Fortunate Son

by David Marlett

  A distant clip-clop, and James reined Bhaldraithe to a stop. It was a horse on the road, somewhere ahead, moving toward him. Who else would be out at this hour? No one preferred to be out after dark. Certainly not in the woods. After all, there were wolves and bandits to be feared. So was it a constable on patrol? Looking for James or any of the escaped Highlanders? Most likely with orders to shoot him, if he was caught alone. He dismounted stealthily, led Bhaldraithe into the trees and tied him. Crouching low, he peered down the path ahead, trying to see anything. Carefully, silently, he drew his rapier. The horse was coming closer, its black image cast about by the meager moonlight and its sister shadows, playing a game with James’s eyes, toying with his mounting tension. But as the soft, slow sound of hooves came rhythmically louder, he saw the beast in silhouette, its head drooped low and stolid. It was as if the horse was unguided, not hurried, not ridden at all. Suddenly a twig snapped under Bhaldraithe’s hoof and James flinched, tightening his grip on the rapier. But the approaching horse kept lumbering along. James couldn’t see a rider, only a bulk lying over the horse’s neck. His heart pounded. Was this a trap? Was that bulk really a man? Someone planning to rear up at the last second and reveal a weapon? James decided to stay hidden. He should have powdered his pistol. The horse quietly passed by. James resheathed his rapier, untied Bhaldraithe, and pulled him gently back into the road. He stopped and watched the other horse ambling on toward Kildare. What if the slumped rider was drunk, or dead? He mounted up, turned his horse to follow, and drew the sword with a resounding ring. “You sir!” he shouted, startling himself. “In the drink, are ye?”

  The other horse startled up to a trot, then slowed. The man never moved, just bounced along. James spurred Bhaldraithe to a canter, coming quickly alongside. But he still could not see the man’s face. He touched the dark body with the flat of his sword. Still nothing. He reached out, collecting the other set of reins. The animal stopped.

  “Up with ye, sir,” he said, stretching across the man’s arched back, grabbing him by the coat, pulling him upright. He felt a warm wetness on the man’s back and realized the coat was soaked in blood. And now, in the moonlight, he could see blood down the horse’s side. This man was clearly dead. James dismounted and walked to the far side. “Easy, there,” he whispered as the horse started forward. The man’s head was dangling limply in front of him. He lifted it, to see the face. “Seán! M’God, Sean!” he exclaimed softly, pulling him from the saddle, easing the body to the road. The wind was whipping the tops of the trees, causing more moonlight to fall sporadically through, shifting dark to light to dark across Seán’s face. His eyes were open, set in a fixed stare. “Ah, nay! Seán! No.” He shook Seán, but there was no response. Tears welled in James’s eyes as he slowly reached to close Seán’s. But then Seán blinked and gave a small cough, flicking a sprinkle of blood across James’s face. “Ye’re alive! Ah damned! Seán! Seán! Hang on, m’friend.” James carefully moved him off the road and into the grass, then lifted his head, holding him in his arms. “Don’t ye die on me, Seán. Ye damn well better not! Don’t ye die! Ye hearin’ me?” He sniffed, tears streaming down a cheek. Though he could not see Seán’s wound in the darkness, he could feel it. The coat was ripped across Seán’s left shoulder and blood was everywhere. Only grouse shot from a blunderbuss could make a wound like this, James thought. But there had been several shots that morning. He felt Seán’s chest and legs for more wounds. Nothing. “Seán,” he whispered. “Can ye hear me?”

  Seán moaned faintly.

  “Ye must stay awake.” Again, he heard a feeble moan. “Ye’ve been hurt badly. I can feel it. Yer shoulder. Are ye damaged elsewhere?”

  Nothing.

  “Seán!” he shouted. “Wake up! Answer me. Where else are ye hurt?”

  “Muhaa….” Seán tried.

  “Yer what?” James leaned closer to hear.

  “Haan….”

  “Yer hand?” James felt for Seán’s hands. When he reached for the left one, he paled. There was nothing there but a mangled thumb. Recoiling, he tried to calm himself. “All right, all right. ‘Tis all right, Seán. Ye’ll be fine.” He jumped up, jerked the bloody tablecloth from his own chest and ripped it in two. With one half, he tied off Seán’s left arm, then wrapped the other around the shoulder. “Stay awake, Seán. Let’s sit ye up some. Keep the blood in ye.” James found a large hunk of wood and gently guided it under Seán’s head. When he propped up the left arm, Seán let out a wail. James stood again, turning, looking, wondering what to do next. “We’re goin’ to load ye in the next wagon that comes along. I’ll get ye to a doctor, I swear it. Are ye hearin’ me?”

  “Aye,” whispered Seán.

  “That’s good. Ye’re talkin’ Keep talkin’.”

  “Sa….”

  “What? Say it again, Seán.”

  “Jemmy? Seámus?”

  James smiled nervously. “Aye, I’m here. I’m goin’ to keep ye talking all night if I have to. Can ye believe that? Used to couldn’t get ye to shut yer gob and now…now I don’t want ye to stop.” James heard his own voice cracking as tears overflowed his eyes. He clenched his jaw till it shook, driving his emotions back, forcing himself to sound cheerful. “Aye, ye’re goin’ to talk all night. Can ye believe that, Seán? Ye’re goin’ to talk all night and into the morning if ye have to. Ye are indeed. Then ye’ll be right as rain.” Inside, he felt the weight of his lie.

  “Jemmy?”

  “Aye?”

  “I’m…sorry.”

  James took a deep breath, then collapsed his chin to his chest, silently crying. Seán reached over and put his right hand on James’s leg.

  “I was,” Seán began, his voice bare, a rhythmic whisper, “I was coming…to Kildare.” With a punctured lung, he was wheezing his words in short, faint bursts. “I was coming to…to find ye…to tell ye…how sorry I am.”

  James nodded, a faint sob escaping before he could stop it. He placed a hand over Seán’s. “I know, Seán. I know. Ye did what ye thought ye had t’do.”

  “Took me a damn hour…just to get on…that horse.”

  James smiled, smearing his tears back. “I’m glad ye did.”

  “Can ye…forgive me, for what I did? Seámus?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I just had—”

  “No more of it. ‘Tis done with.”

  “I did ye wrong.”

  “Hush now. We’ll never speak of it again.”

  “Ye said…ye said I had to keep talkin’…now ye’re tellin’ me to…to hush.”

  James chuckled softly. “I suppose ye’re right.” Again he wiped his eyes, taking another deep breath. “That thing, that misunderstanding. We’ll just not speak on it, all right?” His voice peaked up at the end, full of emotion. He pulled in his bottom lip and bit down. Finally, he continued, “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Seán was silent.

  James sat for a moment, searching for something to say. “The trial will be soon, two months. November.”

  “I wish I could’ve been there.”

  “Where? You will be!”

  “At your trial…to see Bailyn’s face… when ye win.”

  “The bastard’s dead.”

  “Ye kill him?”

  “Aye.”

  Seán moved barely. “That’s good.”

  “Aye. I suppose.”

  “Ye ran him down with…with a coach and six?”

  “Nay,” James answered though another smile.

  “Well ye should have,” breathed Seán. “Should’ve thrown…a centipede on him. Would’ve killed him…on the spot.”

  James chuckled. “Aye. But how could I find another with such long fangs?”

  “Aye,” Seán whispered. For the first time he gave a faint grin. Slowly, he reached out and touched James’s shirt. “That yer blood, or his? Or mine?” Then he gestured at the splatters across James’s face.

  “All
three, I think.”

  “Ye hurt?”

  “I’ll be alright.”

  Sean took a slow, pained breath, then asked, “Ye sure?”

  “Don’t be concerned. Laura will have me back in health.”

  “That’s good. Someone needs…t’ look out for ye. When did she arrive?”

  “Last Spring,” said James. He was watching the road, hopeful for any sign of a wagon or coach. Anyone. Maybe he should just put Seán back on that horse and head on to Kildare. But what if that killed Seán? How could he risk that? It was only luck that got Seán this far alive. But to let him die here? He had to do something.

  “Is she Lady Anglesea?

  “We plan to marry after the trial.”

  “That’s good. I’m sure ye’ll—”

  “Ye’ll be there, Seán. Ye will.”

  He groaned, readjusting his arm. “I’m of the doubtin’.”

  “She asked for ye t’be there. Ye don’t want to disappoint her. Nay, ye don’t.” James stared off. He wished Laura was with him, yet was completely glad she wasn’t. He glanced again at Seán, then to his shoulder. “Ye’ll get through this night.” In another flicker of moonlight, he saw the tablecloth was much darker than before. He pulled the bindings tighter. “There’s no damn way I’m letting ye die out here. I won’t—”

  “She’s beautiful,” Seán interrupted.

  James took a deep breath. “So she is. But you, ye’d best keep yer eyes off her! I don’t want to lose her to some Irish Catholic who….” He trailed off, realizing there was no joke to be made there. “Just keep yer eyes and hands off her, if ye know what’s good for ye.”

  ‘“Ach, now Jemmy….” He tapped James’s arm. “It’d only be the one hand.”

  “Alright then,” James laughed. “But only the one.”

  Chapter 36

  On the 11th of this Month came on the great Trial between James Annesley, Esq; Plaintiff, and the Rt. Hon. Richard, Earl of Anglesea, Defendant, before the Rt. Hon. John Bowes, Esq; Lord Chief Baron, Hon. Richard Mountney, and Arthur Dawton, Esqrs. Barons of the Exchequer, in the King’s Courts in Dublin.

  — Gentleman’s Magazine, London, November 1743

  The windows were still there, still dark and aged, still midair on the walls of the Four Courts of Justice. James stood motionless, neck strained back as he studied them, far overhead. Behind him, the footman helped Laura from the coach. “What are ya seeing?” she asked, taking James’s arm. Her creamy linen dress crinkled against his side. The bulk of her hair was pinned up, letting a few buttery tresses drape her thin shoulders.

  “Wonderin’ what’s so interesting there,” he replied. “Those windows.” He saw her confusion. “See the flagstones?” he asked, looking to the base of the wall. “One sticks up a bit.”

  “Does it?”

  “I followed my father’s casket here,” he explained, pointing along the route the pallbearers had taken. “Came ‘round this way, to get to the front of that church there, Christ Church. Then, somewhere along here, I looked up…at those windows, I believe.” Another remembrance came to mind and he turned toward the yard. “I was looking for my mother.” His voice trailed silent for a moment. “Whatever t’was, I tripped on that flagstone.”

  “Oh dear,” she softly said. “What happened?”

  “I knocked a bearer down, I did. He let go and my dead father nearly crushed me.” He leaned his head back again, considering the crusty panes. “I’d forgotten that, till just now.”

  Laura patted his arm. “I’m sure this city reminds ya of many things.”

  “Aye.” His brow peaked for a second. “Some be best forgotten.” Then, with a wink, he added, “Some best remembered.”

  Another large hackney pulled to a stop and the driver leaped down to fly the door wide. Mackercher stepped out, followed by three other solicitors, all wearing black silk robes and long, bubbly, powdered wigs. “James. Miss Johansson,” Mackercher greeted, walking briskly to them. “Glad ya’re already here. Thought we’d passed ya near Naas.” He turned fully to Laura. “Aren’t ya the very beauty o’ the mornin’.” She gave a pursed smile, eyes sparking back. Then he plopped a big hand on James’s shoulder, giving James’s clothing an exaggerated review. “Not a grandee t’be.”

  James grinned. “Ye’ll not get me under a plume.” His fashionable blue suit was accented simply by a smattering of silver glints: his dress sword’s hilt, the glimmer of buckles—shoes, breeches, and a small one on the crown of his royal blue tricorn hat. His wig, though fuller than his usual pintail, was nevertheless tied so firmly back that he more appeared to be sporting a white duck strangled with a black ribbon than wearing that singular beacon of wealth and peerage.

  “I like it,” announced Mackercher half-heartedly. He looked back at more solicitors and barristers disembarking their coaches. Then he refocused on James. “It is most appropriate, m’lord. Yar attire. Just as we’d wish this jury to see.”

  Now the crowd was thickening, people moving in large waves, rounding the corner to the front of the Four Courts, swarming the wide stone steps like seagulls squawking hungrily. Many of these were the working class of Dublin, mostly men, come to see a lord put down. Someone noticed James and yelled, “James Annesley! There he is!” Others reacted, some pointing, and James gave an embarrassed nod.

  Mackercher barked, “Let’s go,” pressing firmly on James’s back. James in turn grabbed Laura’s hand and they moved quickly for the steps.

  More cries followed them up. “Ye’ll win, m’lord!” they shouted. “Don’t believe his lies!” “Ye’ll surely beat dat damned pretender!”

  James turned back, acknowledging their words with an awkward wave of his hand, then stepped inside the courthouse. It was no quieter there. The main hall was filled with people, most of quality and expensively dressed, engaged in little pockets of conversation, waiting for the trial to commence. Many turned, saying, “Good morning, Mr. Annesley. We wish ye well.” He smiled, nodding to them as well, yet kept walking, keeping a firm hold on Laura’s hand. As they arrived at the courtroom’s ironwood doors, two grim doormen opened them slowly.

  “Go on,” Mackercher urged with a whisper. “Please, m’lord.”

  Stepping inside the giant hall of the Court of Exchequer, they were immediately enveloped in the smell of aged, oiled oak and the coolness of the cavernous room. James’s gaze drew upward, to the high arched ceiling soaring above them. Then down its lines to the enormous stone pillars supporting it, each reverently hugging a wall, as if fearing conspicuousness in this grand room. He and Laura, with Mackercher close behind, kept moving to the front, their light footfall echoing off the burnished floor and heavy walls. Directly ahead, along the back wall, stood a raised platform supporting a long judges’ bench. Behind it were the tops of three tall, elaborately carved chairs, each examining the room, anticipating their charges, as if three temporary governors, rulers of an empty room, each to disappear when their kings arrived. Above them—high above them—were the same windows James had seen from the street. Yet now they appeared different, vivid and bright. Glowing. Not darkened at all.

  He looked at the men near the front. A few of Richard’s attorneys studied him as he approached, judgmentally frowning as if he had done something disgusting, as if he was not welcome, an intruder advancing on them. James gave them an obvious smirk. Mackercher stepped around to take the lead. They walked to the front of the gallery and stopped before the barristers’ bar, the low wooden fence dividing the grand hall, separating the gallery from the court tables, jury and judges’ bench. “Miss Johansson,” Mackercher whispered, “Would ya be so kind as sit on that first row? James will join me in front of the bar.” He pointed. “We’ll be there, right in front of ya.”

  “Aya,” she agreed with a demure smile, then sat down, arranging her dress.

  “Will Madam Kristin be joining us?” asked Mackercher.

  “I do expect her this afternoon.”
r />   “Then ya’d best save her a space. This will be a crowded room.”

  “I will.” Laura smiled.

  James was studying the faces in the courtroom. “Where’s Richard?” he growled softly.

  “He’ll be along shortly,” replied Mackercher as he swung open the gate in the bar rail. James followed him in, and they moved to the plaintiff’s side, a long walnut table on the left. Behind it were seven chairs, all facing the bench. Mackercher took the middle seat, James to his right. Other lawyers were streaming in now, a few of them James’s. All appeared intense and somber.

  James turned, smiling at Laura, remembering her at the murder trial, in the Old Bailey’s nasty little courtroom. But this was different. Though still under English law, this was the grand court of Ireland. And this was his fight, his trial. Here all would be set right. Finally. Here he would begin his life anew, recapture what had been stolen. He stopped on that. Such was impossible. He looked at the floor. To regain those stolen years, that stolen childhood. It could not be done. Winning here, winning this trial, that was the sum, the entirety of justice he could hope for—to have a jury say before everyone that he, James Annesley, was the Earl of Anglesea. That he had been wronged. That he was not a runaway felon, not an indentured servant. Not a murderer. Not a worthless bastard. He thought of Mr. Clowes and smiled to himself. The old man would be proud. He was ready to prove himself, his truth, his name, his birthright. Yet he most missed Fynn. If only. Had he lived to see this day, this dream fulfilled, this revenge obtained, this loyalty requited. He flinched, felt the blood. Moved away from the image’s sharp edge.