Fortunate Son (32 page)

James clenched his teeth. The room was growing darker with the dimming day, but they had no seconds to call the duel, to call quarter, even to light a candle. It would go on this way, getting darker and more dangerous. He had to end it soon, now, but how? He needed to spot a weakness, predictability in Bailyn's movements. He thrust again, but only a feint. Bailyn took it, tapping it aside, then on his right foot he lurched forward wildly and down into a lunge. James rocked back, then rejoined, knowing he had just seen it. He had seen it before, and there it was again—the man flopped his right foot leading into a lunge. Bailyn attacked again, but this time James was against a wall. He parried hard, shoving back, then furiously thrust around with the dirk, causing Bailyn to recoil from reach, backing the man away until James could free himself from the corner. Now in the open, James circled, eyes locked on Bailyn's eyes, but mind locked on Bailyn's foot. Then he saw it. In the instant that Bailyn stutter-jerked forward on his right foot, James sidestepped, expecting a lunge to follow. When it came, he was well out of the way, and Bailyn's rapier blade found only black, empty air. James swiftly dropped the tip of his rapier, then popped it up, slipping it under the man's bellguard, driving the tip forward, impaling it deep in Bailyn's left shoulder. The dagger dropped.

Bailyn cried out in pain, jerking back, wincing, trying to extricate himself from James's rapier, but James threw his weight behind it and leaned in, driving the steel straight through the flesh, feeling it rub by bone and out the other side. Then with all his strength he plunged the dirk into Bailyn's chest, cracked the sternum, shoving it downwards. Bailyn groaned angrily, careening back as blood spewed up the blood groove of the blade, speckling James's neck and face. He yanked the rapier free, but the dirk wouldn't give. The bloody brass grip slipped from his grasp as the man dropped to his knees, eyes open and straight-ahead. Then Bailyn fell backward, his head smacking hard on the wood floor. James watched him die, the primordial shudder, the blood pooling in the dark, the dirk's hilt reflecting the very last glimmer of the day. Finally he reached down and jerked the dirk from the body. Staggering back, he leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, blood streaming from the slice across his own chest, the sharp pain screaming up at him. He was panting hard, staring at Bailyn. But he didn't feel victorious. No triumph. What an awful thing it was to kill a man. Even one as foul as this.

James tied a small linen tablecloth around his chest, angrily cinching it over the wound. Though it was hurting worse, the bleeding had slowed. He could ride. That's all that mattered. He stared at Bailyn's body, infuriated. The bastard had killed with impunity, the son of a bitch. Impunity from the law. Impunity of the mind. But not of the soul. Bailyn was answering for that, right now. He had better be. But would he, himself, have to answer for this killing someday? No, this was duty. Yet reason didn't abate his rage—it boiled him where he stood. Hundreds of dead he had seen at sea, killing all around. But nothing equaled this, this death of his own. This man killed so many. He deserved to die this way. Not in a bed. It was right for his blood to be spewed on a dirty tavern floor, mixing with the spilt brew. He used a cloth to wipe most of the blood from his blades and resheathed them. He turned again to Bailyn. “I hope you can see yourself,” he muttered, wishing the dead had ears.

How can such savage men kill people, good people, and not be affected? Why didn't they too get gnashing sick from their acts? How did they escape this anger? How could Bailyn have murdered countless people—his father, a woman, Juggy, a man like Higgins, now Seán, and undoubtedly others—yet stay so smug, so damned arrogant? As if unaffected. As if righteous. As if specially touched, ordained to do Satan's work. Perhaps that was it entirely. And just as accursed was Richard, who ordered the deaths. Directly or through some mad concordance. He was no less guilty of those acts, yet remained repugnantly aloof. The goddamned dog. Yet he, James, having killed the very rat that had infested so many, was tasting bile and felt his head pounding with pain and fury. To kill a man with your own hands. To watch a life depart. However awful Bailyn was, at one time he was a young woman's baby. Now dead, here. Here is where that life ended. Here is what that life left behind. No, he brushed the thought away. It was good to have killed him. It needed to be done. And it was good that he did it. He needed to be the one. But it was anything but satisfying. Perhaps that is how the callous keep some semblance of sanity: they don't watch their victims die. They don't let themselves see the horror they inflict, the last seconds of the dying, the last breaths on this earth. This animal should have watched his own death. He wished he had kept Bailyn alive longer, let him suffer more. No. He knew better, but for the moment it felt good to think it. He stared another few seconds, then turned and walked out.

For the first time he saw faces, about ten people, all boys and young men, at the front of the Huntsman, peering silently through the windows. As he pushed open the doors, they parted, giving him a path to his horse. Once atop Bhaldraithe, he said to the group, “He was a murderin' fiend. Had it comin' t'him.” Seeing the blankness of their stares, he eased his horse around. Within a minute, he was on the main road, heading south toward the Curragh.

The path wound quickly into the woods and Kildare was soon gone behind him. It was nearly dark and the stars were beginning to join the half-moon, pouring themselves across the deep blue sky. Though James barely noticed. He was bent into a small slump over the horse as it clomped along. Occasionally glancing over his shoulder, he studied the dim woods, the fields beyond. Anyone was suspect. Anyone might be a soldier or constable, one of Richard's men. Seeing only a few in the distance, he dismissed them and kept moving, letting his mind jostle where it might. He had to return to that Curragh stable. Get back to Seán. To find Seán. The Huntsman was probably filled by now. That group would be hauling Bailyn out. And when the question was asked, they would describe James. Some probably could name him. But who will bring the charges? Richard? Not likely. Not this time.

Bhaldraithe lumbered along with an occasional snort, his hooves thrumming the worn road. He had gone many miles that day and a fair amount at a gallop. So James kept him at a lope. Besides there was, most likely and unfortunately, little reason to hurry. The frogs were out, calling, and a few crickets too. James shifted his weight, creaking the leather saddle, trying to ease the sharp, swelling ache in his chest. Quietly, he began deeply humming
Greensleeves
, letting the tune wash through him, calming him, soothing the aches, freeing his thoughts to drift across that day's morning. He and Laura had been on that same road, riding in a coach with Mackercher, laughing, anticipating a day at the races—out to find rest and fresh air. He let his head sag side-to-side. What a horrible day. His thoughts could not sustain a singular path without quickly flexing back, as if pulled by the gravity of that Curragh moment: Seán giving fire, and taking it, for them to escape. If that coach was still there he would use it to bring Seán back.

He chuckled smugly, imagining Richard hearing of Captain Bailyn's death. But would that end it? No. Richard would never stop. Not until sufficient force was brought to bear. And Bailyn's death would only incite him, if it did anything. So what would be sufficient? A verdict against Richard? He nodded to himself. This coming trial for the earldom was not only the best way to beat Richard, it truly was the only way. Even then, Richard would likely remain in Ireland, causing trouble. James would require him to leave. He smirked, realizing that, after the trial,
he
would have the power to call upon the English infantry, to have Richard escorted away. To have Richard hauled into the bowels of a ship and transported if necessary. But to where? America? No, America was his. He had earned America. He didn't want to export such foulness to the Colonies, regardless of the act's irony. Probably, the man should go to France, he reasoned. Richard spoke some French so— Ah, the man could go to hell, for all James cared. Why be concerned for him? Richard would be lucky not to be hanged upon reading the verdict. But then again, what if Richard won? He and Laura would return to Virginia. Maybe Mackercher would go as well. It was a pleasant thought.

The sound of an approaching carriage snapped James up. He eased Bhaldraithe off the road, into the cover of black trees. As it passed, he could see the driver and was at first startled at how much the man looked like Mackercher. But in the next instant, as the moonlight came more fully on the man's features, he could see it was no one he recognized. He returned to the road, his thoughts turning to Daniel Mackercher. Good ol' Mackercher. He will be very pleased to learn Bailyn was killed. Even more so when Richard is penniless and ruined. Especially after a night in jail courtesy of the man. James smiled. Mackercher was a good man. What an enormous sum he was spending on attorneys, witnesses, inns and coaches. James had known Mackercher was wealthy but never realized the extent. According to several, over the past few years Mackercher had found great riches in the tobacco trade. Not to mention his solicitor fees. It was unfortunate, James reasoned, that Mackercher had not been of such means in earlier years. Juggy might never have served the Annesleys. Might never have suffered the insults of Arthur. Might never have died. He wondered if Mackercher felt guilty for that. Maybe that was why Mackercher was so willing to expend his fortune prosecuting James's civil suit. Perhaps. Of course he and Mackercher would have their own revenges, but this was about much more than that. It was about land and estates, money and titles, what was rightfully his. Right? James could find no answer that satisfied him. He thought about the old woman, Ms. Bhaldraithe. This trial should be about right from wrong. Justice and injustice. What James did with the land and title was another matter. How could he ever claim this land as English soil, as his land? By what true authority? At least Richard would have no claim to it. No claim to that Kennedy land around Dunmain. Where Fynn was buried. And where, tomorrow, he would take Seán. The image of Seán, lying dead in a filthy stall, brought a pall down—black dread merging with the night air. He was alone on an empty road on an empty night. His stomach ached, a lump the size of a fist stuck in his throat. It was almost too much to bear: having to bury his friend without ever saying those words, those things that needed to be said. How can we know the dead hear us? We must say what we can when we can.

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.