Fortunate Son (6 page)

The night Juggy was killed, Jemmy stumbled off into the black Dublin streets. A week later he was gone. Lost to everyone but himself. Except Seán. He knew where to find Jemmy. After a day of persistent effort, trying to get Seán to reveal Jemmy's hiding place, Fynn gave up. Though he would not say it, he respected Seán for keeping his word. But he did insist food, blankets, and clothes be bundled and taken to Jemmy, wherever the boy was. This afternoon, as he had done the previous day, Seán pulled the wagon off Frapper Lane, easing it cautiously down the stone-walled carriageway of the stables, toward the rear, where the hay barn stood. If anyone asked what he was doing, he was there to fetch hay. He leaped down and creaked open the big door.

“Don't worry. No one's about,” Jemmy blurted.

“Ach!” Seán exclaimed. “Ye scared me!” He saw Jemmy's uneasy movement, his grimace. “What's hurting ye?”

“Nothing,” muttered Jemmy. The musket ball had grazed his right side, and the wound had only begun to heal. He didn't want to say anything because Seán would be too worried and would tell Fynn who would undoubtedly demand Jemmy return. He had already disposed of the bloody shirt and was now wearing the shirt Seán had brought the day before. If only he had a different cloak. He tugged at it, yanked it around so the large hole and bloodstain could not be seen, then took the bundle from Seán. “Thank ye for the food.” He gave an empty smile.

Seán glanced away. “Daniel Mackercher is coming from Scotland.”

Jemmy furrowed his brow, to which Seán explained, “Her brother.”

“Aye,” said Jemmy. “He was coming for the wedding. Does he know about—?”

“Da sent a letter. He arrives tonight.”

“He's coming for blood now.”

“Aye. Da said if he had known Mr. Mackercher was arriving so soon, he would've waited with the funeral. ‘Tis too bad he wasn't here for his sister's funeral. If I had a sister—”

Jemmy grimaced. “I should have been there too.” He watched Seán fidgeting with a shoeing nail, scratching a line in the soft wood of the doorframe.

Seán dropped the nail. “I must tell ye something. Yer mum is here, in Dublin.”

“I know.” He looked puzzled at the statement. “But where—”

“She wants ye t' go t' England with her and—”

“Did ye see her?” Jemmy's eyes grew large. “I told ye I saw her that day on—”

“Nay. Charity came and told—”

“Charity is a lousy whore if there ever was one!”

“Aye, but….” Seán pulled a shiny key from his coat pocket, handing it to Jemmy. “She asked me t' give ye this,” he continued. “Said it would prove ‘twas yer mum.”

Jemmy took it, studied the “B” engraved in the key's handle, then turned it over. As he expected, the word “Buckingham” was inscribed in the brass shaft. “What'd Charity say?”

“Said yer mum was sailing for England tomorrow on the
Courtmain
, a merchanter, ported down near Ringsend.” Seán was less than enthused. “Wants ye t' join her.”

“That's wonderful Seán!”

“She'll take ye overland t' it, t' the
Courtmain
.”

“Where am I t'—”

“She'll be waitin' for ye in Christ Church tonight. In the chapterhouse.” Seán's dejection was palatable, yet Jemmy scarcely noticed. His mother was going to rescue him. He could not believe his ears. She was taking him to England. He was going away with her. Hope surged through him. “When Seán? When this evening?”

“I don't know. Said tonight. When ye hear the bell of Christ Church. Just once. It'll ring just once. That'll be yer signal t'go to the chapterhouse. That's what Charity said t' tell ye. And ye're t' wait in Copper Alley. T' wait there for the bell.”

Jemmy's eyes narrowed. “Why? Why should it matter where I wait?”

“So ye're nearby, I suppose. I don't know.” They lingered in silence for a moment, each gripped by his own imaginings. Seán turned, looking out. “I've got t' get back. Da wants me t'go…t'do something for him. I think.”

“Right,” said Jemmy, watching Seán. He reached out and grabbed Seán's arm, then hugged him briefly. “Then I'll see ye in England. Soon. Someday soon, Seán. I promise.”

“Aye. In England. Jemmy….” Seán's voice was fluttering again.

“Go now, will ye?” Jemmy urged. “Before we both start weepin' like lasses.”

But Seán remained, his eyes fixed and glossy. “Will ye send for me? Ye comin' back?”

“I will. I promise. Seán, ye're my best friend.”

“I'm yer only friend.”

“So ye are.” Jemmy's lip curled at the jab. “So don't ye think I'll find you soon? I will. London ‘tisn't so far away.”

“Far enough.”

“Go on now,” he said softly. Feeling the sadness mounting within, Jemmy gestured toward the carriageway beyond the half-open door. Seán dragged his feet out to the wagon, then climbed into the box. He stared at Jemmy, then gently reined the horse to go. Jemmy smiled, forcing back tears, holding three fingers high in the air—
through ice
, together forever.

Seán saw Jemmy's hand, then stood in the wagon, his arm up straight, waving three fingers back. “Good-bye, Jemmy!” he shouted.

“So long, Seán!” Jemmy hollered, watching Seán hold his balance as the wagon moved slowly up the carriageway. Both boys held their salutes high until Seán rounded the end of the long stone wall and was gone.

“Good-bye, my friend,” whispered Jemmy. Taking a deep breath, he felt his throat tighten, tears rushing forward. He held the brass key, rubbing it methodically between his fingers, tracing and retracing the letter “B.”

Daniel Mackercher and his band of seven Highlanders stepped onto Merchant's Quay at a quarter-past five that evening. Fynn was there to greet them with horses for the men. He had been waiting for their currach's arrival since three.

“Mr. Mackercher,” said Fynn, stepping forward. It had been eight years since he had seen Daniel and he was not entirely certain which one he was. All the Scotsmen were imposing, Farquarsons all, draped in pale brown and green tartans, basket-hilted broadswords strapped to their sides. Each had a pistol tucked into his kilt belt, along with one or two dirks. Fynn was impressed, having never seen such well-armed civilians.

“Aye, Mr. Kennedy,” replied Mackercher. The two men embraced firmly. As they pulled back, a small chill ran through Fynn as he saw Juggy's eyes, the same lucent green.

“Daniel,” said one of the Scots, pointing up Bridge Street, “we've wolves upon us.” Five English cavalrymen were coming from the Brazen Head Tavern. Having spotted the Scots, they had mounted and were now approaching the quay.

“Good day to you sirs,” said the lead officer, tipping his hat, eyes on Mackercher. From the insignia on the five red coats, Fynn knew they were guards from Dublin Castle.

“Good day, Lieutenant,” replied Mackercher.

Another soldier moved his horse forward. “These men are Jacobites!”

Mackercher shook his head. “A man's tartan doesn't portend his politics. No more than yar uniform tells yars. My name is Daniel Mackercher. I am a loyal subject—”

“Daniel Mackercher?” exclaimed one of the soldiers. “Same man who captured the regimentals at Sheriffmuir?”

“Aye. Very same,” said Mackercher. “I fought for the Duke of Argyle. I'm as loyal to King George as the one of ya.”

“Mind you,” growled the lieutenant, “do not weigh our sovereign loyalty.”

Mackercher's good humor fell away. “Then mind ya not weigh mine, sir, and we'll get along marvelously.”

“What business brings you and your men to Ireland?”

“‘Tis a family matter,” replied Mackercher.

Fynn listened, admiring Mackercher's boldness, his courage. He wished he had that nature of vigor, that spirited strength. Daniel Mackercher was tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. Even on foreign soil, the man was confident, certain of himself. How long had it been since he had felt that confident? Years. Now he had lost Joan. Now Seámus was leaving. He had never felt so fragile and drained. He hated the feeling. If Mackercher had been on Ship Street that dreadful night, things might have been different. Mackercher would not have been so foolish. Joan might still be alive. Seámus would be safe. Joan would be there with them. They would be marrying. He shook off the bitter thoughts. Mackercher was in Dublin now. For revenge. This would be dangerous, but it must be done.

The lieutenant eased his horse among the Scots. “Well armed for a family matter.”

“‘Tis a private affair.” Mackercher was resolute. “Of no concern to the crown.”

He stopped directly in front of Fynn. “What is your business here?” Before Fynn could answer, the officer turned back to Mackercher. “This papist with you?”

“He's here t' fetch horses,” said Mackercher. Fynn gestured agreeably toward the horses.

The lieutenant continued to Mackercher, “Best be gone from Dublin shortly.”

“I will not tarry in the
execution
of my affairs.”

“Very well. Good day to you sir.” After saluting Mackercher, and receiving Mackercher's salute in return, the lieutenant led his men away.

Within an hour it had grown dark, and Fynn was pacing Purcell's small kitchen, trying to reason with Mackercher, who was sitting in front of him, pensive and glowering. Purcell was listening, leaning in the doorway. “But ye can't,” Fynn protested. “It wouldn't be just you who'd be hanged. ‘Twould be the rest of us too. They saw me at the quay with ye. They'd arrest us all.” He stopped walking, took a deep breath, then blew it out in a sigh. “Ye're far off yer native heath here, Mr. Mackercher.”

“Ya must call me Daniel. I think I know ya,” said Mackercher, rising to his feet. “But then, perhaps I do not. I know ya loved my sister.” He turned to Fynn and nodded. “That much I do know.”

“This isn't yer country, m'friend,” Fynn began again. “No man wants t'rip the stinking entrails from Richard Annesley and that Bailyn more than I. Be assured of that. But at what price? At what price would ye kill these Englishmen? At the price of Mr. Purcell's family here? Pardon my sayin', but ‘tis madness. Blind revenge.”

From the window, Mackercher watched Purcell's girls playing in the street below. He mulled Fynn's words. He passionately hated Richard Annesley, a man he had never met. In a fit of greed, that demon had loosed his hounds on Joan, butchering her in the street. Mackercher slowly shook his head. Richard Annesley, and every one of his men, deserved to die. Had this occurred in Scotland, their throats would've been cut days ago. The English in this country were protecting those murderous animals. Well, damn them all—he would draw them out and kill them. He would be done with it. It was proper. It was just. God ordained such killings. No one could find fault, and if they did, then damn them too. He would simply move Fynn and Seán to Scotland with him. He looked across Ship Street and saw Kate Purcell standing in front of a shop, talking to another woman. The Purcell's two girls were now next to her, the youngest tugging at her mother's dress. Kate bent down to talk to the girl, then glanced up and saw Mackercher in her kitchen window. Mackercher tried a pleasant smile, but Kate looked away, refusing to receive it. What would he do about them? Could he move the whole Purcell family to Scotland? Would they even want to go? Well, they would just have to go. But what about the English magistrates in Scotland? Could he truly ensure this family's safety there, even in his own glen? He turned back toward Fynn and John. “Then I shall challenge Richard. Kill him legally. Cut him down.”

“Dueling is not entirely legal, as ye're aware,” Fynn said. Mackercher didn't respond, so Fynn continued, “Even so, Richard is a coward. He'll assert his peerage and not appear. He'll aver a Scot to be beneath him, no doubt.”

“That black dog,” Mackercher whispered, pounding his fist on the wall. “The damn cur.” He turned, glaring at Fynn, then shouted, “I don't give a damn about the Annesleys or which one of the bastards holds the claim to the Earldom of bloody Anglesea!” He slugged a hanging pan, clanging it to the floor. “What I do care about is that this
Richard
and his man Bailyn die.” Mackercher's clinched jaw almost shook. “I'll kill them both. Mark my word.”

Fynn nodded. “I have no doubt ye'll do just that.”

“Good sir,” Purcell addressed Mackercher from the doorway. “Ye're trained in the law?”

“Aye.” Mackercher caught his breath. “Barrister.”

“Ye say this matter could be brought before the King's Bench in London, or even here in Dublin?” Purcell's deep voice rumbled. “Fynn and I have spoke of—”

“'Twould be too costly,” Fynn interrupted. “And wouldn't—”

“I might bring him to the bench on grounds of murder,” mused Mackercher. “But another killing happened that night. A large Catholic man killed a constable.” He raised his eyebrows, centering on Purcell. “With a meat hook.”