Fortunate Son

by David Marlett

  “What?” James awoke with a start. The spaniel’s eyes opened, but it didn’t move.

  “We must leave.” Mackercher was picking up James’s coat and hat.

  “Now? What time is it?” James got to his feet, wiping his mouth with his linen sleeve.

  “A bit after midnight.” He plopped the hat on James.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Some of yar Irishmen are in this town, asking questions.” While he spoke, Mackercher held James’s coat open, helping him put it on. “We’d best go.”

  “Mumph, my Irishmen?” James half-asked, buttoning his waistcoat’s silk trim.

  “Meet me ‘round at the stables.”

  “I’ll be there directly,” James replied.

  Mackercher took a candle and left. Alone again, James noticed the locket was open and hanging outside his shirt. He snapped it closed carefully, stuffed it down his collar along with the key on its leather, and tied his ascot. Shoving his feet into his shoes, he noticed the letter. “Hey, ye shouldn’t be reading that,” he whispered, leaning over. “Where’s yer manners?” Patting the spaniel, he retrieved the letter from under its head. “Laura will wonder what English strumpet has such peculiar hair.” He carefully folded the paper, tucking it in the pocket of his waistcoat. Then he picked up his sword, tied on the dirk, and went to the door. Yawning, he returned to the chair and blew out the candle. “So long, Chap. Thanks for the visit.”

  *

  They traveled through the night, James half-sleeping in a miserable heap, bumped and jostled on the hard bench. Just before sunrise, they finally stopped and most of the men, including James, stretched out in an open field beside the road and slept. They reached Manchester that evening, and the next day they traveled on to Preston, where they replaced three horses. Four days later, the coach reined to a welcome stop near Aberfoyle, Scotland, where Mackercher’s estate lay nestled in the sublime Highland foothills.

  *

  A gentle wind skimmed across tender shoots of spring grass, caressing them, touching them, like a mother’s fingers through her baby’s hair. James leaned his head back against a boulder, eyes closed, and let the warm scents of the Highlands wash over him. Mackercher, in his hunting kilt, strolled up the knoll to sit beside him, laying his musket in the grass. He picked up a dead grouse James had shot and inspected the feathers, spreading the wings wide, giving it an appreciative grunt. It was their second day of hunting, and already this morning they had three birds apiece.

  “I’ll be back in six weeks,” said Mackercher, smoothing the tail feathers. “Think ya can stay clear of all contemptible behavior till then?” He set the bird down.

  “Not likely,” said James, grinning, moving his musket from his lap.

  “I’ll advise ya to stay clear of the Gregor Clan. Even with old Rob Roy dead these nine years, his band is still a bit o’ trouble.

  “A bad lot, eh?”

  “Not evil mind ya, just outlaws. A crafty, unseemly sort. We can’t have ya running foul of the magistrates.” Mackercher smiled warmly. “Indeed, if ya’re going to do anything reckless, I damn well want to be a partner in it!” His deep laughter bellowed. “B’jingo, I got ya here. Ya’re stuck with me.”

  James chuckled, “I haven’t much choice, as I see it.”

  “Nay, ya don’t.”

  “When ye get to Ireland,” James began. “Waterford?”

  “Aye.” Mackercher picked at a briar in his kilt.

  “Ye’ll be in New Ross within a fortnight.”

  Mackercher nodded. “Before then, but aye. That’ll have Fynn and Seán here within three weeks or so.”

  James’s eyes glinted. “I cannot wait to see Fynn.”

  “I’m certain he feels the same.”

  “So, after New Ross,” James continued, “ye’ll be on to Dublin directly?”

  “I’ll not tangle with Richard at Dunmain.”

  “’Tis only that if ye go to Dunmain, one of ye will most certainly die. Which will be the end of this, with no resolution of the estate.”

  “My, how very practical,” Mackercher said sarcastically. He scratched at one of his bushy eyebrows.

  “’Tis a deal then? No Dunmain?” James fixed his stare.

  “Aye, aye Captain. Ya have my word.”

  James took a deep breath. “So then, how will our action be titled?”

  Mackercher hesitated at first, unsure what James meant. Then it came to him. “James Annesley, Esquire, plaintiff, and the Earl of Anglesea, Richard Annesley, defendant. Filed in Dublin’s Exchequer, in the Four Courts.”

  James remembered the building well. “The Four Courts is next to Christ Church. I’d be grateful if ye’d light a candle there, for my mother.”

  “Very well,” Mackercher said with a nod. “Is not yar father buried there?” He waited till James nodded before continuing. “Perhaps I—”

  “No, but thank ye all the same.”

  “All right then.” Mackercher leaned his head back, gazing up at the clouds.

  James sat quietly for a moment, tying his birds together, then did the same with Mackercher’s kills. “Mr. Mackercher,” he said suddenly, “Before ye go, I want ye to know, ye’ve been entirely too good to me. I am grateful beyond—”

  Up popped Mackercher’s hand. “Now, James—”

  “Ye’ll let me say my piece.”

  Mackercher huffed, then smiled. “What mettle they breed in America.”

  “I am enormously grateful t’ ye. At sea, I must’ve told Seán a thousand times I could never afford such a thing—to challenge Richard for my title and estates. He’d say, ‘Ah, ye’ll find a way,’ but I sincerely doubted it. Perhaps only with some joinder of the Sheffield’s.”

  “Not likely,” Mackercher interjected.

  “Aye. Admiral Vernon gave me counsel about that family of my grandfather. Said they are no friends to the Annesleys. Never were. In fact it was out of that longstanding disdain that my mother was married off to an Annesley. Apparently her stepmother, Queen Anne’s sister, disliked her. Or something of the sort. In any case, seems she fell victim to the families’ disputes and plotting. Thus I am the product of that quarrel. Bully for me.” He paused to see how Mackercher was taking all this in. But Mackercher was blank. A small nod. Simply listening. “And so,” James continued, “according to the Admiral, it is precisely for that cause that I am to dislike them all in return, especially the current Duke of Buckingham. Distant relation or not. Seems childish to me. Entirely childish. But I presume the Admiral correct.”

  “Seems an accurate account,” said Mackercher.

  “Although I had planned to call on them, it was not with bated breath. I don’t know them, the Sheffields, any more than they know me. Only that I am the son of Mary. Unless of course they believe Richard’s claims. If so, then they will claim they are no relation at all. Besides, it truly seemed a lost cause, any attempt against Richard through legal means, through the courts.” He gave Mackercher a slight smile, studying his chiseled face. “But now ye’ve made it possible. I fear I may never adequately return—”

  “Nay, James, I—”

  “Of course I will certainly repay ye. Once I regain my estate.”

  “James!” barked Mackercher. “Hear me now. I don’t want yar money. Not ever.”

  “But sir, this will undoubtedly be expensive. Ye cannot carry the costs alone.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “When I go to the Duke, perhaps he’ll indeed see it a worthy cause and—”

  “I concur with the good Admiral. Keep yar distance from that brood. Richard has sentries in London. Certainly around Buckingham and the Sheffields of York. He’ll be awaiting ya. Besides, Buckingham has his own matters pressing at the King’s Bench. These are difficult times. Another Jacobite uprising is afoot here in Scotland and the Loyalist are loathe for distractions. Richard has pledged for King George; thus despised or no, he will have the public alliance of the
Duke. If the Sheffields wish to contribute to yar cause, it will only be through hidden means. I’ll send word, as yar attorney, making yar request known. But ya should stay clear of them.”

  “Thank ye,” said James, flicking at some grass.

  “I appreciate yar willingness to apply reason,” Mackercher offered. “It will be asked of you as well—to declare yarself a Loyalist or risk a Jacobite’s reward.”

  “I am not familiar with the whole of the matter,” began James, shaking his head. He knew more than he let on, but enough to declare an allegiance? Either way, it was enthralling that his politics mattered to anyone at all. To the point, he had read the accounts of the Jacobites, pressing for the return of their Catholic “King over the Water,” James VIII or III (depending on your politics). They wished for nothing less than to depose the Protestant, Hanoverian English king, George II, an imposter according to the Jacobites. But did he concur with their cause? James had both Catholic and Protestant rumblings within him; a play performed in two languages simultaneously. A confused jumble of legitimate scripts. A dissonant noise. He was Protestant, he supposed, and that might lead to a Loyalist position, but he knew the persecuted Irish Catholics were vying for the restoration of their freedoms, something they believed could only be attained through revolt. That seemed right to him as well. And for the Scottish Jacobites, it was more of a nationalistic cause, for the dissolution of the union with England, a matter which, for many, was beyond even the reach of religious concerns. “If I may ask, Mr. Mackercher, whom do ye—”

  “An honest question. But no, Lord Anglesea, ya may not ask.”

  James nodded, then looked away, cuffed by the chiding, albeit a real or merely perceived admonition. Yet he would tolerate it from this man. How could he not? This was Daniel Mackercher, Juggy’s brother, solicitor, military hero, the man who, with Higgins, had saved him. The man who pledged to finance and manage the pending battle against Richard. He drew a long breath through his nose, then let it go slowly from his mouth. Perhaps he should just remain quiet.

  “I fought for the Loyalist at Sheriffmuir, in ’15,” Mackercher finally began. “The last time the Jacobite clans rallied against the English king. Many died. It is not something I wish to see again. I am an older, wiser man. I hope.” He stood, stretching his back. “Now the clans are scattered. And though divided loyalties abound, they’ll not let this matter rest.” He paused, looking about, almost as if he might see a warrior clan crest a hilltop at any moment. But they were alone. “There is an admirable nature to their cause.” His focus returned to James. “Yet to declare oneself a Jacobite can lead to the end of a rope. Not something to ask a man.”

  “Yet ye said I should declare myself—”

  “Yes, declare yarself. On yar own. For yarself. Do not allow yarself to be asked. Do not let the unknown grow. Rumors fester and breed in silence. Say ya’re loyal to King George. Silence lends itself to mystery, and mystery to distrust, and distrust to fear, and out of fear, yar fellow man will assume the worst on yar behalf. Do ya see my meaning?”

  “I think I do.” James also got to his feet. He gathered the birds and musket.

  Mackercher continued. “It is best if we all know who we are, or at least whom we say we are. If ya don’t declare yarself loyal, ya’ll have a devil of a time convincing anyone otherwise. The thing is presumed by the absence of its denial. And have no doubt Richard will promote ya as a Jacobite. Especially as ya’re in my company.”

  “In yer company? But ye fought, as ye said—”

  “I did. But this Jacobite cause is ripping our country apart. And I have enemies as well. It is a cheap thing to accuse a man. Thus I am so accused. And some believe it so.”

  James nodded. “I’ve seen that men will believe as they wish to believe. They always will. We can only hope for truth to eventually reveal itself.”

  Mackercher looked at him, then smirked. “Well said. I do concur.”

  James started walking as Mackercher turned away. They had lunch awaiting them. He would talk with Fynn about this whole Jacobite mess. For now, he would leave it be. “With my mother dead, her parents as well, do ye think there’s a Sheffield who’d assist my cause? Our cause?”

  “I doubt it.” They were both moving down the knoll. “None of them stand to gain by the outcome, either way it falls.”

  “I can see that,” James muttered.

  Mackercher turned back and nudged him. “Doesn’t matter, all the same. God has blessed me with resources enough. I’d part with it all, if required. If necessary to see this through. To have that murderer brought to justice.”

  James pressed. “Despite that, ye can count on my repayment once—”

  “Did ya not hear me?” Mackercher frowned. “I won’t take Anglesea money.”

  “Then what can I do to—”

  “All I’ll ever ask of ya, is that ya remember Joan.”

  “I do sir,” said James.

  Mackercher stopped at the edge of a trickling creek. “This is not only yar fight. Not yar fight alone. ‘Tis mine as well. That bastard not only stole yar estate, yar freedom; he stole Joan’s life. He stole my sister. My family. How could any man rest till justice comes on such a thing? And at what price? If it was Laura, could ya ever stop?” James shook his head. “Right,” Mackercher continued. “We’ll win back yar estate and yar title. We’ll right that wrong. But I want my revenge.” He stepped through the water to the other side and kept moving. “I may be cursed for it. Damned for seeking it. But there it is. Plain enough.”

  James saw Mackercher turn to watch him scale the small hill. He could see the man’s eyes. Though Mackercher was old enough to be his father, his eyes sparkled with a youthful mischief. Unless he was talking about Richard Annesley—then an icy glaze would seize him. Like at this precise moment. Perhaps it was best to talk of something else. “Do ye come into these mountains often?”

  “Whenever possible,” Mackercher answered quickly, pivoting away as James caught up.

  “‘Tis the most incredible land I’ve ever seen.”

  “Then ya’ll not mind staying put till I return.”

  “Of course. Will Higgins stay as well?”

  “He may go to Glasgow to see his family, but keep him in yar eye as best ya can.”

  After a moment, James asked, “Do ye not trust the man?”

  “I do. In a manner of speaking. I believe his heart is loyal to ya. To us. To our cause. And undoubtedly black against Richard. Undoubtedly so. But once a man turns against his word, even if he has turned from a pact with the devil himself, it reveals his heart. It shows he is capable of bending. That he can be bought. For the cause of good or evil, he can be bought nevertheless. He follows his conscience.”

  “Is that not an admirable thing?”

  “Yes, but ya can never trust another man’s conscience. The conscience is not beyond change, and thus it is unreliable bedrock. It is a man’s truth, his values that carry his soul. If he ever is able to compromise himself, to be the lackey of a man such as Richard, then the worm of deceit and treason is within him. And that, James, that worm of treason; when ya see it in a man, never grant him yar full trust.”

  “Ye don’t think a man can change?”

  “The worm of treason rarely leaves just because its host has chosen to live beyond blemish. The infestation remains. Unfortunately ya have to rout it out. Most likely.” Then he added almost under his breath, “Often with a claymore’s edge.”

  “But Higgins saved my life.”

  Mackercher stopped. “Aye, so he did. He also gave ya that scar.” He swiped a finger over James’s cheek. “Same man. He also helped Bailyn kill yar father. Pointed yar father out so Bailyn could run him down. Same man.”

  On that James paused. He had imagined such. But now no judgment came, which surprised him. “It is a choice, I believe,” he said. “To choose to see the good in a man.”

  “So ya will,” Mackercher shouted over his should
er. “But always remember.” He stopped on the cattle path and turned. “Ya can only be betrayed by the people ya trust.”

  “Aye, sir,” said James, now passing Mackercher on the trail.

  “And m’lord,” Mackercher snarled kindly with a sanguine wink. “No more of the ‘aye, sir’ muck. Ya’re not a seaman, not a lieutenant now. Not here. Quite to the contrary, ya’re a bloody English Earl. Ya should sound as one.”

  James laughed. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Impertinent nobleman,” chuckled Mackercher. He resumed his pace with James squarely ahead.

  Chapter 26

  Like to the blaze of fond delight;

  Or like a morning clear and bright;

  Or like a frost, or like a shower;

  Or like the pride of Babel’s tower;

  Or like the hour that guides the time;

  Or like to beauty in her prime:

  Even such is man, whose glory lends

  His life a blaze or two, and ends.

  — from Argalus and Parthenia, Francis Quarles, 1628

  Mackercher’s heavyset cook rose early, preparing for the May Day festivities. She was making her specialty; the finest gooseberry cream tarts James ever tasted. Though the celebration that day in Aberfoyle, Scotland was said to be something to see, it was something else that had him up before dawn. Today he, Fynn, and Seán would go on their first tinchal, or stag hunt. Unable to sleep, the thoughts of the tinchal running through him, he came to the kitchen for coffee, his Colonial hot drink. He had tried it in Virginia but spit it out. Yet when Mackercher offered it with milk, he found it surprisingly agreeable. Now the cook ground and brewed it for him each morning, though Mackercher had been gone for weeks.

  “Mr. Annesley, will ya fetch da eggs?” she asked. “Fraid me burnt foot’s got me wobblin’ dis morn.”

  “For yer tarts, ‘tis the least I can do,” James agreed, then turned and stepped through the rear door. He heard pigeons cooing from the dovecote’s upper dome, and just below them, a chorus of clucking hens. “Here I come, ladies,” he whispered, “Show me yer good ones.” Gravel crunched under his feet as the cold air rushed through his lungs. He was in high spirits, the day’s events on his mind. He liked the newness morning brought, the promise offered by the rested world, a dark canvas poised for color. At the dovecote he stopped and surveyed the constellations now shifted west. There was the Big Dipper still carrying water for Polaris. He looked for St. Stephen’s Skull, yet it seemed to have already set. But just before he entered the coop, he saw it—the elusive star-skull was on the horizon, disappearing, almost gone. Two hollow eyes peering over the edge of the placid world, taking one long final look, unblinking, absorbing all, as if it believed it would never return.