Fortunate Son (20 page)

“I am charging you with his health. Do you understand me?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Until relieved you are to remain his aide.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Very well then.” Admiral Vernon gathered his hat and Knowles gulped his brandy. “Lord Anglesea,” Vernon continued. “May I beseech a favor?”

“But of course.”

“When you've recovered your title from your imposter uncle, you'll take your place among your peers in the House of Lords.” He hesitated, looking at James.

“I am certain, sir.”

“When you do, then we'll talk as brethren, and I'll remind you of this day when I saved your arse.” He winked knowingly. “Then perhaps you'll assist me in rebuilding His Majesty's fleets. How's that?”

“Aye, Admiral. And so I will.”

“Very well. I'll see you on board, Lieutenant. After Cape Henry, I hope you'll dine with me and tell us the length of your story.”

“Indeed, sir,” replied James stiffly, still reeling from the whole affair.

Admiral Vernon walked away with Knowles and the other officers close behind. Just as they reached the door, Vernon turned back and announced loudly, “Men, your attention please.” He dramatically shoved his hand in his grogam coat causing a flurry of chuckles across the room. “I am honored that you would name your new rum ration after me. Mr. Smithers, if you will, a round of
grog
for everyone!” He grinned, donned his hat and left as nervous laughter erupted behind him, with many asking “How did he know?”

As the commotion abated, James and Seán sat again by the fire and began to talk, to stitch together those fourteen years, to relive their youth, regaling stories of their lives apart, finding common threads, moments when they were near, weaving lost time and space together month by month, year by year, tragedy by tragedy, joy by joy, sewing the semblance of one past, the way it should have been, every significant event told through and through up and till that moment, that shared present, that whole cloth that dared not be questioned due the miraculous nature of its very occurrence. The tavern keeper brought them drinks and dinner for no charge. After two hours, James had had enough of the fat man's apparent eavesdropping and stood to confront him. But before a word could be exchanged, the man gathered his things, paid the keeper and left.

A cool breeze swept down the slope of an Irish hillside, swirling, gathering wintered leaf cannonballs to explode against the garden walls of Dunmain House. Scaling those defenses, the bluster whipped into the house, through the drawing room, puffing flames and riffling a newspaper held by lanky hands in lace cuffs. Richard Annesley's eyes, cold black marbles, twitched back and forth as he took in each phrase, each word, each threat, each breath, each tick from the parlor clock. He held his patrician's face taut, unexpressive. Then, with a priggish lift of his nose, he examined Patrick Higgins before him.

Higgins shifted his weight from one boot to the other, otherwise dissembling any regard for the summons. Seeing Richard's glare, he parried it with a turn of his head, glancing over his shoulder. Behind him, in a grey leather, wrinkled chair was a grey, wrinkled, leathery man with a face pinched at a crow's nose, beady eyes through sharp squints below a white wig that to Higgins seemed comical in its inaptness, gauche for the base man it adorned. Though the three men in that room were within five years of age, the previous fourteen years had imbued each entirely differently: no doubt who was richest, who most alive, who most inconceivably decayed.

“M'lord” asked Captain Bailyn, “what do ye wish?”

Richard sneered at Higgins. “This papist knows.”

“Do I?” Higgins half-asked.

“You bloody well do,” Richard growled. “You'll give the boy a dog's death.”

Higgins shook his head. “James is no boy. And I am not yar lackey. Not yar hireling. Ol' Bailyn here may still polish yar apples, but not I.”

“Don't be cocksure with me!” shouted Richard, jumping to his feet, the newspaper scrunched in his fist. “We have an accord.” He moved around the table, advancing on Higgins.

Higgins stepped back. “T'was many years ago. I fail to remember—”

“Live up your end,” Richard spewed, “or I'll cut your liver out and feed it to my dogs!”

Higgins stopped his retreat. “I made no bargain.”

Richard's face suddenly eased. He picked at his teeth with a fingernail. Though the Earl's wealth might have assisted his fine features to appear young—the French crèmes, Italian soaps, the absence of weathering and hardship, the perpetual strolls through the park of paramours—the effect was outweighed by the alcohol, the thick tobacco, black deception, veiled losses, the cabalistic angers, all of which oozed to the surface in occasional spots and crevassed wrinkles, a pallor of strain and distrust assembling to make his forty-six years appear ten years greater. In repose his face fell into lines of haughty calculations. His eyes, his brow, his angular features all clinched, as if in a constant state of peering through sewer fog. He turned to Bailyn. “Captain, do remind the fool of his bargain.”

Bailyn huffed. “If the boy surfaced, you, Scotty goat shagger, were t' kill him. If ye hadn't sworn such I'd have slit his throat years ago. Then yers for sure.”

“Mongrels, caitiffs, both of ya.” Higgins muttered, shaking his head. He walked to the window where the wind cooled his flushed neck and forehead. There was nothing to do but assent to these demons. Perhaps an opportunity would avail itself at a later time, another place. But not now. He should leave, go, think, get out of this foul, dispiriting house, away from these vile men. And did he remember that bargain? Certainly. Of course. How could any man forget the miserable moment he sells his soul? He was Richard's hireling years ago under a similar threat: serve or get a highwayman's hanging. Then came that other accord, that enduring pact that now returned with James Annesley himself, both seeking retribution. He promised to kill James if James set foot in England or Ireland again—an event apparently soon to occur. A
fait accompli
. He made his bargain to save the boy, and now he must kill the boy to honor his bargain. A devil's contract to be sure. After years of peace, away from Richard, now this: a London newspaper accounts James's pending return, Higgins is summoned from Glasgow, evil angels are stirred in the land. A bargain with the devil never dies. Like a sinister star, it never fades, never disappears; yet it can only be seen in the dark. It clinches your soul. An apostate's curse lifted on pain of death; the only vehicle to true transcendence. To keep the covenant, someone must be sacrificed. But who? James? Richard? Himself? He knew. There was but one answer. He gave a profound sigh, then turned to Richard. “I'll get James for ya. But when all's done, I'll owe ya no more. Our bindings will be undone. What's more I make a new accord with ya, much like the other. If I see
you
again, or this ugly lap dog of yars,” he said, pointing at Bailyn, “I'll murder ya both.”

“Good lord, man, stop!” Richard sneered. “You're frightening me.” He flashed an arched smirk.

“As well I should. Even bunglers have sense enough to fear a man with nothing to lose.”

“Take yer leave,” Bailyn barked.

Richard spoke as Higgins moved for the door. “Find him in Bristol, Higgs. Take care of the matter there. And know this: I will have eyes on you.”

Higgins knowingly nodded at Bailyn, then left.

Bailyn gave a small cough.

Through the open drawing room door, Richard watched his butler usher Higgins across the marbled foyer and heard the massive front door close. Then he moved to the window to see two groomsmen bringing Higgins' horse. “Follow him to Bristol,” Richard muttered, glancing at Bailyn. “Once he kills the bastard boy—or by Christ, even if he doesn't….” He took a weighty breath and looked out of the window again. Higgins was spurring his mount to a gallop, kicking up the dead leaves, disappearing beyond the grey garden walls.

Bailyn coughed again, this time with grimace and phlegm.

“See to it,” Richard continued. “Neither of them may leave Bristol alive.”

“T'will be my pleasure,” Bailyn said slowly, emphasizing each word.

Richard moved to the giant chimneypiece and leaned on it, stirring the fire with an iron. “You must not get me associated with it. Be discrete. There must be no suspect in this matter but Higgs. Do not be seen. Certainly do not be caught. If you are, I will not help you. Do you understand?”

“Aye, m'lord,” replied Bailyn, rising to his feet.

Turning to warm his backside, Richard once again read the newspaper, then closed his eyes. When he began to speak it was in a guttural whisper, a growl that resonated distant fear. “Now he will be widely known,” he said. “Kill him before he finds those cur dogs allying against me. Quickly. And before they find him.” He wadded the paper and watched it burn.

The sea was calm at dusk and the brisk air smelled almost sweet to James. Ireland and England were somewhere beyond that darkening cobalt horizon. Not far. About six days away. They would be home. Some of them. At least to England. He filled his lungs with the crisp air, then breathed it out again. They would be sailing so close to southern Ireland he might see it, perhaps smell it. The smells of County Wexford. Waterford. New Ross. Even Dunmain. A matter of miles from the southern coast, yet leagues off shore. He wished to think he missed the smell of Dunmain, or even its sound, or the look of its stone fences, something, But he barely knew the place. Could only remember the green and yellow dampness, mud, the cold stables, and the dread he felt when he left it for Dublin at the age of eight. It didn't matter. Least not for now. The
Falmouth
was not to port at Waterford—they were bound on to Bristol. Seán would go from there to Ireland, Waterford and New Ross; and hopefully James would be there too within a month or so. But for now, it was Bristol. Last he had been in Bristol, he was locked in the hold of the
Courtmain
. Fourteen years ago. His young body aching from the blows. Awaking to find his mother's chest gone.

He was nervous about arriving. He wondered at what awaited him. Probably nothing. Probably this was all a waste—the horrible journey, the bloodshed, the ocean of death that he had traversed these four months. And now, for what end? What could he hope to accomplish in Ireland? Richard would not simply remove himself from the peerage, from the Dublin properties, from the Dunmain estate. Why would he? James knew that sooner or later he would have to reveal himself, to declare himself the rightful Earl, to pronounce his arrival and stake his claim. But to what avail? For what result? To be ridiculed as a madman? To be tossed on his ear? To be killed? He had rolled this over and over in his head, circling the problem, mulling it, mouthing it in whispers against the air. It was a milling wheel driven round and round in his brain. Only nothing came. No clarity. No solutions. No visions of a golden path. Nothing but deep groves worn into his grinding table, etched by the endless circling of answerless questions.

At least he was alive. And so was Seán. They had survived. After the worst four months of his life, first in the Spanish West Indies and now on the open Atlantic, he no longer pondered the coincidence of Seán's presence in Yorktown, or the wonder of their reunion at the Swan. Instead, the only marvel was that they had both survived at all. That they were there, standing, breathing, above the water. As usual, when the memory of the dead overcame him, he let his mind drift into Laura's arms. If only she were there. Missing her was a hollow, painful joy. A known place that was private in its agony, its memories, its dark corners and warm despair. He took a deep breath and held it. Slowly releasing it, he let his eyes lose focus, transporting himself to a vertiginous state, far away, coming to rest near her, beside her, sitting in the loft window, the sun setting before them. Laura smiled at him, taking his hand. He could feel the warmth of her touch. He could see her tears, hear her dulcet voice.

“I wonder what ye're dreamin' of, Lieutenant,” said Seán, stepping onto the foc's'le of the
H.M.S. Falmouth
. He walked along the rail, then leaned on it beside James. “Laura, no doubt.”

“Aye,” replied James. He was nonplussed by interruptions. And he knew Laura was the same. One thing certain in the monotony of the sea, there would always be other times, other moments. A continuum of silence as far as the ocean's width. Moments where he and Laura would meet. And talk. Later, as he did every night after darkness fell, he would return to this same place, the ship's quadrant in hand, and chart their position. Laura would be there too. He could wait.

“Let me figure,” Seán continued. “Tonight is it the barn or the day ye met? Or is it the
Greensleeves
? Barn, I reckon ‘tis.”

James bleakly grinned. “Ye're a soothsayer now, are ye?”

“I just know ye. ‘Tis what I'd be thinking of. Hell, ‘tis what I
do
think of. Lived these months with her in my mind. Sorry to offend ye, my friend, but she's in love with me. We figured ‘twas time we told ye.” He saw James's faraway stare. “Oh alright, don't be so chapfallen, she's in love with you too. God knows why.”

Now James chuckled lightly. “Spare me yer affair with m' wife.”

“Now Jemmy, don't assume I have no chance. She's not yer wife yet.”

James winced, his eyes and mind racing back to the horizon. “She is to me,” he whispered. “She is to me.” Silence overtook them as they studied the softly churning green waves, the ship lifting and lowering them through their thoughts.

“Mind if I see her again?” Seán asked kindly.

James pulled a strip of sailcloth from his waistcoat and at its end was a small brass locket. He popped it open and showed the image to Seán. With months of water damage and exposure to salt air a thousand times, the picture barely resembled Laura at all.

“Aging quickly, that one. Bit wrinkled,” smirked Seán. “Mind ye, I'll still take her from ye if she gives ye trouble.”

“'Tis enough,” James replied, snapping it closed. This dialogue about Laura was old, a routine they had danced countless times. Now it was over, their smiles faded, silence overtaking them yet again. They could remain for hours in quietness, beside each other, observing nothing but the undulating ocean, the barren horizon, broken only by the occasional dolphin or jumping fish. “Shame she's not here,” James offered under his breath.

“Ach, ye wouldn't have wanted her in the Indies. Not Cartagena.”

“Certainly not,” James snapped.

“M'God,” muttered Seán, miles away, “How dire ‘twas.”

James nodded. “Horrible.”

Not long after he and Seán had transferred to the
Falmouth
in Jamaica, the entire fleet of 124 ships, including the
Falmouth
, was ordered by Admiral Vernon to sail to the northern crest of South America. There they were to bombard the city of Cartagena, seize the port, and destroy the Spanish fleet. The campaign was a dismal failure as rampant malaria and other tropical diseases beset the entire fleet. Of the 24,000 seamen, only 7,000 survived. And of the 5,000 army infantry, only 1,000 would ever return home. James and Seán were extraordinarily lucky to have been on such a senior ship as the
Falmouth
, and thus not directly engaged in the feverish battle. Instead she became a hospital ship to be held at anchor off La Boquilla, three miles up the coast. Well within earshot of the relentless barrage of cannon fire. Within sight of the burning city and ships. During those two months more burials were serviced off the deck of the
Falmouth
than Seán had witnessed during his previous nine years in the Royal Navy. More death than James could have ever imagined seeing in a lifetime. The
Falmouth
was a fetid, cursed ship of death, loved only by the sharks for its leaking blood and daily service of fresh carrion.