Fortunate Son

by David Marlett

  *

  Mackercher arrived in Ireland that July, a month after James and Laura. He brought three barristers, two solicitors, four servants, and seven more Highland guards. He too moved into the Huntsman Inn, along with several other attorneys and guards. The rest of the entourage was settled at Kildare’s Blue Crow Inn. Mackercher also brought fifteen pounds from the Sheffield family, for James, along with a cursory note from James’s great-aunt instructing him that the Duke of Buckingham advised James never to admit the Sheffields gave any assistance in the matter, that they had in any way contributed to his cause. If such was to become found in the London papers, it would be vociferously denied. But, that said, in the happy instance of James’s much anticipated victory, he was beseeched to “please come for a grand visit among peers.”

  When trial preparation began in earnest, James was grateful for the flurried activity. Though the focus was on proving his identity, proving his mother, he could nevertheless lose himself in it, the strategies, the legal machinations, the lawyers’ discussions, the endless meals and bottomless drams. Witnesses came by the hundreds, though most liars. The newspaper accounts made James’s story well-known and people streamed into Dublin from all over southern Ireland, seeking out Mr. Mackercher to claim they knew James as a lad. Each, regardless of their credibility or sobriety, venerated James, promising conclusive evidence that Mary Sheffield was indeed the mother. Most wanted money for those truths they felt so morally compelled to passionately impart. The greater the “truth,” the higher the price. And so it went.

  Those witnesses taken seriously were whisked off to Kildare. There they were hidden from corruption, flip-flopping, and any form of chicane resignation. The others, the clearly false witnesses, the boldest liars, were handled graciously, given a shilling, a firm handshake, and a perfidious promise to be called upon to testify—a tactic hoping they would not peddle a different story to the opposing forces, Richard’s legal team, which had formed ranks on Dublin’s Anglesea Street, in one of his hulking estates. Richard’s claim, that James was the son of Joan Landy, was public knowledge, and a steady stream of liars plied their trade shuffling from one camp to the other and back again. Yet none concerned Mackercher as much as Charity Heath, well known to be Richard’s lead and most damning witness. They had to be ready for her. To offset her lies, to discredit her, even the most spurious were considered.

  *

  They had been at the Curragh races for nearly two hours and James agreed with Mackercher: it was good for the soul to get out, to get some air, even if only for a day. He smiled, leaning on the railing, watching the young jockeys easing their horses through cooling laps. The Irish sun warmed his face. The smell of heather and horses balmed his senses. He was glad they had come. He glanced over to the race house, the grey stone building clothed in ivy where Mackercher and Laura disappeared. High on the upper end wall was the large posting board. In front of it was a redheaded boy on a long rickety ladder, chalking the prior race’s results and the odds for the next one. James studied the odds between a mare named Yesterday’s Bliss and a gelding called Borrowed Hope. Just then the boy abruptly stopped writing and turned to the west. He seemed to be peering into the distance, away from the racetrack, then pointed in that direction and yelled something to the people below.

  “What’s he saying?” James asked a guard nearby.

  “Who, yar lordship?”

  James pointed. “That lad there, on the ladder.”

  “Can’t hear him.”

  “English…sod, something,” said another guard.

  The wind shifted and the boy’s voice came clear. “Soldiers,” announced James.

  “Red coats?” asked another guard, straining to see. “What business would they have?”

  “I don’t know,” James muttered. “Let’s not stand here.” He moved into the thick crowd, making his way to the building. Mackercher needed to be told. Laura needed to be away from here. Something was wrong. As he neared the building, the redheaded boy came down and a short man took his place.

  “A squadron, ‘tis!” the Irishman shouted. “The bleedin’ Newbridge infantry!”

  Spectators began retreating, shouting for others to follow, heading for their horses and wagons. James realized most of them were Catholics, always nervous about any show of English force. He kept moving, assuming his Highland guards were close behind. Suddenly a gun blast erupted inside. Then screams, followed by a rush of people through the massive main door, forcing him back. “Laura!” he yelled before someone knocked him down. He scrambled to his feet, looking for the guards. Only one—fifteen feet and fifty people away. To his left he spotted a smaller door into the race house, with only a few people emerging from it. He ran there, shoving a man aside, stepping over another, and pushed his way inside. He froze.

  Laura had her back to the gaming window and in front of her was Mackercher, glaring at a man who was yelling feverously in Mackercher’s face. “Damn yer Scottish blood!” the man bellowed. “You’re a damnable maggot if ever I smelt one.” James thought he recognized the voice. He crouched, reaching under his coat for his dirk. Whatever was happening, whoever that raging man was, all that mattered was Laura, getting to her, getting her out of here. The man was still shouting. “For Christ’s sakes, James Annesley is nothing more than a shoeboy, an imposter who should’ve been hanged in London. Indeed, mark me, Mackercher,” he slurred slightly, “James won’t leave Ireland, not alive. Piss on your lawsuit. I’ll have you in chains.”

  Richard! James growled inside. The thought, the reality of that man being there, so close to Laura, pulled James up, standing resolute, adrenaline pumping. He gripped the dirk tightly, but quickly slumped down. He was too tall to stand straight without being seen.

  Richard continued, “Your men have been arrested by my constables. English soldiers under my charge will be here shortly to see them away. Tell me where the bastard is and I’ll leave you be.”

  James studied his options, the available paths, albeit few. He had to get into the middle, into the open, grab Laura and get her out. Though Richard’s withering barrage continued, the stout Scotsman only stared, his eyes steely, unwavering. Laura was obviously frightened, looking around, to the main door, apparently hoping to see James there. From his position, James could see the back of Richard’s head, the long wig flowing from under an expensive green hat. The man’s right hand was holding a short horsewhip, twitching, making the straight thing flick and wiggle alive. His left palm was open, hovering over the gilded hilt of his sheathed rapier. Ten feet in front of Richard, near Laura’s feet, lay one of the Highland guards, bleeding, grimacing, apparently shot in the leg, groaning, pulling himself behind the wagering pole. The other two guards were standing rapt, pistols at their sides, staring at several men behind Richard, each with an aimed musket.

  “Why don’t we go outside and take paces on the sod?” Mackercher challenged, his voice rigid and quiet. “Just you and me. Let these men stand down.”

  James quickly moved to his left, slinking behind the spectators, until he could see Richard’s men. There were four. But where was Captain Bailyn?

  “Pistols? I am without!” Richard bellowed. “Ye’ve one holstered yet ye seek satisfaction?” He spoke louder, turning as to be certain the crowd heard him. “Is this yer idea of Scottish honor?”

  “McCauley!” Mackercher barked, “Give this man yar pistol.” The guard flipped his pistol around, offering it to the Earl.

  “Ney,” balked Richard. “I could never trust a Jacobite’s firearm.”

  “Of course ya wouldn’t,” whispered Mackercher. “Pious turds such as yarself have no honor about them. None a’toll. Ya’re no nobleman. And these fine Irish can see that.”

  “Quiet yer tongue. Ye’re the rogue!” He again addressed the crowd. “This is nothing more than a villain in second-hand finery. A vile lawyer hiding a criminal from justice. I’ve come to protect you from—”

  Mackercher smirked. �
��Ya stole both land and title, and in the process—”

  “Damn you!” Richard swung with the horsewhip but Mackercher caught it mid-air and held it fast. Laura stepped back, searching for an escape, and James watched her, surprised at how fragile her beauty appeared, her wild nature now flushed with alarm.

  “Ya stole yar stinkin’ peerage,” Mackercher continued. “Ya’re a lying raconteur. Ya kidnapped a boy and murdered my sister. I curse ya before all these men!” He jerked the whip from Richard’s hand then slapped him across the face with it.

  “Damn you!” howled Richard, recoiling in pain.

  Mackercher threw the whip. It bounced off Richard’s chest and fell to the floor. “You mark me, Richard Annesley,” Mackercher breathed, a finger pointed in the other’s face, “In Dublin, I’ll show this country who ya really are.”

  “You’re dead! I’ll have satisfaction from you!” Richard screamed, his face red, jaw shaking.

  “Any time. Any place.”

  “Do ye not realize on whose land ye’re standing? Who do you think owns this bloody track? Who do ye think governs this area? I am the law here and you and your men are trespassers. I warned ye! Now you’re all under arrest!” He spun to face his men. “Constables, throw these men in irons.”

  James burst upon them, charging Richard from behind. In an instant, he had hold and spun him around, using Richard’s body as a shield against the muskets. He shoved the dirk firmly against Richard’s side. “Think twice, gentlemen!” James barked, “Lower those guns.”

  Behind him, Laura cried, “No, James!”

  “If it isn’t my prodigal nephew,” Richard snarled.

  “I should run ye through, right here,” replied James, his voice steady. “Get out Laura!” he ordered. “Soldiers are coming. Go, Mr. Mackercher!”

  “You’ll hang for this,” Richard said bitterly, his black eyes boring a hole. “I’ll tear you limb from scrawny limb.”

  “Shut yer mouth.” James prodded him lightly with the dirk, cutting through cloth. As the constables took a hesitant step forward, Mackercher pulled his pistol and took aim at them. They stopped. Behind him, James heard the two Highland guards cocking their pistols as well.

  “All right men,” Mackercher said calmly. “There’s no need for this. Lay down yar weapons and we’ll all ease out of here.”

  “You’re outnumbered,” one rebuked, looking at James.

  “Not while I’m prying these ribs apart,” James snapped back.

  “Don’t listen to him,” commanded Richard.

  “Nay?” Mackercher said, enraged. He shoved the barrel against Richard’s temple. “Do as he said. Tell yar men to back away. God help me, I’ll blow yar brains all over that window. Leaving Lord Annesley with no need of slicing ya.”

  Richard hesitated, then growled at his men, “Stand down.” The constables quickly complied. “When the infantry arrives, arrest these animals. And that bitch with them.”

  James eyes narrowed. He made a fist around the dirk’s grip, cocked back and slammed it squarely into Richard’s jaw, sending the Earl flying to the ground. “Say that again, I dare ye! Say it! I’ll gut you like the pig ye are!” Now James was on him, dirk turned to slam its point right through the man’s heart.

  Mackercher’s mass were there, lifting James, throwing him off. “He’s not worth it.”

  “You won’t get away with this, by Christ,” Richard stuttered, struggling to his feet.

  “Go fuck yer own self!” James shot back. He grabbed Laura and they rushed for the door, him leading the way, brandishing the dirk. The crowd split for them. His heart was pounding out of his throat. They hurried to the paddock, then raced into the stables. There they found two of the Highlanders’ horses still saddled. Without saying a word, he led one into the open and helped Laura climb on, then re-entered the stall for the other.

  “James!” she cried in a muffled scream. James spun to see Seán in the middle passage of the stable, holding the reins of Laura’s horse.

  James grabbed a pistol from a saddlebag and took aim. “What do ye want?” he roared.

  “Ye gonna shoot me, Jemmy?” asked Seán, not sarcastically, but with resignation.

  “I just might.”

  “Perhaps ye should.”

  “Why are you here?” James blurted, then realized the answer. “Ye’re here with Richard.” He moved closer, his voice menacing, cocking the pistol.

  Seán stood still, watching warily. “No, Jemmy. I’m not.”

  Laura was pleading, “James, let’s go.”

  “I didn’t know Richard was here,” Seán continued. “Until I saw Bailyn and heard—”

  “Bailyn?” James’s eyes widened. “Where is he?”

  Seán shook his head. “If I find him, I mean to kill him.”

  “Horse shite! Ye’re with them.”

  “Listen to me! I was summoned by Mackercher. To be here today. To talk with you. That you and I might reconcile.”

  James led his horse forward, keeping a careful aim on Seán’s head. “Just back up, Seán.”

  “I didn’t know about any of this,” said Seán, retreating a few steps.

  James had his horse to the middle of the stable and was preparing to mount. “Tell me one thing, friend, was it you who killed Higgs?”

  “Jaysus, no. ‘Twas Bailyn. I brought him to ye for burying. To warn ye.”

  “Sold yer soul to the devil, ye did. Ye bloody traitor.”

  “I’m telling ye true. I called on Mackercher in Edinburgh. He arranged us to meet here.”

  James glared. “I haven’t the time for this or your lies.” He waved the pistol at Seán. “I want ye to stand aside now. If ye’ve anything to say, find me in Kildare.”

  “How nice, finding you two lads here,” announced Captain Bailyn, stepping into the stable, clapping his hands. Two men slipped in behind him, both armed with blunderbusses and blocking the exit. “Just like those olden days of yore.”

  James wheeled around, pointing his pistol. “Get yer arse back, Bailyn!”

  “Oh, and look!” He smirked at Laura. “His whore. Ye carryin’ this bastard’s bastard?”

  “I will kill you, Bailyn. I swear on it.” James clenched his teeth, restraining himself from pulling the trigger.

  Bailyn leaned to see past James, then smiled at Seán. “Ye still work for us, aye?”

  Seán ignored him.

  “Let’s see, shall we?” Bailyn sneered. “Take his pistol.” He motioned toward James.

  James’s eyes flashed to Seán, then back to Bailyn, then to the two men beyond.

  “Let me have it, Seámus,” said Seán.

  James wheeled to see Seán’s hand extended, palm up. “Damn ye!” James bellowed. “And don’t ye dare call me such.”

  “I’m glad to be here, to see this,” said Bailyn, grinning.

  “Please. I’m asking ye.” Seán moved closer. “Just let me have it.”

  The distinctive clomp of a military march resonated outside, followed by the distant order to halt. A voice commanded, “Affix bayonets!” James saw Bailyn’s toothy smile.

  “‘Tis over,” said Seán. “There’s only one thing left to do.”

  James turned back toward Seán, his mind racing. Then, with a shaky hand, he lowered the pistol, defeated. Then he saw it, Seán’s outstretched hand. His palm was up, his three middle fingers held tightly together, his thumb and little finger spread wide.

  “One choice left, Seámus. And ‘tis mine. Let me do what I must do.”

  James saw it all, everything the next minute would hold, all before it happened. He slowly shook his head, mouthing “no” as he withdrew the weapon.

  “Let’s have this done with,” Bailyn ordered.

  Seán nodded. “Soldiers will be here soon. Let me do this. I was wrong then. Let me be right now.”

  James glanced back at Bailyn, who was still beaming. Then he looked at Seán, jaw flexed tight. He gave
a knowing blink and nod, took a deep breath and carefully handed the pistol over, butt first, barrel toward Bailyn. He hesitated a moment, giving Seán a small smile. Finally, he let go.

  “Now!” yelled Seán. As James jumped clear, Seán lifted the pistol and fired.

  Deafening explosions ripped through the stables, the echo mixing with men shouting, horses neighing in fear. Laura’s horse charged madly for the light, James’s close behind as he struggled to climb on. Once in the saddle, he spurred the animal into a thundering run. Laura was already a good distance ahead, her blue dress flapping wildly. When two more shots blasted out in quick succession, James looked back though the flying dirt and sod churning up behind him. Captain Bailyn was racing on foot from the stables, followed by one of his men. Soldiers were swarming the ivy-clad buildings, the track, the paddock, some rushing to the stables. James whipped his horse harder, finally catching up with Laura, then again looked back. Counting Bailyn, there were at least six men riding hard their direction.

  Chapter 33

  There must be something terrible in a situation such

  as this—where a life depends on chance.

  — Memoirs of an Unfortunate Young Nobleman, James Annesley, 1743

  They rode hard, galloping across the Curragh plain, through a shallow creek and into the cover of trees. “James, stop. I must stop,” Laura yelled breathlessly, slowing her horse in the safety of the slanting shadows.

  James reined his horse around. “What is it?”

  “I can’t,” she began, flushed and panting. “I can’t go this fast. I almost fell.”

  “Ride astride then. Can ye?” He turned toward the creek, watching for their pursuers.