damn!” a man screamed. Suddenly a pistol fired and the darkness erupted in chaos, a flash of gunpowder, horses snorting in fright. James ducked, dropping back to the dirt floor. Hands were grabbing him, snatching his sword, pulling him.
“Get him up!” a gruff voice commanded.
“Hold him,” Higgins half-yelled. “Hold him fast!”
“Bailyn is taking his aim,” another Scot called out.
“Now! Now!” came a muffled shout. Suddenly the massive doors slammed wide and a man in the driver’s box of the black carriage whipped the horses to run. As it shot into High
Street, another shadowy figure brushed by James and ran out through the open doors. The man untied the old nag and leapt into the green hay wagon, whipping the horse down High Street, following the carriage. James heard a musket fire and people in the street shouting.
“Bloody hell!” James stammered, stunned by the unexpected commotion.
No one said a word. The big doors began to creak closed. Just before they met, James looked out, across the street. Bailyn was gone.
“Bring him,” whispered a Scotsman. The men fettered James and pushed him to the coach.
“Get in,” barked another. “Sit in the back.”
James hesitated. Behind him, he heard the shrill, distinctive ring of a military sword sliding from its steel scabbard. He quickly climbed aboard. It was utterly black inside, forcing him to feel for the backbench. Finding it, he sat down and waited.
*
When Bailyn heard the pistol fire, he cocked his musket, taking aim at the stable doors. When they flew open, a black carriage shot out. Was that James driving? Bailyn fired and missed. He was certain it was Higgs who was fast behind, clambering into the old wagon and cracking the whip. Bailyn spurred his mount, galloping after them. Ahead, the carriage turned onto Bath Road, the hay wagon following. He would pass Higgs at this rate. At least he would get James. He would overtake the carriage and kill them both just beyond the city walls. “Faster!” he shouted, digging in his spurs.
*
“Ya damaged?” a man asked outside the coach. Then came the sound of ripping cloth.
“Just a cut to my arm,” said Higgins, climbing inside. “Let’s go.” He pushed next to James, slamming the door behind him, sealing them in the coal-black interior. Then James heard the heavy stable doors creaking open once again, followed by the crack of a whip. The coach lurched forward and the wheels hit the street’s ruts with a jarring thud, the canter of the horses’ hooves rippling through the seat.
“All right, Higgins, I’m game. Who were those Scots?” James asked the blackness.
Higgins didn’t answer.
James’s knee bumped another knee and a cold jolt ripped through him. Someone, besides Higgins, was in the coach, sitting directly across from him. It could only be one person, he realized. “So, Uncle, I see ye’ve hired the whole damned Black Watch to nab me.”
“Lord James Annesley?” a warm voice replied from the other seat.
James noticed the man’s accent carried a soothing Scottish lilt. Though it had been years since he had heard Richard, he knew it was not the voice of that pernicious man.
“Lookin’ for someone else?” retorted James. “’Twould be a shame.”
“True,” snorted the man. “Patrick, ya going to live?”
Higgins mumbled, “Just my arm. Didn’t know I’d be bellin’ a cat.”
“Perhaps Lord Anglesea delivered ya a scar to match the one ya gave him.”
After a silent pause, James spoke up. “Ye also work for Richard? Like Higgins here?”
“No,” answered the voice. “Neither does my clansman here. Not presently.” Just then came a loud double-tap on the roof of the coach. “Good, we’re out of Bristol. Pull the curtains for us, Patrick. Oh, aye, yar arm. Allow me.”
James heard the rustle of fabric and the slight screech of curtain rings. Then a shaft of brilliant March light rushed in, filling the coach, momentarily blinding him. He squinted and shielded his eyes with a hand. Across from him sat a tall, broad-shouldered, older man with friendly green eyes, distinguished smile, wig hanging to his shoulders, wearing a bold tartan kilt. James glanced at Higgins beside him: he was dressed exactly like the man who raced out of the stables, after the black carriage. He was tying a torn rag cloth around his bloody arm. No one spoke for a moment as the coach lumbered along.
“Need some help, Higgins?” James finally offered. He had tended far worse wounds.
Higgins grunted a barely audible “No.”
The stranger was still studying James, leading James to return his fixed stare. But then a metallic gleam caught James’s attention. On the seat beside the man was a gleaming dirk, its brass hilt cast as entwined ropes beneath an acorn pommel. James frowned, studying it. The man picked it up, handing it through the flickering light. “I believe this is yars.”
James unsheathed it. “M’God,” he murmured, his fingers tracing a Gaelic inscription along the blood groove. “Léargas sa Dorchadas,” he read aloud.
“Still know yar Gaelic?” asked the man.
James whispered, “Sight in the dark.” Then a black image came to him: this dirk protruding from Juggy’s bloody chest. He looked up at the stranger. “Who are ye?”
“Daniel Mackercher, at yar service, m’lord.”
“Mr. Mackercher?” James’s jaw sagged. “Brother of Joan?”
Mackercher peaked an eyebrow. “So I am.”
“Faith be!” James shook Mackercher’s hand. “Truly?”
Mackercher smirked. “I’ve prayed for years I’d might meet ya, face to face as this.”
“Faith be,” James repeated, shaking his head.
“I am the one shocked. You, in my coach. You were believed long dead.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I must confess,” Mackercher continued, “I believed it as well.”
“Never mind that,” said James. “Back in those stables, I thought so too!” He snorted a smile at Higgins. “Well, perhaps for a moment.”
At that Mackercher chuckled, and Higgins, still tending his wound, finally grinned.
Chapter 25
Kind and true have been long tried
A harbor where we may confide
And safely there at anchor ride.
From change of winds there we are free,
And need not fear storm’s tyranny,
Nor pirate, though a prince he be.
— from Upon Kind and True Love, Aurelian Townshend, 1656
From the Shelby Stables in Bristol, the blue hackney coach and its complement of six guards, two in the driver’s box and four on horseback, charged north for Scotland, pressing their horses over sixty miles each day. By nightfall of the first day, they had made it to Gloucester. On the second, they passed a field of Cromwellian gibbet cages, then rolled through the lush forests to Stafford, where in the black of night they settled in at the Black Bull Inn, where James found paper and a scrivener’s pen.
My Dear Laura—16, March 1743
Tonight I sit by a warm fire wishing I had words to say just how much I miss you. You never leave my waking thoughts or my sleeping dreams. You are my beautiful, precious love. Since my letter last, of which I can only pray and hope you are in receipt, we sailed for England in late February, arriving Bristol only yesterday. I am in health, as is Seán.
I have the most wonderful news to relay. Upon my arrival, I was obtained by the associates of Mr. Daniel Mackercher, a solicitor of Scotland, whose kind sister, Joan Landy, is the one I spoke of so often - by her name Juggy. Mr. Mackercher has declared he shall finance a legal campaign against my uncle, and I have accepted his most honorable and generous offer. I dare say, you would not recognize me, as Mr. Mackercher has provided me a new suit of clothes and pintail wig. I fail to remember when I ever looked so presentable!
We are in route to a place I shall not name, where I shall be safe. I dare not be more specific lest this letter come into unclean hands of RA’s associates. I received your letter of 15 December on the very day we sailed from Jamaica, and I must say I am most pleased at your father’s persuasive skills. Carrying the knowledge that I am released from my servitude is most heartwarming and gratifying indeed. Please give your father my undying appreciation and gratitude. Pray tell him from his er-to-be son in law.
I miss you, my love, my sweet. I wish you were here, although I know it would not be best. I remain safe as I am now in the protection of a Highland band. Do not fret yourself. I will return to you, or send for you, just as soon as such is
possible. I entreat you, my dear, keep me in your dreams, as you stay in mine. We shall see one another yet again soon - then we shall marry. My Laura, O what a glorious day that will be. My heart yearns for you, and I long to hold you once again, to sit with you in our loft window and listen to your tender voice.
Please give my greetings to your father and mother. Tell Pehr and Gunnar I am having a grand adventure of which I will surely relate upon my return. I wrote four letters to you during the voyage and I enclose those as well.
I am yours, always, and so shall I faithfully remain.
— James
He had fallen asleep in the front parlor of the Black Bull, slouched in the larger of two chairs, his mouth agape and drooling on the leather. The crackling fire had also faded, surrendering the room to a Scandinavian clock that filled the cool air with an echoing cacophony of ticks and tocks. The letter to Laura was lying on the floor, where it had landed after slipping through James’s fingers while he was reading it for the third time. One corner was lying under the floppy ear of a spotted spaniel breathing deeply, kicking and running in a dream, curled at the foot of James’s wing-backed chair.
Mackercher entered the room carrying two chamber candles, the floorboards creaking gently under his fine Italian shoes. “James?” The spaniel rolled onto its back. “James,” he said again, setting down the candles to shake James’s shoulder.
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