Fortunate Son (5 page)

One month later, Margaret died giving birth to Seán and Juggy's life fell black. Years later she still shuddered at the memory of holding her dead baby, of Margaret dying so soon thereafter. But she also remembered the pure joy of nursing Jemmy. Jemmy had been her light, her salvation when she might have otherwise lost her mind, her soul swallowed in despair. He made her smile. Always. Just as she was now smiling, leaning on Fynn, watching Jemmy outside, bathed in new sunlight. She closed her eyes, remembering him, a baby in her arms, thirteen years ago, suckling her breasts, his tiny pink toes. God protect her dear boy.

Outside, Jemmy had just finished wrapping the dirk and was now entranced, watching a tinker push a lopsided cart up the cobbled street. The cart's wheels thumped as they turned, clanging and jangling the tin pans and trinkets. Then, as if from a mirage, five men on horseback suddenly galloped up to Purcell's. The front man tipped his red hat to Jemmy, who sat petrified, instantly recognizing the man's choleric, thin face.

“Captain Bailyn!” shouted Fynn, stepping from the shop, advancing quickly between the horsemen and Jemmy. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” Jemmy noticed the man riding farthest back was the same man who had spurred his face at the funeral. As their eyes met, the man looked away. Jemmy slid the dirk behind the bench and stood.

“‘Tis him,” said Bailyn, pointing at Jemmy. “Shoot anyone who gets in my way.” One of the men raised his musket.

“Come now,” Fynn sneered, “what do ye think I'll do, unarmed as I am?”

“Keep yar place, sir,” warned the man.

Juggy stepped outside, then Seán, with Kate Purcell and her two girls close behind. John Purcell burst past them, rolling up his sleeves as he did. “Get back inside,” he snapped. Reaching into Fynn's wagon, he removed two large clubs, tossing one to Fynn.

“I've come t'get the bastard,” Bailyn announced, pointing at Jemmy. He drew a pistol from his saddle holster. “Ye should all get inside.” His saddle creaked as he leaned forward. “All except for lil' James here.”

Fynn brandished his club, shouting, “I'll brain the one of ye who touches the lad!”

“Oh my!” Bailyn laughed mockingly. “What are we t'do?”

Purcell stepped forward. “It'll take more than a lead ball.”

“Aye, ye're a big'un.” Bailyn cocked his pistol. “But we'll find a coffin t'fit ye.”

“There won't be any killing!” the horseman in the rear yelled. “Captain! We've no orders to do further.”

Jemmy looked at Higgins, the man speaking, the same man who had sliced his face in the churchyard. Captain Bailyn suddenly began a rumbling chuckle, then lifted his pistol and fired at the butcher's shop sign, the ball splintering a hole through the wooden cow. He whipped his mount around, shouting with a flourish, “Good day t'all ye swine! I'll be back for the boy. I assure ye.” He spurred his horse, cantering up Ship Street, three of the men riding close behind. Higgins tipped his hat, then slowly reined his horse around, walking it away. Jemmy sprinted furiously down the street, away from everyone.

Fynn shouted after him, “Seámus!” Jemmy kept running. “Seámus!” He watched Jemmy turn between two buildings and disappear. “Seámus!” Fynn followed him, stopping at the narrow passageway. Seán was close behind.

“Mind the rats,” Seán offered, moving to take the lead.

“Lad.” Fynn caught Seán's shoulder. “Stay here. Will ye?”

Seán huffed. “Alright, Da. But go to yer right when ye come out back there.”

Fynn squeezed between the two walls. When he stepped out he was standing on the hillside behind the row of buildings that faced Ship Street. “M'God!” Two rats scurried over the rotting rubbish in front of him while a thick fog of flies buzzed about. Sewage odor burned his throat, setting his eyes to watering. He jerked his ascot over his mouth and nose. To his right he saw a worn trail along the top of the embankment. He followed it, crossing six waste ditches, then moved downhill through a clump of trees. There the trail disappeared, fading into the slick grass. He pulled his ascot down and stood in the shadows, his eyes searching the moat's bank. Rising on the far side was Dublin Castle, its enormous stone walls besieged by vine and moss. “Seámus?
Cá bhfuil tú
,
Seámus?” he shouted, hearing his words echo off the English castle. “
Cá bhfuil tú?
” he called again. Slight movement on the ground caught his eye—the shadow of a boy, a young man. Looking up into the interlacing limbs above him, he saw Jemmy perched on a plank. Jemmy glanced down, then looked away. “
Tá athas orm tú a fheiceáil,
” said Fynn, telling Jemmy he was glad to see him. Jemmy nodded, a blank expression on his face. “Sorry I found ye, are ye?” Fynn asked, stepping forward to see Jemmy's face. He used a hand to shield the sunlight from his eyes.

“Nay,” muttered Jemmy, scratching his chin.

“Hiding, are ye?”

“Wish I could.”

“I reckon ye do,” Fynn offered, smiling. “May I join ye?” Jemmy gave a faint nod. “Well, let's see.” Fynn grunted, wrapping his arms around the trunk, attempting to pull himself up. But he lost his grip and slid back to the ground. Glancing back at Jemmy, Fynn sighed, frustrated. Jemmy almost smiled. Fynn tried again, struggling a little higher before sliding down once more. “Damnation,” he grumbled with a huff.

“There's steps ‘round the other side.”

Fynn walked around the elm and climbed up the wooden planks he found nailed there. As he came to the rickety platform, Jemmy scooted to make what room he could. There was barely enough space for them to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, feet dangling in the air. Fynn wrapped an arm around Jemmy's back. They sat quietly. Then, like a breeze on a humid day, the moment passed. Fynn sighed deeply, studying Jemmy, seeing the midday sun flittering across the boy's light hair. It danced and shimmered there, shades of light then dark, shifting and swaying. Like a playful antic, the sun amusing itself with the innocent.

Jemmy was staring off, beyond the limbs above them, high over the castle, watching a peregrine falcon gliding effortlessly on its white-gray speckled wings. He studied it, observing its graceful, deadly actions. Suddenly, with speed-blurred ease, it dived for a small bird, flipped on impact, rolling mid-air, screeching as it missed its prey. “What am I t'do?” Jemmy asked.

“I don't know. Ye deserve t'be the rightful—” Fynn stopped himself, then continued, “Ye are the rightful Earl of Anglesea. B'God, ye are, indeed.” He looked at the castle, lowered his gaze, then finally closed his eyes. “But we must prove it.”

“Prove it?” exploded Jemmy. “Why must we
prove it? I'm my father's only son! Shouldn't that arse, my supposed uncle, shouldn't he have to prove who
he is instead? How can he say I'm a bastard? Juggy is not my mother!”

“Of course she's not,” said Fynn, seeing Jemmy was close to tears. “But this matter won't be resolved easily, I'm afraid. We must—”

“I should just go away, and not be—”

“I won't have ye tuckin' yer tail and—”

“‘Tis my choice.” Jemmy's voice was surprisingly soft and far away.

Fynn took Jemmy's chin, forcing the boy to face him. “Aye, son. ‘Tis yer choice.” Jemmy pulled his face away. Not till Jemmy glanced back did Fynn continue. “Think on it. If we let Richard remain unchallenged, let him wrap himself in yer father's trimmings, let him take residence in Dunmain House, let him collect the Earl's rents…he'll be all the harder to remove. People will accept it if they see you accepting it, even if ye truly don't.” He shook his head. “It doesn't make it right, Seámus. But ye shouldn't run
.
”

“I can't stay either,” Jemmy muttered. “To stay means to put the lot of ye at risk.”

“Ye can't worry about that.” Fynn closed his eyes, as if in defeat. Losing because he had no alternative, no hope, no promise to offer.

“What will Richard do t'me? Will his Captain kill me?”

“Nay! He'd have to kill me first. He would indeed.”

“Or indenture me. To the Colonies?”

“He may try, but….”

Jemmy sat still, a slight breeze washing over them. “I can't stay in Dublin.”

“Give us some time. To hire a solicitor. Stay hidden till we find a solicitor to take yer cause to the King's Bench. But we can't if ye're gone, Seámus. James Annesley himself must bring the charges, must make the accusation. In his very person.” Fynn glanced quickly at Jemmy, hoping to see agreement, relief, something in those blue-green eyes. He hoped to see the boy believing the impossible—that a common Catholic like Fynn could afford an English solicitor.

But Jemmy was vacant, resigned. “Why do ye call me Seámus?”

Fynn hesitated before speaking. “Because deep inside ye're Irish. I see it in ye.”

“But I'm English.”

“Never in my eyes, lad.”

Looking over the fetid valley and moat, Jemmy saw the rough ancient stones of the castle wall standing beyond. They had been there for over six centuries, protecting the Irish from countless attacks. But now they just held back the refuse of the people, protecting the English nobles inside from all others, from all else. What good were those stones? Who would want to wade through Irish sewage to capture an English castle that held nothing? Another fleeting wind whipped through the canopy of leaves, carrying the smell of rain with it.

“Best be going back, Seámus,” Fynn prodded, his voice almost a whisper.

“Aye,” muttered Jemmy, looking away, seeing the falcon had returned. Or perhaps it was different one. It climbed, dove, snatched its prey mid-air, then soared once again straight into the azure sky. He watched intently, pleased to be so momentarily distracted from his dread.

By late afternoon, pelting rain had doused them, thrashing Dublin into the evening. But as the black of night settled in, the clouds passed and the moon and stars peered out, dropping their light on the quiet, wet city. Above the butcher's shop, the Purcells urged their girls to sleep, then excused themselves to another room, while Fynn and Juggy whispered near the stove. Jemmy and Seán were out front, sitting, plunking stones into a luminous puddle. Jemmy watched the reflecting ripples course out, an ever-widening eye in the dark. Pulling his cloak tight, he looked up, face to the night sky, studying the stars, white stones on a black veil. Glimmering jewels. Each out of reach. Then he saw something familiar in the northeastern sky. As he stared deeper, a shape gradually appeared. One he had recently seen. Subtle and returning. He would lose the image, then regain it. He could see the rounded crown, the hairline crack. “Seán, the skull!” he exclaimed. “B'God. The one in St. Stephen's.” The starry skull flickered, staring back.

“Where?” asked Seán, looking up.

“The stars…there, near Jupiter,” Jemmy said, pointing. But suddenly the star skull was lost in the wash of beady lights. He focused harder but it was useless. “I thought I saw it.”

“I was thinking,” Seán began, “when ye go tomorrow, if I'm trying t' find ye….” His voice faded to mask the emotion. “Perhaps if I'm trying t' tell ye something….”

“Aye?”

“A signal. If to say….”

“Aye Seán, we need a sign. The skull?” Jemmy offered. Seán nodded, rolling a pebble between his fingertips. Jemmy drew shapes in the mud, imagining how it should look. “Circles. Like this. Two eye holes, with an ‘X' below them.”

“That'll do.” Seán turned to wipe a tear.

Jemmy put an arm around his friend, squeezing him. “Stop it.” He took a deep breath. “Promise me ye won't say where I'm going. Not even t' yer da. I'll have no one hurt on my cause. I won't be having that on m'soul.” He kicked a cluster of rocks from the edge of the street. “Promise?” Seán nodded. “Promise on the skull of St. Stephen's,” Jemmy pressed, pointing at the muddy skull image before them.

Seán squatted, drawing another two circles and an “X.” “Aye, I promise.”

“Good. I'll go t' the barn on Frapper Lane,” Jemmy said, nodding. “Then I'll leave Dublin when I can.” His lip quivered. “Seán, ye're….” As his voice faded, he looked at the stars with newfound interest, as if they had just spun round, become new, trying to distract him. High over the two birch trees across the street, a meteor flashed through the blackness.

“Jemmy!” exclaimed Seán, startling Jemmy from his thoughts. “Look there.”

He turned, seeing four horsemen guiding their mounts down the street, hooves clomping on the cobblestones, steadily advancing. The lead horse stepped through a puddle, then came into the full cast of the moon, revealing Captain Bailyn on its back. “Go inside, Seán,” whispered Jemmy.

“I'll get Da!” Seán bolted into the shop.

“No,” Jemmy tried, but Seán was gone. He slumped back into the shadows, focusing on the four men. He could hear Seán's feet pounding up the stairs, then loud voices.

Suddenly Fynn came bounding outside, turning back to yell, “Stay inside, Joan!” Purcell followed him out, brandishing a meat hook. Juggy was there at the door.

“Ya have no pistol, Fynn!” Juggy's voice was shrill, scared. “What are ya thinking? ‘Tis madness!” Jemmy knew she was right—no Catholic was allowed to have a sword, dagger, or dirk. And certainly not a pistol or musket. When Seán maneuvered by her, Juggy came farther out, persisting. “Fynn, this is no way—”

“Hush!” he snapped, his eyes fixed on the approaching men. “Seán, go inside.” Seán returned to the shop. The horsemen were now only two buildings away, the hooves growing louder.

“Take this!” she pleaded, giving a shiny object to Fynn.

The dirk!
Jemmy's mind raced, his sour fury rising.

“So what do have ye there?” Captain Bailyn's voice snarled in the darkness.

Purcell stepped forward. “Did ye not hear us this mornin'? Ye deaf lump of shite.”

“My fat Irishman,” Bailyn said, leering, “before ye start swinging that silly hook, trying t' keep yer oaths, let me introduce who'll be killing ye tonight.” Jemmy studied the three other men, one being Higgins who was once again trailing the group—he appeared devoid of emotion, staring blankly at his companions. “Behind me, on my right,” announced Bailyn, “this is Mr. Parks, the new chief constable of this stinking city. On my left is Mr. Byrne, another recent addition to the constables. We were in such need of more law, what with all the wretched Catholics and all.” He tipped his hat at Juggy, adding, “And of course, all their whores.”

“Coward!” Fynn thundered.

Bailyn grinned. “How are ye, m'lady? Still on yer game?”

Fynn charged Bailyn. “Come down! Deal with me directly!” He grabbed the reins of Bailyn's horse, forcing the beast's head around. “Get down! Or aren't ye man enough!”

“Fine,” Bailyn muttered. He drew his pistol and then began dismounting. Just as one leg swung around, Fynn grabbed Bailyn's other knee, pulling him off balance, sending him crashing to the dark mud. The impact knocked his pistol away and sent his red cocked hat flying. Bailyn immediately curled, clambering to get to his feet, but Fynn stomped a boot hard on the man's chest, driving him deep in the muck. Before Bailyn could pull his own dagger, Fynn had the dirk against his throat. “If ye cut me, papist,” Bailyn growled, “the boy will hang with ye tomorrow.”

“No Fynn!” Juggy pleaded. After a long, prickly silence, Fynn slowly backed away.

Bailyn stood, shaking mud from his coat. “Now give me that blade.” The constables had nervously drawn their pistols and were now cocking them.

Fynn looked around slowly, saw Jemmy, then scanned the rest of the crowd as if taking note of where everyone was standing. He eased forward, handing over the dirk. “Seámus,” he said flatly, “‘tis time t' run, lad. Be gone with ye.”

Bailyn bellowed, “Shoot the boy if he runs!” Jemmy was paralyzed. Bailyn looked back at the dirk, studying it, the steel shimmering. “Fine Scottish blade ye have here.”

Fynn stepped closer. “If ye mean t' take this boy, ye'll have t' kill me first.”

“Very well.” In one swift motion, Bailyn surged forward, lunging with the dirk. Fynn jumped back, stumbled, and everything exploded. Jemmy clambered against a stack of crates, ducking as pistol cracks lit the sky, and in the rush of mens' shouts, heard Juggy screaming “No!” Back to his feet, Fynn saw the long beef hook on the ground. He lunged for it, rushed and drove it straight through the chief constable's leg, deep into the flesh of the man's horse. The horse thrashed, whinnying loudly, throwing its rider into the air. Just as the constable hit the ground, Purcell jerked the hook free and thrust it into the man's neck. Blood splattered Purcell's face. Jemmy stood, scrambling to run. Another gunpowder blast exploded. Smack! A stinging slap ripped Jemmy's side, spinning him down. He crumpled behind the crates.
I'm shot! Oh God, I'm shot!
his mind squalled. He grabbed his side, cringing, his blood leaving him. He could hear the chaos of horses, men falling, yelling, the splashing, the ringing of swords. Then everything fell silent, except for the rapid clomp of a riderless horse running away. Jemmy crawled forward to cautiously peer around the crates. He saw the twitching feet of the dying constable. Purcell was holding a sword to the throat of the other constable, who was standing unsteadily. Captain Bailyn, still clutching the dirk, was on the ground, breathing hard, staring across his dead horse at Fynn, who was standing, panting. Behind Fynn was Higgins, still mounted, aiming a musket at Fynn's head.

“This has gone much too far!” shouted Higgins.

“Shoot the son of a bitch,” ordered Bailyn.

Fynn looked at Higgins. “Are ye a demon too? Like him,” he motioned to Bailyn. “Would ye shoot an unarmed man?” Higgins didn't move. Jemmy watched intently, feeling nauseated and weak as he held his side, the warm liquid oozing across his hand. Suddenly Fynn leaped over the dead horse and the blast of Higgins's musket shook the air.

“No!” Juggy shrieked. Jemmy saw Fynn falling, Bailyn hurtling forward with the dirk, Juggy throwing herself across Fynn, screaming. Then silence. A gurgled gasp came from Juggy. Fynn rolled to his feet, Higgins's shot having missed its mark. Captain Bailyn stumbled backward empty-handed. Juggy was on her knees by the dead horse, her back to Jemmy. He could see her long auburn hair fluttering, her body swaying.

“Oh God!” cried Fynn, eyes fixed on Juggy. She slowly slumped, pitched forward, then crumpled to the ground. Jemmy stared horror struck. The hilt of the dirk was protruding from her chest. Fynn wailed, kneeling beside her, lifting her head in his arms. Blood sputtered from her mouth as she coughed. “Damn ye!” Fynn yelled. “Look what ye've done! My Joan, my sweet Joan.” A peal of cathedral bells announced the ten o'clock hour—a rhythmic knell from the darkness, wafting over them, metering out the agony, the disbelief.

“Let's go, Bailyn. Now!” demanded Higgins. He reined his horse around, spurring it into a quick trot. The staggering constable glanced down at his dead companion, then turned and ran after Higgins. Bailyn calmly walked to the remaining horse, caught the reins, mounted, and followed the men, disappearing in the dark.

Seán stepped into the street, then stopped—terror and tears on his face. No words, just petrified, fixed. Fynn was rocking Juggy, pleading, “Don't go, Joan. My sweet Joan.” The moonlight cast a white glow over her dying face.

“Juggy!” Jemmy tried to stand, then collapsed. He crawled toward her, ignoring the searing pain, and grasped her limp hand. He pulled himself closer, pressing her muddy palm against his face, sobbing into the hollow of her hand.

“Jemmy. Seán.” The names gurgled from her mouth.

“Right here,” said Fynn, stretching a hand toward Jemmy, motioning for Seán.

“I can't…see him.”

“I'm here,” cried Jemmy.

“Juggy,” sobbed Seán.

“Seán,” she said with a wisp of a smile. Then her eyes focused on Jemmy. “M'lad, Jem…. Fynn, do care for him.” Each breath a long wheezing heave. “He has no one else.”

“I do. I will,” said Fynn. “Of course—”

“Fynn….” She raised a hand, grasping his wrist. “Don't fret, m'love.” She pulled herself against him, as if to rise. “Ya'll always be my husband.”

“God! Don't take her! Don't—”

“I love….” Her last small gentle breath moved over Fynn's face and was gone, the flutter of a loosed feather, floating away.

“I love ye…my sweet,” whispered Fynn, leaning forward, trembling. He kissed her, but he could not pull back, could not pull away, his mouth pressing her open lips, quivering, her blood smearing his face. He wept with his whole body, his whole soul shaking.

Her shimmering eyes were staring blankly into the black sky, and in them, Jemmy could see the faint reflection of the stars. “Don't die, Juggy,” he mumbled. His brow tightened, another surge of tears slamming into him. “Please? Stay.” The reflections in her eyes slowly faded, slipping into a haze. Finally all was gone and Jemmy could see the stars no more.