Fortunate Son (11 page)

Like a blossom closing for the night, the sea slackened, drawing in upon itself, relaxing, preparing to absorb the sun, which was hovering just over her furthest reach, over the very edge of the world. The thick waters rolled up against the
Courtmain's
red and gold sides, then receded again, easing her to slumber. The galley bell rang out calling the first-dog watch to eat. They quickly descended the ratlines, having flown the light kite-sails for the evening. Most of the crew and passengers had dined at noon, but the evening watch had successfully petitioned Captain Hendry for a later victual. For Jemmy, it was another opportunity to get a meal. Standing on the maindeck, he watched the sea slowly calm as he finished his small ration of salt pork.

He was beginning to like the grey-blue ocean, even when she was in a rage, pitching and buffeting them about as she had done for weeks since the
Courtmain
lost sight of England. The first days of the voyage had been a painful blur of raging headaches and wrenching nausea. On the sixth day, a passenger, chosen because he had registered as surgical apprentice, examined Jemmy and then informed Captain Hendry, in Jemmy's stunned presence, that Jemmy had “ship's fever” and would be dead before the morning watch. Jemmy was immediately unshackled and given a separate bunk in the halfdeck near the helmsman's berth. But then the storms hit and though the heavy sea had done no serious damage, it had managed to carry away a section of the port rails, wash two sea chests overboard, and jostle Jemmy unmercifully in his berth. But it was better than the between-deck. Anything was better than the between-deck.

He was not sure why he liked the ocean. Perhaps because he had stopped fearing her. Perhaps because she seemed to protect him, for a while, from indentured servitude, enslavement, or whatever it was that awaited him on the other shore. Perhaps it was her consoling touch, her rolling lifts and falls, holding him through his grieving. She lulled him as he wept in the dark, her waves whispering to him as he moaned alone, curled, imagining his mother, missing Mr. Kennedy and Seán, shuddering again and again through Juggy's death. Finally the images had subsided, lessening. He avoided thinking about them, letting the ever-present sea and the bounds of the tall-ship fill his mind, just as he was doing now, in the middle of the cold Atlantic, leaning over the railing of the
Courtmain
, studying the settling blackness below him, feeling both excited and soothed in the same bracing moment.

“What do ye think of her, James?”

Jemmy turned to see Captain Hendry approaching. “Who, Captain?”

“My ocean!” Hendry stepped up on a wooden box and swept his arm imperially across the vast expanse. “What do ye think of her?”

Jemmy smiled hesitantly, wondering if the captain might be drunk again. “Oh, aye,” he said, nodding. “She's grand, sir.”

“And my argosy? A leviathan, no?” He turned to Jemmy.

“Aye, sir,” Jemmy agreed, wondering what either was.

Captain Hendry stepped to the railing and lit his pipe. They joined in a silent stare at the fire of the falling sun, each lost in his own secrets. The enormous deep-blue sky was streaked broadly with hundreds of golden-orange shafts erupting from one horizon to the other. The plunging sun ruptured, blasting all its colors free as if it knew they would be terminally lost in the blackness of the sea. It reminded Jemmy of Ireland, particularly Dunmain, of memories he had been trying to keep buried. He pictured the evenings he had spent with Seán climbing the Norman ruins atop the big hill south of McCreary's farm, and how they had tossed rocks, played mumblety-peg and dueled with wooden swords until the sun disappeared. They were sure that Dunmain had the best sunsets in all of Ireland. But then they moved to Dublin and neither seemed to notice a sunset again. Least not till this one, at sea. Would the Colonies have sunsets like this? Indentured slave—the phrase froze him. And with the sun nearly gone, a frigid emptiness bludgeoned him even more. He missed Dunmain terribly. Taking a deep breath of salty dark air, he closed his eyes and the image of Fynn Kennedy filled him, as if he had inhaled his face from that same temperate air. He longed to feel Mr. Kennedy's powerful grip, the weight of the man's arm on his shoulder. He missed his soothing voice telling him everything would be all right, all right in God's time. Even though it had not come true and perhaps never would.

Then his thoughts turned to Seán. He would love to be there, at sea. Seán had often talked of becoming a Royal Marine. If only he were there.
Aye, ye'd like this Seán, ye would indeed
. He breathed deep. He was tired of remembering them, but he knew neither of them would ever withdraw from him, never abandon his mind—they would never pass away. He was the one who was gone, gone for almost a month. Opening his eyes, Jemmy saw the sun had already vanished and was amazed at how quickly it had gone. Anger jabbed him—anger at himself, anger for having missed the sun's last few living moments.

“How are ye feeling today lad?” asked Captain Hendry.

“Fine, sir,” replied Jemmy, looking up at the tall, square-shouldered captain. The man kept a proud air and spoke in a lilting Irish accent. Jemmy hoped that someday he would stand as tall and proud as Captain Hendry. They even shared a scar on their cheeks, though Jemmy's was on his right side and at five inches was twice as long as the captain's. In the last couple of days he had even begun to hope that he too would be a gallant ship captain, wearing the distinctive dark-blue fearnought jacket and tarpaulin cocked hat over a tight groomed wig, just like Captain Hendry—free to be true, free from the tangled evil of men like Richard. He could see himself skippering a crew of loyal men on a magnificent ship across an endless, peaceful ocean.

“How's yer foot?” Hendry continued.

“Aye, fine sir, that too. I've only a small limp to me now.”

“Good. Ye're a strong one, ye are. I've seen many a lad succumb to her, but not ye.”

“Nay, sir.”

The captain slapped Jemmy's back. “Ye'll make a sailor yet, b'gob! Ye shall indeed!”

“Thank ye, sir,” said Jemmy, smiling. He did feel better. Much better. He kept his beam for some time, proud to stand alongside the captain, even if the man was a bit drunk. As Jemmy stood there, braced against the chilly wind, he saw the sea change to a deep shade of crimson-blue, like aged burgundy. The sun had long slipped below the horizon, and what was left of its blaze had become a smoldering gold fluorescence that shimmered across the dim expanse of settling waves, searing their small white crests with boiling orange and red, mirroring its lighter self overhead, still overspread in broad pastels, blushing against the darkening sky.

Again the captain cracked the silence. “I was told ye were a bit peevish today with the burials and all.”

Jemmy turned away slightly. “'Twas nothing sir.”

“Eh? Now lad, what was it?”

Jemmy hesitated, then softly said, “'Twas the old one, the man with the one eye.”

“He was consigned to the deep. I hate to lose a passenger, but it happens. As ye've seen.” The captain shrugged. “Always will.”

“Aye,” Jemmy muttered, then added, “I saw my first dolphin today,” hoping to change the subject.

“Not a dolphin. Not in these waters. When we get to warmer water, I'll show ye. They'll be along under the bowsprit then. Ye'll see.” He paused then announced, “I've got something to give ye lad.” He motioned for Jemmy to follow him, and they both went up to the quarterdeck, then on up to the poopdeck where the captain staggered slightly, grabbing the chalk-marked rail. Then he bent over and picked up something next to the gunwale. “Now, look here, have ye ever seen one of these?” He handed a large brass object to Jemmy.

“Aye, Captain, I've seen one.” Jemmy studied the object. It was about two feet long, a combination of brass strips forming two flat triangles.

“Well, have ye ever held one before?”

“Oh, nay sir. Never held one.” Jemmy turned it over and back again.

“Do ye have a notion what it is, what it's for? Do ye?”

“‘Tis a quadrant—a backstaff for navigation by the stars,” answered Jemmy, still running his fingers over the worn brass. He had seen the first mate charting with one and had wondered how it worked.

“Very right ye are, a backstaff indeed. ‘Tis yers.”

“Mine?”

“Aye, Lord Anglesea, ‘tis a gift from me.”

Jemmy recoiled instantly. “Lord Anglesea, sir?” The title was hanging in the air, resonating, like the echoing aftermath of a single toll of a bell.

“What of it?”

“Well, sir . . . why'd ye refer to me as such . . . as Lord Anglesea?”

“‘Twas nothin. You said that is your title. I was simply….” Even in the waning light, Jemmy could see that the captain's eyes flicking nervously between him and the heavy expanse of the sea. “Now, lad, let me tell ye about the quadrant. When I was….”

As the captain droned on, Jemmy's mind was elsewhere. Does he believe me now? Did he know before I was brought aboard? Nay, he's a ship's captain, not a kidnapper. Jemmy picked at a loose chip in the top of the chalked fife railing. Surely he'd spoken true when he said he had papers showing I'd registered myself for this. But why the particular treatment? The tiny chip wouldn't give and Jemmy tried harder to loosen it. He's been polite. But what if…might he have met Mother? Nay, he hadn't! He said he hadn't. Wouldn't he have known her? She was on this same ship from Ringsend to Bristol. He claims not to have seen her, nor to know Richard. Finally the small chip of wood flew free from the railing, leaving a dimple behind. Jemmy breathed hard and chewed on his bottom lip. So, why call me Lord Anglesea? The alternatives and potential lies of what he had decided were truths rolled through his mind like one wave crashing across another—a mass of confusion. Something was wrong, something spoiled, and now Jemmy wished he were older. If he were, he would know the truth and would not be so easily deceived by men such as Captain Hendry. Bitterness swept over him, for allowing himself to be hoodwinked, for not knowing if he had actually been deceived at all. It seemed as if something were being stripped from him—not just his trust in Captain Hendry—something more, something unknown. He felt as if he had been given his ration of hard tack only to find worms crawling through it. He reached up and felt the Buckingham key, that comforting piece of brass hanging from his neck on a strip of sailcloth. “I am,” Jemmy finally whispered, interrupting the captain. “I am Lord Anglesea.”

“Oh, aye, of course ye are,” Hendry replied nervously,

“So ye believe me?” asked Jemmy, exhausting his last optimism.

“Well, nay. Can't rightly say I do.”

Jemmy's face dropped.

“Ah, ye've gone chopfallen lad.” The captain gently lifted Jemmy's chin. “Think upon it now—if I did believe ye, what then? I couldn't rightly take ye into Maryland as an indentee, now could I?”

“But what I told ye is true! Upon my oath, I am the Earl of Anglesea. Rightfully so!”

“Aye, and my mother was Athena.”

“But I am, sir!”

“No more!” snapped Captain Hendry, raising a hand. “We've been through this lad. I won't hear it again. ‘Tis ridiculous, indeed.” He turned and started descending to quarterdeck. Over his shoulder he said, “Find the first-mate if ye want to learn that thing.”

“Aye, sir,” said Jemmy meekly. Once again, he felt lost—lost in the words of the captain, lost in his feelings of truth, lost in the past, lost in the unknown, lost on the cold black Atlantic. He looked up, staring blankly at the stars, which had come out to mock him, laughing in massive battalions of small white lights, flickering at his vanity, at his smothering ignorance. As he stood there, a group of stars near Capricorn caught his eye. At first he believed it to be the Druid constellation, as the sailors called it, but it looked more familiar than that. Something was different about it, something beckoning. He cocked his head one way, then the other.
I'll be—‘tis the Skull of St. Stephen's, ‘tis!
There it was, staring at him from on high. He looked away, focusing on the snapping mizzen sail, then back up again. The starry skull was still there. It had not disappeared as he hoped.

Footsteps tapped lightly across the deck. “So you want to learn the Davis Quadrant, do you?”

Jemmy pivoted to see Mr. Parker, the first-mate, approaching. Looking down at the quadrant in his hand, he mumbled, “Aye, Mr. Parker. If ye have the leave to show me.”

“Well, I reckon I do, seeing how the ship is calm enough for a reading.” He smiled warmly. “And seeing how the captain asked me to.”

“Thank ye,” Jemmy replied. He liked the first-mate, though he wasn't sure why, probably because the man was so affable and mellow.

“Now, of course,” began Parker, lifting the quadrant to a ring hanging from a shank off the mizzen mast, “we can't use the stars.” He dropped a plumb line and hooked a vane to one of the curves of the flat instrument.

Jemmy watched him intently. “Why not?”

“Need a shadow. See any shadows on deck?”

“Nay, sir.”

“But, I reckon we can practice on the North Star—use it like a cross-staff. Where's the North Star, lad?”

“There!” Jemmy smiled when he spotted it, pointing confidently into the northern sky.

A night breeze whispered over them as they worked under the newly risen moon, and the mizzen topsail shivered overhead, empty and loose. By the time the watch bell rang eight times, signaling the end of the second-dog watch, Jemmy and First-Mate Parker had been working with the quadrant for over an hour. Just then, an urgent cry came down from the crow's nest: “Ahoy, Mr. Parker! Ship lying off the port two points, sir!”

Parker spun and quickly crossed the deck to the port side, with Jemmy close behind him. The first-mate pulled a brass scope from his pale green coat and peered through it, pointing it toward the far reaches. Jemmy stared hard at the horizon but saw only the moon, a full golden ball, igniting the black waters with its pale fire.

“I don't see it, watch!” Parker yelled aloft. “How far?”

“About a league, sir!”

Parker scanned along the horizon, then abruptly stopped. “Found it,” he whispered. Then he turned and yelled, “Steady on!” across the maindeck. Moving quickly down to the quarterdeck, he shouted into the helm, “Ship on the port side, thirty-five degrees! We're on her bearing. Take her starboard one point easy, Mr. Lyons! Stay on our rhumb line!”

“Starboard one point easy, sir!” came a muffled reply from the depths.

Jemmy could feel the ship begin a slow yaw to the right, then watched below as Parker leaned out over the decks, ordering softly, “All hands on watch, keep your eye on that ship, but keep quiet about it.” He climbed back to the poopdeck, pulled up his scope and studied the horizon, searching back and forth, then stopped. “There you are, you rascal,” he muttered. “Now,” he breathed, “just who are you?”

“What is she, Mr. Parker?” asked Jemmy, wishing for a turn at the scope.

“A full-rigger, a barque, best I can see.” Parker handed the scope to Jemmy. “Here—you tell me.”

Eagerly, Jemmy took the scope and peered into it until his eye gradually adjusted. Then he pulled the magnified image along the dark horizon until he saw it, another square-rigged tallship gliding along in the glimmering darkness—its sails glowing in the moonlight. “Looks like the
Courtmain
, Mr. Parker.”

“Nah, that one's bigger'n us.” He took the scope again and lifted it to his eye. “She's carrying cannon.”

“Cannon!” Jemmy's heart thumped harder. “Will we pass her?”

“If we're lucky.”

“Why…why might we not?”

“Lad, haven't you ever heard of privateers?”

“Privateers?”

“Aye. Pirates, lad!”

Jemmy's hands went cold. “Aye, I've heard of ‘em.” His eyes were as big as soup bowls. “What if…what if they see us?”

“Oh, I'm quite sure they already have,” said Parker, matter-of-factly. He looked up at the crow's nest, calling out as softly as possible, “Watch! Can you make out a rogger jack?”

“Nay, sir,” came the reply from the dark heavens.

“Ah, well,” the first-mate whispered, “he'd probably not be able to see it, not in this dark. And they probably wouldn't be sportin' enough to fly one anyway.”

“A rogger?” asked Jemmy, his gaze fixed on the inky shadow on the horizon.

“A pirate's jack, their black flag. Sometimes a corsair will put a skull and crossbones on it. Never seen one of them bleedin' things?”

“Oh, aye. Well, nay. I've heard of ‘em.”

“If they be pirates, we'll know soon enough. They'll turn into us.”

“Then what?”

“Well, we'll have to ready the ship.” Parker looked at Jemmy. “All hands will be piped on deck and defenses prepared. We'll load our cannons and muskets, distribute the cutlasses and pikes, strengthen the masts with chains, and make a breastwork of hammocks and beds against their small arms on the quarterdeck. Then we'll lock the women in the hold and make ready forty bottles o' rum to fill the men with courage! Will you help lad? Will you wield a cutlass for your good ship?”

“Aye, sir!”

“We'll see.” He returned to his scope. Jemmy was frozen in a wide-eyed stare. “If they turn,” Parker continued, “well then…soon enough they'll boxhaul and come alongside us. Then I suppose they'll start firing their big guns. We'll have to stop on pain of losing our main mast.”

“And if we do stop?”

Parker stood motionless, silently peering through his scope. Suddenly he looked down at Jemmy and said, “Then the rogue blood suckers will use a grappling hook and link us to ‘em. They'll come on deck and, unless we fight well and give them the hell they sorely deserve, they'll kill the likes of us, saving only those they'll need to sail her.” He paused for a moment, then returned to the scope and muttered absently, “Probably make you walk a plank.” Jemmy swallowed hard. “Of course, on second thought, they might just take the cargo, kill us all, and scuttle the ship.” He grinned.

“Should we wake Captain Hendry?”

“Nah, let's just wait and see what she does.”

Parker said nothing else for a long while, just kept the scope to his eye, and stood there, still and calm, occasionally glancing at Jemmy. Jemmy could feel his own heart thrumming loud and his breath growing short. He could see it happening—they were stuck, abandoned, powerless, alone. Drifting on the near-end of a faint wind in the middle of the Atlantic, sailing to certain doom. Would they be sunk? Would they all drown? Would they fight the pirates? Was it Blackbeard himself just waiting to spring a trap? Was this it? Was this the end of it all? Here and now, on this godforsaken cold ocean?

The boatswain came up the steps. “Mr. Parker,” he said, “she's bearing away.”

“Aye, Mr. Samuels, so she is. So she is. Very good. Tell the helmsman to correct.”

“Aye, sir.” The boatswain stepped down and bellowed Parker's orders into the helm.

“So, it wasn't….” Jemmy began, his voice barely audible.

“No, lad. Just another argosy most likely, a merchant vessel like us. You weren't worried, now were you?” Parker gave a gentle grin, then lit his clay pipe.

“Me? Nay, not at all, sir,” asserted Jemmy as he plopped down heavily on a side-turned keg. “Not at all.” He drew in a cool breath that filled him entirely, like it was his first.

“Sure,” said Parker. “Some things you can't change, lad. And those are the very things you have to accept. ‘Tisn't fair. No, not fair a'toll. But we steer our course the best we can and let God protect us from the rest.” He looked away, leaning on the railing.

Jemmy bit his lip, thinking about Mr. Parker's words. Looking back at the horizon, he saw the faint remnant image of the disappearing ship. He felt disappointed, somehow. What if they had been pirates, he wondered. What if they had attacked the
Courtmain
and he, James Annesley, had saved the ship? Or even, what if he had joined them? He pictured himself sailing the seas as a pirate, attacking innocent ships with a broadside of cannon-fire, collecting a wealth of treasure. He could see the battle, the swinging cutlasses, smell the smoke from the cannons—

“Time for you to turn in, lad.”

Jemmy grimaced. He wasn't tired in the least. In fact, his heart had only begun to slow from its feverish pitch. “I'll bunk down shortly. I shall, sir.”

“Aye, well then, good night to you.” Parker stepped down.

“Good night, sir. And thank ye for teachin' me the quadrant.”

“‘Tis all right lad, we'll look at it again. Perhaps tomorrow you'll give me a hand with the chip-‘n-log line.”

“That'd be grand, sir.”

“Very good.” With that, the young man was gone.

For a few minutes more, Jemmy could still hear his voice down below, talking to someone on the maindeck. Mr. Parker's voice was familiar to Jemmy, comforting—the same dialect as his mother's. Jemmy stood and walked back to the poopdeck railing and leaned against a brace rope wound tightly around its bitts. He peered across the deep rolling emptiness but could not see the other ship. It was gone. He wondered where it was bound, then decided it was probably sailing to the Colonies, perhaps even to Maryland, like the
Courtmain
.

Earlier that week, Jemmy had begun thinking in earnest about their destination and what awaited him there. He knew the course was set for a place called Maryland, somewhere on Chesapeake Bay in the middle of the British Colonies. The land of Indians, untamed wilderness, freedom and warm air. He had known many people, especially some young men, who had waxed ardently about the Colonies. And though he had imagined going there, it had been fleeting. He belonged in Ireland, at Dunmain, in Dublin, where destiny awaited him. Seán had felt otherwise, saying he and Jemmy should be on the high seas exploring distant islands, fighting for the Royal Navy. If only Seán were there now—how grand that would be.

He also realized he would have to work for a few years. Nothing too long. Several passengers had talked about it. No more than five years, probably three, but they didn't know for sure. Apparently only Captain Hendry knew. But Jemmy didn't mind a little work. How many days had he spent in the stables with Fynn, tending horses? Uncountable. Yes, he could work. Until he would run away and return to Ireland. But then what? What would he do in Ireland? Would things be different? Regardless, he would still go back. He had to. When the
Courtmain
arrived in Maryland, he would jump off, and sail back. But maybe a week later. He had to see the Colonies first. Then go. But what if he liked Maryland? Most of the passengers were excited the
Courtmain
would soon reach the halfway mark. They couldn't wait to walk on the white beaches of the new land—the land of promise and riches. And in truth, after listening to them, Jemmy knew he had become swept up in their enthusiasm. But even so, he reminded himself, unconsciously standing taller, he was the Seventh Earl of Anglesea and he belonged in Ireland.

So his plan was set—he would see the Colonies, meet an Indian, do a little work, perhaps as a factor's assistant or tending horses, then sail home—all within the year. By next spring he would be back at the Anglesea Estate at Dunmain, the richest young man in Ireland. Richard would be in irons. His mother would return. Fynn would be happy. He envisioned himself regaling Seán with fantastic tales of pirates on the high seas, all of it. Seán would be completely awestruck, green with envy. A breeze wafted by and Jemmy's smile stretched to a yawn. He turned away from the rail and descended to the halfdeck. He would sleep well, dreaming of the white sands and the red Indians of Maryland.