Fortunate Son (23 page)

Across the street, Bailyn was braced. “Come on, Higgs,” he muttered, “just kill him. I'll get you on the road.” As he said it, nodding to himself, the image hit him that someone might see Higgs's body, recognize him as James's killer, and that might bring it back to Richard. Thus he would need to disfigure Higgs's face. He would shoot him with the blunderbuss. No, he would use his broadsword. Or maybe a large branch.

James was frozen, the pistol jammed against his skull. “Come now, Mr. Annesley. ‘Tis time for ya t'go,” a voice behind him whispered in a brusque Scottish brogue. “Keep yar hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Ah, Patrick Higgins, ye've found me,” replied James, trying to stay calm as he glanced over his shoulder, pushing his head against the barrel. “Well done. Shelby Stables and—”

“Shut yar mouth and move forward.”

“By God, ye'd better pull that trigger, Higgins. I've waited a long time to kill ye and Captain Bailyn, and I won't lose my chance now,” James said, daring, turning slowly, reaching for his sword.

“Face ahead!” Higgins pulled James's sword from its sheath and flung it into the darkness. He growled quietly, “Walk to the coach.”

“What coach, Higgins? Where's yer buggerin' friend, Bailyn? He's in the coach, aye?”

A hand grabbed James's arm and spun him to face the stable's open door. “Look outside. Across that street. Who do ya see?”

James complied, bracing himself against a feed trough as he leaned forward, peering into the bright street. He saw a man sitting on a gray mare, holding a musket across his lap. “Ah, faith be! ‘Tis Captain Bailyn, the devil incarnate.”

“Mark my words, James. He wouldn't let ya live more than three steps outside. He can't see us here, but if ya try to run, or even—”

“Ah, straight to hell with ye!” James took another step toward the door. “I'll take my—” He halted at the sound of a cocking flintlock. “Higgins. Ye plannin' to shoot me in the back? Why not give me a pistol and we'll stand our paces?”

“I'm quite serious. Don't go another step into that light. I swear Bailyn
will
shoot ya.”

James made a half turn. His eyes had somewhat adjusted. Now he saw a black carriage beside them, hitched to two horses, and beyond it was a large blue coach with a team of four. “Is that the coach?”

“Aye. Keep moving,” whispered Higgins.

James walked forward, purposefully slow, hoping for an opportunity to run out the back of the stable. But where? Then he saw it: a flitter of light. In an instant, he pivoted, shoving Higgins against a post, slugging him in the stomach. Sprinting around the carriage, he found his sword and lurched ahead, further into the darkness. He lost sight of the rear exit. He stumbled over something, clambered to his feet, then heard boots scrambling around him. Raising his sword, he slashed at the sound. “Get back!” He sliced the blackness till steel found flesh.

“Auuggghhh! Damn!” a man screamed. Suddenly a pistol fired and the darkness erupted in chaos, a flash of gunpowder, horses snorting in fright. James ducked, dropping back to the dirt floor. Hands were grabbing him, snatching his sword, pulling him.

“Get him up!” a gruff voice commanded.

“Hold him,” Higgins half-yelled. “Hold him fast!”

“Bailyn is taking his aim,” another Scot called out.

“Now! Now!” came a muffled shout. Suddenly the massive doors slammed wide and a man in the driver's box of the black carriage whipped the horses to run. As it shot into High Street, another shadowy figure brushed by James and ran out through the open doors. The man untied the old nag and leapt into the green hay wagon, whipping the horse down High Street, following the carriage. James heard a musket fire and people in the street shouting.

“Bloody hell!” James stammered, stunned by the unexpected commotion.

No one said a word. The big doors began to creak closed. Just before they met, James looked out, across the street. Bailyn was gone.

“Bring him,” whispered a Scotsman. The men fettered James and pushed him to the coach.

“Get in,” barked another. “Sit in the back.”

James hesitated. Behind him, he heard the shrill, distinctive ring of a military sword sliding from its steel scabbard. He quickly climbed aboard. It was utterly black inside, forcing him to feel for the backbench. Finding it, he sat down and waited.

When Bailyn heard the pistol fire, he cocked his musket, taking aim at the stable doors. When they flew open, a black carriage shot out. Was that James driving? Bailyn fired and missed. He was certain it was Higgs who was fast behind, clambering into the old wagon and cracking the whip. Bailyn spurred his mount, galloping after them. Ahead, the carriage turned onto Bath Road, the hay wagon following. He would pass Higgs at this rate. At least he would get James. He would overtake the carriage and kill them both just beyond the city walls. “Faster!” he shouted, digging in his spurs.

“Ya damaged?” a man asked outside the coach. Then came the sound of ripping cloth.

“Just a cut to my arm,” said Higgins, climbing inside. “Let's go.” He pushed next to James, slamming the door behind him, sealing them in the coal-black interior. Then James heard the heavy stable doors creaking open once again, followed by the crack of a whip. The coach lurched forward and the wheels hit the street's ruts with a jarring thud, the canter of the horses' hooves rippling through the seat.

“All right, Higgins, I'm game. Who were those Scots?” James asked the blackness.

Higgins didn't answer.

James's knee bumped another knee and a cold jolt ripped through him. Someone, besides Higgins, was in the coach, sitting directly across from him. It could only be one person, he realized. “So, Uncle, I see ye've hired the whole damned Black Watch to nab me.”

“Lord James Annesley?” a warm voice replied from the other seat.

James noticed the man's accent carried a soothing Scottish lilt. Though it had been years since he had heard Richard, he knew it was not the voice of that pernicious man.

“Lookin' for someone else?” retorted James. “'Twould be a shame.”

“True,” snorted the man. “Patrick, ya going to live?”

Higgins mumbled, “Just my arm. Didn't know I'd be bellin' a cat.”

“Perhaps Lord Anglesea delivered ya a scar to match the one ya gave him.”

After a silent pause, James spoke up. “Ye also work for Richard? Like Higgins here?”

“No,” answered the voice. “Neither does my clansman here. Not presently.” Just then came a loud double-tap on the roof of the coach. “Good, we're out of Bristol. Pull the curtains for us, Patrick. Oh, aye, yar arm. Allow me.”

James heard the rustle of fabric and the slight screech of curtain rings. Then a shaft of brilliant March light rushed in, filling the coach, momentarily blinding him. He squinted and shielded his eyes with a hand. Across from him sat a tall, broad-shouldered, older man with friendly green eyes, distinguished smile, wig hanging to his shoulders, wearing a bold tartan kilt. James glanced at Higgins beside him: he was dressed exactly like the man who raced out of the stables, after the black carriage. He was tying a torn rag cloth around his bloody arm. No one spoke for a moment as the coach lumbered along.

“Need some help, Higgins?” James finally offered. He had tended far worse wounds.

Higgins grunted a barely audible “No.”

The stranger was still studying James, leading James to return his fixed stare. But then a metallic gleam caught James's attention. On the seat beside the man was a gleaming dirk, its brass hilt cast as entwined ropes beneath an acorn pommel. James frowned, studying it. The man picked it up, handing it through the flickering light. “I believe this is yars.”

James unsheathed it. “M'God,” he murmured, his fingers tracing a Gaelic inscription along the blood groove. “
Léargas sa Dorchadas
,” he read aloud.

“Still know yar Gaelic?” asked the man.

James whispered, “Sight in the dark.” Then a black image came to him: this dirk protruding from Juggy's bloody chest. He looked up at the stranger. “Who are ye?”

“Daniel Mackercher, at yar service, m'lord.”

“Mr. Mackercher?” James's jaw sagged. “Brother of Joan?”

Mackercher peaked an eyebrow. “So I am.”

“Faith be!” James shook Mackercher's hand. “Truly?”

Mackercher smirked. “I've prayed for years I'd might meet ya, face to face as this.”

“Faith be,” James repeated, shaking his head.

“I am the one shocked. You, in my coach. You were believed long dead.”

“So I've heard.”

“I must confess,” Mackercher continued, “I believed it as well.”

“Never mind that,” said James. “Back in those stables, I thought so too!” He snorted a smile at Higgins. “Well, perhaps for a moment.”

At that Mackercher chuckled, and Higgins, still tending his wound, finally grinned.

From the Shelby Stables in Bristol, the blue hackney coach and its complement of six guards, two in the driver's box and four on horseback, charged north for Scotland, pressing their horses over sixty miles each day. By nightfall of the first day, they had made it to Gloucester. On the second, they passed a field of Cromwellian gibbet cages, then rolled through the lush forests to Stafford, where in the black of night they settled in at the Black Bull Inn, where James found paper and a scrivener's pen.

He had fallen asleep in the front parlor of the Black Bull, slouched in the larger of two chairs, his mouth agape and drooling on the leather. The crackling fire had also faded, surrendering the room to a Scandinavian clock that filled the cool air with an echoing cacophony of ticks and tocks. The letter to Laura was lying on the floor, where it had landed after slipping through James's fingers while he was reading it for the third time. One corner was lying under the floppy ear of a spotted spaniel breathing deeply, kicking and running in a dream, curled at the foot of James's wing-backed chair.

Mackercher entered the room carrying two chamber candles, the floorboards creaking gently under his fine Italian shoes. “James?” The spaniel rolled onto its back. “James,” he said again, setting down the candles to shake James's shoulder.

“What?” James awoke with a start. The spaniel's eyes opened, but it didn't move.

“We must leave.” Mackercher was picking up James's coat and hat.

“Now? What time is it?” James got to his feet, wiping his mouth with his linen sleeve.

“A bit after midnight.” He plopped the hat on James.

“What's happened?”

“Some of yar Irishmen are in this town, asking questions.” While he spoke, Mackercher held James's coat open, helping him put it on. “We'd best go.”

“Mumph, my Irishmen?” James half-asked, buttoning his waistcoat's silk trim.

“Meet me ‘round at the stables.”

“I'll be there directly,” James replied.

Mackercher took a candle and left. Alone again, James noticed the locket was open and hanging outside his shirt. He snapped it closed carefully, stuffed it down his collar along with the key on its leather, and tied his ascot. Shoving his feet into his shoes, he noticed the letter. “Hey, ye shouldn't be reading that,” he whispered, leaning over. “Where's yer manners?” Patting the spaniel, he retrieved the letter from under its head. “Laura will wonder what English strumpet has such peculiar hair.” He carefully folded the paper, tucking it in the pocket of his waistcoat. Then he picked up his sword, tied on the dirk, and went to the door. Yawning, he returned to the chair and blew out the candle. “So long, Chap. Thanks for the visit.”

They traveled through the night, James half-sleeping in a miserable heap, bumped and jostled on the hard bench. Just before sunrise, they finally stopped and most of the men, including James, stretched out in an open field beside the road and slept. They reached Manchester that evening, and the next day they traveled on to Preston, where they replaced three horses. Four days later, the coach reined to a welcome stop near Aberfoyle, Scotland, where Mackercher's estate lay nestled in the sublime Highland foothills.

A gentle wind skimmed across tender shoots of spring grass, caressing them, touching them, like a mother's fingers through her baby's hair. James leaned his head back against a boulder, eyes closed, and let the warm scents of the Highlands wash over him. Mackercher, in his hunting kilt, strolled up the knoll to sit beside him, laying his musket in the grass. He picked up a dead grouse James had shot and inspected the feathers, spreading the wings wide, giving it an appreciative grunt. It was their second day of hunting, and already this morning they had three birds apiece.

“I'll be back in six weeks,” said Mackercher, smoothing the tail feathers. “Think ya can stay clear of all contemptible behavior till then?” He set the bird down.

“Not likely,” said James, grinning, moving his musket from his lap.

“I'll advise ya to stay clear of the Gregor Clan. Even with old Rob Roy dead these nine years, his band is still a bit o' trouble.

“A bad lot, eh?”

“Not evil mind ya, just outlaws. A crafty, unseemly sort. We can't have ya running foul of the magistrates.” Mackercher smiled warmly. “Indeed, if ya're going to do anything reckless, I damn well want to be a partner in it!” His deep laughter bellowed. “B'jingo, I got ya here. Ya're stuck with me.”

James chuckled, “I haven't much choice, as I see it.”

“Nay, ya don't.”

“When ye get to Ireland,” James began. “Waterford?”

“Aye.” Mackercher picked at a briar in his kilt.

“Ye'll be in New Ross within a fortnight.”

Mackercher nodded. “Before then, but aye. That'll have Fynn and Seán here within three weeks or so.”

James's eyes glinted. “I cannot wait to see Fynn.”

“I'm certain he feels the same.”

“So, after New Ross,” James continued, “ye'll be on to Dublin directly?”

“I'll not tangle with Richard at Dunmain.”

“'Tis only that if ye go to Dunmain, one of ye will most certainly die. Which will be the end of this, with no resolution of the estate.”

“My, how very practical,” Mackercher said sarcastically. He scratched at one of his bushy eyebrows.

“'Tis a deal then? No Dunmain?” James fixed his stare.

“Aye, aye Captain. Ya have my word.”

James took a deep breath. “So then, how will our action be titled?”

Mackercher hesitated at first, unsure what James meant. Then it came to him. “James Annesley, Esquire, plaintiff, and the Earl of Anglesea, Richard Annesley, defendant. Filed in Dublin's Exchequer, in the Four Courts.”

James remembered the building well. “The Four Courts is next to Christ Church. I'd be grateful if ye'd light a candle there, for my mother.”

“Very well,” Mackercher said with a nod. “Is not yar father buried there?” He waited till James nodded before continuing. “Perhaps I—”

“No, but thank ye all the same.”

“All right then.” Mackercher leaned his head back, gazing up at the clouds.

James sat quietly for a moment, tying his birds together, then did the same with Mackercher's kills. “Mr. Mackercher,” he said suddenly, “Before ye go, I want ye to know, ye've been entirely too good to me. I am grateful beyond—”

Up popped Mackercher's hand. “Now, James—”

“Ye'll let me say my piece.”

Mackercher huffed, then smiled. “What mettle they breed in America.”

“I am enormously grateful t' ye. At sea, I must've told Seán a thousand times I could never afford such a thing—to challenge Richard for my title and estates. He'd say, ‘Ah, ye'll find a way,' but I sincerely doubted it. Perhaps only with some joinder of the Sheffield's.”

“Not likely,” Mackercher interjected.

“Aye. Admiral Vernon gave me counsel about that family of my grandfather. Said they are no friends to the Annesleys. Never were. In fact it was out of that longstanding disdain that my mother was married off to an Annesley. Apparently her stepmother, Queen Anne's sister, disliked her. Or something of the sort. In any case, seems she fell victim to the families' disputes and plotting. Thus I am the product of that quarrel. Bully for me.” He paused to see how Mackercher was taking all this in. But Mackercher was blank. A small nod. Simply listening. “And so,” James continued, “according to the Admiral, it is precisely for that cause that I am to dislike them all in return, especially the current Duke of Buckingham. Distant relation or not. Seems childish to me. Entirely childish. But I presume the Admiral correct.”

“Seems an accurate account,” said Mackercher.

“Although I had planned to call on them, it was not with bated breath. I don't know them, the Sheffields, any more than they know me. Only that I am the son of Mary. Unless of course they believe Richard's claims. If so, then they will claim they are no relation at all. Besides, it truly seemed a lost cause, any attempt against Richard through legal means, through the courts.” He gave Mackercher a slight smile, studying his chiseled face. “But now ye've made it possible. I fear I may never adequately return—”

“Nay, James, I—”

“Of course I will certainly repay ye. Once I regain my estate.”

“James!” barked Mackercher. “Hear me
now. I don't want yar money. Not ever.”

“But sir, this will undoubtedly be expensive. Ye cannot carry the costs alone.”

“Can't I?”

“When I go to the Duke, perhaps he'll indeed see it a worthy cause and—”

“I concur with the good Admiral. Keep yar distance from that brood. Richard has sentries in London. Certainly around Buckingham and the Sheffields of York. He'll be awaiting ya. Besides, Buckingham has his own matters pressing at the King's Bench. These are difficult times. Another Jacobite uprising is afoot here in Scotland and the Loyalist are loathe for distractions. Richard has pledged for King George; thus despised or no, he will have the public alliance of the Duke. If the Sheffields wish to contribute to yar cause, it will only be through hidden means. I'll send word, as yar attorney, making yar request known. But ya should stay clear of them.”

“Thank ye,” said James, flicking at some grass.

“I appreciate yar willingness to apply reason,” Mackercher offered. “It will be asked of you as well—to declare yarself a Loyalist or risk a Jacobite's reward.”

“I am not familiar with the whole of the matter,” began James, shaking his head. He knew more than he let on, but enough to declare an allegiance? Either way, it was enthralling that his politics mattered to anyone at all. To the point, he had read the accounts of the Jacobites, pressing for the return of their Catholic “King over the Water,” James VIII or III (depending on your politics). They wished for nothing less than to depose the Protestant, Hanoverian English king, George II, an imposter according to the Jacobites. But did he concur with their cause? James had both Catholic and Protestant rumblings within him; a play performed in two languages simultaneously. A confused jumble of legitimate scripts. A dissonant noise. He was Protestant, he supposed, and that might lead to a Loyalist position, but he knew the persecuted Irish Catholics were vying for the restoration of their freedoms, something they believed could only be attained through revolt. That seemed right to him as well. And for the Scottish Jacobites, it was more of a nationalistic cause, for the dissolution of the union with England, a matter which, for many, was beyond even the reach of religious concerns. “If I may ask, Mr. Mackercher, whom do ye—”

“An honest question. But no, Lord Anglesea, ya may not ask.”

James nodded, then looked away, cuffed by the chiding, albeit a real or merely perceived admonition. Yet he would tolerate it from this man. How could he not? This was Daniel Mackercher, Juggy's brother, solicitor, military hero, the man who, with Higgins, had saved him. The man who pledged to finance and manage the pending battle against Richard. He drew a long breath through his nose, then let it go slowly from his mouth. Perhaps he should just remain quiet.