Fortunate Son (28 page)

“I was in the lead, walking away from the loch, when I heard—”

“You saw, or heard?”

“I…I heard Jemmy—I mean saw—”

“I know, Mr. Kennedy,” Giffard interrupted. “The murdered man was your father. No doubt, this is difficult for you. But, please, bear up and tell us what you saw.”

Mackercher was on his feet, his face like a fist. “My lord, I humbly request an instruction to Sergeant Giffard to refrain from the word, ‘murder', as that is the very accusation in issue—”

“Sit down, Scot,” muttered the judge, waving at Seán, silently telling him to continue.

“What you saw, Mr. Kennedy,” said Giffard, spurring Seán.

“I turned and saw him level his musket at my da.”

“Who, exactly, did you see?”

“Who I saw?”

“Mr. Kennedy,” Giffard moved closer to the box. “We realize that it is with great effort that you come before this jury to relate the horrid facts of that day; that you wouldn't be here if you didn't feel obliged to bring the truth before us. But, please, do tell us: exactly who did you see level the musket?”

“Jemmy. James Annesley.”

“Very well. So you turned and saw Mr. Annesley raising the barrel of his musket. Like this?” Giffard pantomimed the action, one arm outstretched, taking imaginary aim at the jury.

“Aye, over a rock fence, and then—”

“He was aiming like thus, at your father?”

“Aye.” Seán's voice dropped to a murmur. “Then he said, ‘damn yer blood' and fired.”

“He shouted, ‘Damn your blood!' did he?”

“Aye, sir.”

Mackercher stood to object, but the judge waved him down.

“Damn…your…blood,” Giffard repeated, emphasizing each word.

For the first time, Seán's eyes flicked at James, who had been waiting for that moment. James had his arm stretched out on the table before him, wrist bent, holding three fingers straight up in the air. “Through ice,” he mouthed. “No matter the bastard.” He saw Seán freeze.

“Good Lord, Mr. Kennedy,” Giffard continued, unaware of James's signal behind him. “That must have been horrible, indeed. What happened next?”

“Hum?” Seán mumbled, breaking his stare from James's hand.

“I asked—”

“Sergeant Giffard,” the judge interrupted. “I think this jury has heard quite enough. Mr. Kennedy saw the defendant shoot the man on purpose.” He glared at Seán. “Were there any other witnesses?”

“Other witnesses?” Seán echoed.

“Aye, Irish. You know. Other witnesses.”

“Nay, sir. Yer lordship,” whispered Seán.

“Then step down.”

Mackercher was standing. “Your lordship, may I not cross-examine this witness?”

“Ney, Scot. I see no reason. He was there and he was the only witness. The gentlemen of the jury have heard enough.”

“But yar lordship!” Mackercher protested angrily.

“What do you want!?” the judge thundered.

“We have a witness who was also there and will testify otherwise.”

“Ah, of course, Scot. I am certain Mr. Annesley will claim—”

“Nay, your lordship. Another man.”

“Good God! You are trying to keep me from my tea, aren't you?”

“Nay, sir. I'm trying to defend my client,” retorted Mackercher, abruptly stepping around the table. “Your lordship, if I may bring on my witness now, I do believe you'll find my questions to be brief, his answers exculpatory. But if—”

“Bring him, then.”

“Aye, your lordship. But I cannot predict the time required for Sergeant Giffard's cross-examination. If he is allowed to question my witness, we may be here long past tea.”

“Fine, no cross. All right, Sergeant Giffard?”

Giffard looked shocked. “Your lordship, since I don't know whom the defendant wishes to call, how can I waive my right to cross?”

“By saying ‘Aye,' John,” responded the judge, his voice laden with sarcasm.

“But your lordship….” stammered Giffard.

“If you insist on crossing, then I'll let this Scot cross that man who was just up here.”

“Truly, your lordship,” Giffard went on, sounding dismayed, “I would not mind if he did. In fact, I had rather expected he would.”

“Did you?”

“Well, aye.”

“So, you don't mind, then?”

“Well, nay,” Giffard began. “Your lordship, Sergeant Mackercher has—”

“All right then, if you insist. Let it be mutually conceded and the waiver recorded. No crosses from either side. Very efficient of you both. Bring on your witness, Scot.”

Mackercher turned quickly to the gallery, signaling a man near the back.

Giffard stood as if in a daze, stuttering, “Your, your lordship, no crosses? I thought you, just now, I thought you were going to allow Sergeant Mackercher to cross Mr. Kennedy.”

“Then you bloody-well didn't hear me,” the judge shouted. Giffard slumped back into his chair. “Prime Sergeant Giffard, you've been off arguing for your high wages in front of the King's Bench for too long. This is
my
court. There will be no crosses on this matter. Just as you agreed. You may not reverse your waiver.” He shouted to Mackercher, “Scot, proceed!”

Mackercher jumped. “Aye, your lordship,”

“You'd better get your man up here now, or you'll miss even your direct exam.”

“We call Mr. Patrick Higgins to the witness box.”

The judge waved his hand irritably, as if to prod the man forward. James sat rapt, stunned by that flurry of verbiage between the judge and the solicitors. He was beyond thankful for Mackercher. Higgins walked through the courtroom, making his way to the front. Bailyn glared. When sworn in, Higgins turned to the jury, following Mackercher's lead, running through a hurried set of questions. With skilled alacrity, Mackercher was to the point: “Mr. Higgins, what did ya see that day?”

Higgins moved forward, facing the jury box. “I was hunting grouse beyond Aberfoyle. ‘Twas on the first of May, in the early evenin', I do believe.” He paused nervously. “Oh, I forget the time—you know how it is, only shoemakers and tailors count the hours.” He smiled, glancing uncomfortably at the glowering judge, then continued. “As I said, I was grouse hunting. I came over a ridge, north of the loch, late in the day, and saw three men—”

“Mr. Higgins,” the judge interrupted, “did it appear to you that Mr. Annesley shot Mr. Kennedy intentionally or by accident?”

Higgins paused, then recovered quickly. “By accident, your lordship.”

“All right. You can step down.”

“Your lordship—” Mackercher began.

“Ney, Scot. That's all you needed to ask. Damned if I don't have to do your job for you. How a Scot becomes a Sergeant Solicitor, I'll never know.” He turned to the jury. “Gentlemen, you have heard enough. One witness claims it was an accident, the other claims it wasn't. ‘Tis up to you to decide. You may find the accused guilty of murder, and for which Mr. Annesley will be hanged. Or you may call the matter chance medley and set Mr. Annesley free.”

Instantly, the jury box rumbled in soft discussion—the sound of a stream after a storm, gurgling as it absorbs the deluge of chaotic torrents. Droll eyes moved back and forth, to and from James, and he wondered what they could possibly be discussing so feverishly: they had been given so little to discuss! Nevertheless he prayed for them to say “medley.”
Please God!
He turned and saw Laura leaning forward, eyes closed, her lips quivering in prayer.

Higgins excused himself from the box, sluing for the door. First, a small nod to Mackercher and James. They nodded back in gratitude. Mackercher had said it was Higgins's idea to take the stand and lie. James hated, yet appreciated, the irony: Seán and Higgins. Friend turned traitor. Traitor turned friend.

“Your lordship?” a juror ventured after five full minutes had passed.

“Aye?” The judge sat straight, his enormous eyebrows raised expectantly. “Mr. Foreman of the jury, have you reached your verdict?”

“Aye, your lordship. We find the event to have been chance medley.”

“Very well, Mr. Annesley, you may go. We are adjourned.” The judge groaned as he levered his bulk from his chair, like an old fat dog getting up from a nap. “Mr. Giffard, will you be joining me for gin and tea in chambers?”

“Nay, your lordship, I should think not.” Giffard's voice was firm and severe.

“As you wish.” As His Lordship codgered out, his fat robe brushed a law book. It teetered, then hit the floor with an explosive pop.

James slumped forward in his chair, relieved, entirely exhausted. He smiled, resuming his breath, feeling Mackercher's hands, then Laura's, on his shoulders. Then Laura's face was next to his, her warm wet cheek pressed against his forehead. “Ya're free, James. Ya're free!”

James lifted his face and stood, embracing her, then turned to Mackercher and grabbed him by the arms. “Well done,
Scot
!” He grinned. “Well done, indeed!”

“The damned judge is who you should be praising,” said Mackercher, shaking his head.

“And Higgins,” James added.

Mackercher laughed. “Aye, b'jingo. Higgins. He stood by you.”

James's smile vanished instantly. A flicker of light now gone.
Seán!
He pivoted, looking, hoping he was still in the courtroom. But he was gone.

Seán shoved his way through the crowd and burst from the Old Bailey like a drowning man breaking the surface of a boiling sea. He leaned against a horse railing along Gilt-Spur Street, sucking air, rubbing the sweat from his flushed face, feeling his stomach begin to seize. People were massed along the walk, most trying to enter the arched gallery doors, straining against the throng pushing to leave. He heard voices everywhere, calling out the verdict, that James Annesley had been acquitted, that the Earl was innocent, that the young nobleman had bravely declared himself the Earl of Anglesea and triumphed over his accusers. A few recognized Seán and were pointing and whispering. Then one spoke loudly, recounting, “He's the one said Mr. Annesley done it.” Those damning words. “I didn't say that,” Seán tried, turning away. It was a vulgar crowd. He felt terribly alone.

Stumbling, he stepped headlong into the street, wanting to clear the Old Bailey before Jemmy emerged. He looked up at crows screaming across the low-hanging clouds—the color of tombstones. Church bells rang out the two o'clock hour. One church was to his left, across Hart-Row Street. St. Sepulchre's. Its bell tower hoisting four gothic spires high overhead, looming them at him, the gargoyles grinning at him like he was family. Below, he saw its white stone walls guarded by an infantry of elms along the churchyard fence. He would go there, he decided. No one would find him there. No one would question him. There he could think. There he would silence these voices pounding within him, condemning him. But to get to St. Sepulchre's forced him back, past the Old Bailey entrance. He turned, pushing against the crowd still shuffling through the gallery door. He lowered his chin and moved quickly, hoping for obscurity, praying Jemmy wouldn't come out. He shoved. He wormed. Reaching Hart-Row Street, he glanced up at another man hurrying away. The man was hugging the court wall, hood pulled tight, eyes following Seán. Seán studied the figure, then recognized him. Higgins. They passed each other, their eyes locked, emotive though void. Hart-Row Street was cluttered with traffic and Seán had to wait for a wagon of goats to cross in front of him, then a green coach, followed by two horsemen in livery. Behind him, a new commotion erupted but he didn't turn. He figured Jemmy had just come out. The traffic cleared and he walked, focused on the church. He could feel Higgins's eyes searing a hole in his coat. Reaching the far side, he followed the long iron fence, the elms interrogating him along the way. The arched entrance to St. Sepulchre's was just ahead. He picked up his pace. Hurrying through the ancient covered portal, he pushed open the church's massive ironwood door. It creaked a cautious welcome. Inside the narthex, the venerable cathedral was cool dampness. He heard his footsteps echo across the flagstone floor, his breath heavy and loud, yet slowing.

“May I help you?” a rector asked from the back of the nave.

“Nay, father.” Seán kept moving toward the altar. “I know where I'm going.”

“Very well, my son,” the man said as Seán passed.

Two rows from the altar bench, he stopped. He surveyed the empty nave, as if expecting someone to be lurking there. Slowly, quietly, he stepped into a pew and sat. Leaning forward, he buried his face in his hands, shaking and feeling sick, the questions prickling his mind. He had told the truth, hadn't he? Clearly Higgins lied. But why? What did that man owe Jemmy? Had Higgins's guilt compelled him into such a tale?
Whatever his cause, thank ye Lord that Higgins said what he said.
Seán opened his eyes. He exhaled loudly, lightly banging his forehead on the back of the oak pew in front. This was horrible. But what choice had he had? Richard was only protecting what was rightfully his. Wasn't he? Jemmy had shot, killed, no it was murder, out of revenge, right? He had yelled ‘damned yer blood,' hadn't he? Had he heard Jemmy wrong? Did Jemmy unload Fynn's musket? Or did he do it? Jemmy insisted Fynn go hunting that day, right? Or was that his own idea, to bring his father along? Though these questions had churned for weeks, only now could Seán let them fully rise.

Behind him, the main door creaked. Then came men's faint voices. One he recognized as the rector's. He didn't turn. Then the talking stopped and footsteps began moving his way, becoming louder and more resolved. They stopped at the end of his pew. Seán looked up, but kept his face forward, staring at the crucifix and the candles flittering on either side. He knew it was Jemmy. The man slid into the pew behind him, the wood protesting under the man's weight.

“What do ye want with me?” Seán mumbled.

“We have a sayin' in Scotland,” the man began. “The breath—”

“Higgs!” Seán spun to see Higgins slouched forward in his pew, his tunic still covering his head like the shawl of an old woman. “Afraid for yer life, I see? Well ye should be. With yer lies and all.”

“No less than you,” Higgins calmly retorted.

Cold shivers ran Seán's back. “Not me,” he said. “I spoke the truth. Ye perjured—”

“Truth?”

“Aye. Truth.” He returned to the crucifix. “What do ye know of it?”

“Too little,” whispered Higgins. “If ya be so pure, why skulk in here? Why not face the man ya used to call ‘friend'? The friend yar words nearly hanged.”

“Shut yer trap, Higgs. Ye're the one—”

Higgins interrupted. “I know what ya must feel.”

“Ye know nothing of me, old man.” Seán closed his eyes, listening for that rough Scottish voice to return. He sensed the man scoot closer.

“The breath of a false friend,” Higgins iced, “be worse than the fuss of a weasel.”

“Damn ye,” Seán snarled.

“Ya ever heard the fuss of a weasel? Before it attacks?”

“Higgs!” Seán spun, grabbing the aged man by the collar. “I told ye—”

“You were wrong.”

Seán eased his grip. “Nay sir, I was right.”

“You were wrong and I think ya know it. In yar heart, ya do.”

“Horse shite,” Seán bellowed, shoving Higgins back. The rector cleared his throat. Seán was on his feet, retrieving his hat.

“Your father had not a thing to do with James's kidnapping.” Higgins pulled himself upright.

Though Seán was already five paces away, he stopped.

“He didn't,” Higgins continued louder. “James never had any evil intentions against the man. He admired him, held him in the greatest regard. Loved him, no doubt. You know that.”

Seán returned, stood a moment, then sat across the aisle. He pulled in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“What did Richard tell ya? Fynn gave up James that night? Eh?”

Silence.

“That's what he said?” Higgins pressed, his whispers feathering the silence.

Now Seán slowly nodded.

“He's a damnable liar, that one. ‘Twas me. I spoke to Fynn on Richard's behalf. I know what was said between them.”

Seán turned his face. He clutched the pew in front, feeling ill, his knuckles turning as white as his face.

“I remember you, as a lad,” Higgins continued. “A more loyal friend, James never had. One time, a man came to ya and gave ya a warning—remember? A warning ‘bout Charity Heath.” He lowered his voice. “Told ya she was shaggin' Richard. Remember?”

Seán looked up at the soaring ceiling, the gothic windows pouring colorful light into the hazy cold air. “Aye,” he whispered.

“‘Twas me.”

Seán again nodded, absently. A tear spilled onto his cheek and he quickly wiped it away.

“I was a fool.” Higgins's voice trailed. “Thought Richard would see me hanged. Perhaps, but I sold my soul all the same. ‘Twas fear that ruined me. I excused myself. Self-pardoned for having done no harm directly, ya understand. Aye, a fool I was.”

The cathedral fell silent, and Seán looked again at the crucifix. The blood looked so real.

“How have ya justified yar own sins?” asked Higgins.

Seán pulled his lips between his teeth, his eyes again viced tight.

“Eh?” Higgins prodded.

“I thought I was right,” mumbled Seán.

“I suppose ya did. Ya're more the man who chooses blindness, than the one who stumbles from ignorance. All the worse, I suppose.” He pulled the tunic from his head, revealing his own tussled hair. “Seán, ya were a good lad. Took care of James. Richard said, ‘Seán Kennedy is more loyal than all of ya. Someday that lad will work for me.'” He shifted in his seat. The bench creaked.

Seán clenched his fists. “Pray, Higgins, say no more.”

Silence fell between them, like the hush of a dead wind at sea. Seán's mind tumbled through those Dublin days and nights. He and Jemmy had both been afraid, but they had stuck together. No matter the bastard. He looked down at his hand and saw only three fingers. “Tell me, Higgs, who told Richard where Jemmy would be that night?”

“As I said, ‘twas me. Charity Heath told me. And I carried her messages to Richard. But there was one thing she said that I didn't tell Richard: James's mother was booked on that same ship. I told myself I was setting things right, keeping that to myself. I was certain mother and son would reunite on board. Thus by letting him be kidnapped, I was having him saved. But of course, I was wrong.”

“Was she on that same ship?”

“Aye. James doesn't know how close he came to freedom. I haven't the heart to tell him now. But she was there, indeed. I saw her board in Ringsend. Yet somehow, it never came to be.” He shook his head.

“It was that simple?” asked Seán. “What did Da know—”

“Aye, ‘twas that simple. Charity deceived Mary, and that was that. Yar da had no hand in the affair. None a'toll.”

Seán sniffed loudly, then sneezed.

“God bless ya.”

“Humph,” Seán mouthed, wiping his nose with his pocket cloth. He was feeling grave, and Higgins's words were only making him worse, like an axe falling on a rotten tree.

“Yar da did have his secrets though.”

“Aye? Like what?”

“He knew Richard killed Arthur, yet never said a word.”

“Richard killed his own brother?” exclaimed Seán, stuffing the pocket cloth away.

“Had Bailyn and me do it. I found Arthur in a tavern. Bailyn drove him down with a coach and six.” He inhaled fully. “I watched him die in the mud.”

Seán closed his eyes. “Da said nothing?”

“Avenging Arthur's cruelty, I suppose.”

“How'd he know of it, that ye'd killed the man?”

Higgins shuffled in his seat again, then whispered, “I told him.”

“Why? What could Da do about it? Richard was the Earl, and—”

“I know, Seán. I was a fool about many things.” He drifted in thought. Then he stood as if to leave.

“So, what will ye do now?” asked Seán, his voice warm for the first time.

“Me? Oh, Richard's men are out there, scouring London, ordered to bring my head to Dunmain House. Bailyn at their helm.” Higgins smirked.

“Where will ye go?” Seán stood as well.

“Home. To the Highlands.”

“Ye'll run?”

“Why does one sinner question another's penance?” snapped Higgins. “What do ya plan to do yarself if not run?”

“I don't know.”

Higgins placed a hand on Seán's shoulder. “You were wrong, Seán. But to go away now would make in worse. Ya must make amends with James. Let yar friend forgive ya, if he will.”

“I don't think he would,” said Seán, his words softly echoing off the high walls.

“Ya're not Judas. Ya may prove to be Peter, but that's for you to decide. The bell's not cracked between you and James. There's still time.”

“I hope so,” Seán said meekly.

“Ya must go to James.” Higgins pulled a scrap of newspaper from his pocket, then handed it to Seán, who took it and read:

“Seán,” Higgins continued. “James must win this. To do so, he'll need yar help. Will ya go to him?”

Seán sighed, returning the paper to Higgins. “Someday.”

“Someday soon, I hope. Take some advice, Seán,” Higgins continued. “Life is dreadfully short of days. Get married. Have a family while ya can. Make yar peace with James.”

“I will,” Seán said, though not sure he meant it. How could he face James, after nearly sealing his death?

Higgins extended his hand and Seán shook it. “He's a good man,” Higgins said, then added in a whisper, “and so are you.”

Seán said nothing. He didn't know anything to say. Higgins turned and walked away. “God be with ye,” Seán finally muttered to the old man's back. Higgins raised a hand in reply. How could he have been so stupid, Seán asked himself. What a fool he had been, not to see through Richard's deception. What must Jemmy think of him? He grouped three fingers together and stared at them.

Suddenly an explosion of loud voices ripped through the church. Higgins was yelling, then someone else, then the angry sound of sharp steel loosed. The rector was entreating, “No bloodshed in the house of God!” Seán sprinted the aisle, jerking his cutlass free. The silhouettes of men were just beyond the narthex, under the arched portal. Now closer, he saw Higgins and Captain Bailyn circling one another, round and round in the tight breezeway, swords drawn.