Fortunate Son (18 page)

“Yar father was an Earl. Not a stableman?”

“Nay, not at stablemen at all. He didn't do well with horses.”

“And the Duke of Buckingham was yar—”

“I never knew him.”

“Do ya have any other family? Any brothers?”

“Nay.” He shook his head, knowing what she was thinking.

“So, ya're….” She peered at him. “Are ya an Earl? The Earl of Anglias?”

“Anglesea. Aye. I am. I would be.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Let me walk ye. I'll tell ye.”

Outside, they found Bjorn's wagon and waiting horses. He had walked home. They returned to Richmond with Laura sitting close, listening devotedly. He told her everything.

At the press house, he received Morris's forgiveness for the abrupt departure, followed by permission to return Monday. Before returning to the wagon, James brisked to his quarters behind the shop. There he opened his creaky trunk at the foot of his cot, rifled past the quadrant, and retrieved the Buckingham “B” key from its burlap wrap. Perhaps it would convince Laura of that same hope, that same truth, of which it had once convinced him: his mother loved him.

They resumed the road and the story. Time languished along, measured only by the slow, slack clip-clop of hooves. James talked gently, lowly, guiding them across the Virginia countryside, down the James River, crossing at Pinckney Ferry, then eased them back toward the Johansson farm. Laura sat quietly composed through most of his journey, slowly caressing the key in her small hands. She asked few questions. She wept when Juggy died. She smiled through the stories of Seán. Though the day's light had descended through the trees, James was feeling brighter with each passing fence, each hill surmounted, each event chronicled, memories loosed, pain avowed. All anew, like old letters pulled from locked trunks and read aloud. In a resurrection of candor, each memory arose to take its first breath in years. And he loved her for listening. She understood. She forgave. She blessed open those chambers of youth denied, damage unrequited, destiny unfulfilled. She held wide his heart's heavy gates.

When they arrived at the farm, they put the wagon away and sat silently on a stack of oak. Each still traveling that journey in their head. Each held by those stories said. He pulled her close, an arm around her slender back. He looked up. For the first time in years he was awed by that spread of diamonds overhead.

“When are ya going back?” she asked.

“I'll stay in the barn tonight. I don't—”

“To Ireland, James. When will ya return to Dublin?”

He sniffed and closed his eyes. “I don't know.”

“Ya must return, James.” Her voice was a velvet whisper. “Ya must claim what's yars.” She held up the key.

“Not now. Keep it. I don't want to go now.” He tied the sailcloth around her neck, letting the key slip into her cleavage. “Someday. Not now. I won't lose ye, Laura.”

“Aye, you won't,” she said, her blue gaze flickering up from her chest, squaring it on him. “I won't have ya staying on my account.”

“Fourteen years I've dreamed myself on Irish soil, facing that evil man. But then….”

“Then what?” she asked. “Then me?”

“Aye. My dear Laura. Then God granted my greatest wish. I found ye. To marry ye. ‘Tis all I now desire.”

“Ya'll never lose me. Do ya not know that?” She waited for him to reply. He nodded. “Ya'll break my heart, James,” she began, her voice losing its tenderness, “if ya don't return on account of me.”

“I know, but—”

“I won't have it!” She scooted away. “I won't! How do ya think it makes me feel to be the one keeping ya from being the man ya truly are, from claiming yar very home?”

“When did I say being the Earl, having all that….when did I say that was who I really am? When did I say Dunmain or Dublin was my home? To marry ye and settle here, to make ye happy—”

“I'll go with ya.”

He watched her eyes. Then smiled. Then began to quietly laugh.

“Don't laugh. We'll wait out yar term, marry, and sail together.”

He could hear her heels sinking into the hardening earth. “Yer family—”

“Ya're my family, James Annesley.”

“It would be a fight there, in Ireland. I might not win. I could never put ye in danger. Not for a title, or money or land. Not for anything. These men, if they're still alive—”

Laura pulled his face toward her. “Hear me now good sir. I agreed to marry ya long before I knew any of this. If ya never have a shilling more than ya have now, I wouldn't give a tinker's damn. Ya know that?”

“I do.”

“‘Tis who ya
are that matters to me. I'll have no part in keeping ya from claiming what's rightfully yars, from righting this terrible wrong done ya. Ya have to go, and I'm coming with ya.” He started to speak and she covered his mouth with her small hand. “I'll hear no more about it,” she breathed.

A moronic grin came over him and would not go away.

Dead leaves whirled beyond the open kitchen door at the back of the small farmhouse. She was just inside, watching the orange and red ghosts play. Behind her, the sound of huffing and the hostile thumping of a knife proclaimed her mother's displeasure. Laura felt warm. Was she getting ill? A draft rounded through the house, wafting past her, flicking the pink linen of her dress. Her father was right. It
 
was an odd autumn. Odd to be so warm this late in the year.

“So he'll go?” Hanna was saying, not pausing for a reply. “And ya'll go as well, I suppose.” Her mother's disappointment had turned sharp. She was hacking so fast that bits of potato were flying onto the planked floor.

Laura wheeled around. “Vhat would ya've done, Mama? If it'd been Papa? Vhat if he had to go?”

“Laura!” Hanna glowered at her daughter.

“When ya and Papa came to America, Gran couldn't have been—”

“Laura, stop. When yar papa and I came here, we settled and built our family. Our new lives were to be
here
, with all our children. Never could we imagine one of ya going back. Across that godless, unmerciful ocean. Starting yar own life.” Her voice trailed to a yielding, empty whisper. “So far away. I don't know.”

“Mama.” She could see the tears welling in her mother's eyes. “I want to be here. James wants to be here. He's a good man. Ya know that. We won't be gone forever. Only till he's reclaimed what's rightfully his. Then we'll be back.”

“Humph!” Hanna sniffed and resumed chopping.

“Ya'll have grandchildren,” Laura tried.

“Why would he give up all that wealth? Fifty thousand acres, didn't ya say? That's a country in itself. Why would he give that
 
up?”

“It's not what he wants.” Laura looked away, touching her forehead, a half massage against a pending headache.

Hanna went on, “Don't be naive. I'm happy for ya. If he regains it all. But I am scared for ya all the same.” She shook her head. “I am scared for me, for yar papa. I'm scared we'll never see ya again.” Now the tears were coming so fully that she had to put down the knife. Laura slid across the kitchen to hold her mother. They both silently cried.

After a moment, Hanna pulled herself upright, sniffed and wiped her face with her apron. “Ya're a fine daughter.” They heard voices approaching outside. She wiped a tear from Laura's cheek.

“That's a rich field you have there, Mr. Johansson,” said a man outside. Laura recognized Captain Blackwell, a merchant vessel master who came around once a year, bringing his men to roll Bjorn's tobacco hogsheads to a barge on the James River. From there they would be floated down to Yorktown and placed aboard Blackwell's ship, the
Kathleen
. Where Blackwell took them, she didn't know.

“A cup of tea and we'll seal our arrangement.” Bjorn's voice was surprisingly formal.

“Grand,” replied Blackwell. The men were on the other side of the door, stomping mud from their boots.

“James?” asked Bjorn.

Laura heard James say from a distance, “I'll be there directly.”

The men stepped inside. “Hanna, look who's joined us. Ya remember Captain Blackwell?”

Hanna crossed the room warmly. “Ah, Captain. So glad to see ya're in God's health, as ya are.” Laura admired the way her mother could so quickly rally after a cry.

“I am indeed. And Miss Johansson.” Blackwell gave both ladies a slight bow.

“Hello Captain Blackwell,” Laura offered.

Hanna turned. “Laura, fetch some muffins and tea for the gentlemen.”

“Aya, Mama.”

“I hear cheers are in order for the new couple,” announced the captain.

“Yes,” Laura said, beaming, then turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Captain Blackwell and I have come to an arrangement.”  Her father was shouting to make himself heard from the other room. “I think ya'll find quite agreeable, Laura. And fortunate!”

Laura returned to the parlor, placed mugs before the men and began to pour the tea. “Truly? What might that be?”

“The good captain has agreed to carry James back to Ireland.”

Laura stopped pouring. She stared at her father, who was beaming.

He continued, “Don't worry. There'll be no fare. And he'll return him here by the same means.” Bjorn was clearly proud of this idea.

“That's most generous of ya, Captain Blackwell,” said Laura tersely. “Did Papa tell ya we intend to marry first and sail to Ireland together?”

Bjorn interjected, “Laura, the
Kathleen
departs in a week's time, so he'll be going—”

“Now?” Laura threw open her hands. “He'd have to go
now
?” Just then, James stepped into the house, and Laura spun to glare at him, shocked and angry. “Now?”

“Aye, Laura,” James replied calmly, coming to her. “I couldn't o'erleap this opportunity. Think upon it. I'll be over and back before our wedding day. It will—”

“Ya'd be a runaway, James! I won't have ya a slave, and wait another seven years to marry ya.” Her throat was tight with anger.

“Nay, Laura.” Her father reached for her. “Mr. Morris won't find him.”

“So this was yar idea, Papa, that he should go alone?”

James frowned. “How is this any different than—”

“Ya didn't answer me,” she raged at her father, at James. Tears streaked her flushed cheeks. “I can't—”

“Laura!” Hanna snapped, silencing Laura's storm.

“Laura.
Acushla
.” James tried to put an arm around her.

“
Acushla
,
Acushla
, James!” She shrugged him off. “Ya did this without talking t'me!”

Bjorn whispered, “
Acushla
?”  Hanna shook her head. Neither of them knew Irish.

James persisted, “Morris would never let me go, if I told him. He'd think t' sell my term. He may search for me, but won't look far. And not for long. By Wednesday, I'll be in Yorktown. I'll board and be away before—”

“It will never work,” fumed Laura, shaking her head. “They always look for runaways at the naval docks first. Ya know that!.”

He wrapped her in his arms and whispered, “It will be alright.”

Laura was quiet a moment, then pulled away from him and walked out of the house. He followed quickly. They talked by the garden. She cried. He tried to explain. She had been right before—he had to go. But he would never risk her to the sea, to Bailyn, to Richard. He had to go alone. Couldn't she see that? And if some harm came to him, she would be free to marry. This was best done now. Not later. Not two years from now. Not after a wedding. Not with children on the way. Now.

“I don't know what I'd do without ya,” said Laura as he finished. She had finally stopped crying and was now leaning her back against a hickory tree that stretched its tired old branches high over the road.

“Nor could I bear life without ye.” He kissed her. “Whether I win or lose this matter, I'll be back for ye, Laura. I will. And I'll write ye as often as I can.”

“I as well,” she whispered with a pensive nod.

James inhaled deeply, then blew it out. “I'll have to leave in the morning.”

“I hate this,” she said, her bottom lip quivering. “Why did I ever tell ya to go? If ya get hurt I'll never forgive myself. Never. I'll hate myself forever.”

He held her close, gently pulling her face to his chest, then stroked her golden hair. “Ye know ye were right. I have been running all my life from this. From Richard. I can never be the man ye need, the man I must be for ye, if I don't do this now. Ye gave me the greatest gift beyond yer love. Ye gave me myself. My truth. My life. My youth.
You
did that. Now I can only make good yer gift. ‘Tis my duty.”

“Yar duty is to return to me, James Annesley.”

“Aye. Return, I will. I will bring myself back to ye, here in Virginia. I swear to ye.”

She touched his mouth. “Don't swear upon it.”

“But I do. We'll marry and have children. We'll grow old together. I promise, my sweet Laura. Ye must be strong now. Ye must let me go.”

He was alone with her in an alley off De Grasse Street, obliged to keep his eyes sealed for her to appear. Embracing him. Tangibly there. She cooed at him vibrantly. She was proud of him. She said he was brave. Said he was right to go. He could see her eyes. Paired oceans absorbing him, glowing a nameless color relegated to stars, angels, to delusory dreams. Her warmth was near, brushing against him. He could feel her, that night, that last night they were together. When they made love. When only they were alive. Before he left. Now he was gone. He inhaled. Opening his eyes, he looked around. He blew the empty air from within him. It left him as she did. And now she was gone.

After five days and nights, covering ninety miles, he was finally in Yorktown. He had footed the mud roads, fields, creek beds, hid in barns, crossed the James River at Jamestown, spoke to no one, ate what he carried, avoided any eyes, slipped south of Williamsburg, across the soggy peninsula and down the Great Run Creek, over the crowded Tobacco Road to the endless wharves of Yorktown. Now he was tired and hungry and rethinking everything. He had only twelve shillings and his clothes, his boots, his hat, and the key on its leather wrapped in a paper on which she had written,
Be safe my Acushla
. And he had his wit, he reminded himself. Fourteen years earlier he had come past this point of the Chesapeake in shackles, carrying not much less. Fourteen years of struggle. He had lived as many years in the Colonies as he lived in Ireland, perhaps more. What had he learned? Or did it matter at all? No, none of it really mattered, he told himself. Not now. Not in this alley. He was where it had all begun, in a damn alley. But even that didn't matter. All that mattered was what was here and now before him. And for that whole quandary he chided himself. His clothes and twelve shillings indeed. What a fool he had been. Twelve shillings would not be enough. He would starve to death before ever seeing Ireland. And there what would he do? Hire a solicitor? He imagined himself wandering Dublin again—only now a grown man skulking from one solicitor to another, scrounging charity. Captain Bailyn pursuing him like a wolfhound. It was a dullard's plan. But he could not return to Richmond. Its constables were trailing him. He could feel them. And he had seen the runaway announcement. Now bounty hunters were surely in pursuit as well. But only a four-pound reward? At least it said he was tolerable and well made. He was committed, invested. Nothing could alter that. He must focus on one thing—not getting caught. Nothing else mattered. Not food. Not sleep. Not worrying. Not anything. He had made it this far. He must find the
Kathleen
, run her gangway, disappear between her decks and be gone. Blackwell said she would be tied alongside at the main wharf, flying an orange and white jack below her standard. After an hour of searching up from the south, James had still not seen her. He estimated he had another hour before dark.

The wharf, dock bay and harbor beyond were choked with more ships than he could have imagined in one place. There were hundreds. Maybe a thousand if one counted the small ketches and skiffs, the sloops, the frigates, schooners and in the distance the ships-of-the-line, coming in, sailing out, anchored in the mouth of the river. Almost all flew Union Jacks of one size or another, most massive and draping. Many with Royal Navy pennants and man-of-war flags. A monstrous British armada. Probably part of the West Indies campaign, he guessed. Perhaps the entire campaign fleet under the command of Admiral Vernon. Though he believed Vernon was already in Jamaica from the reports he had read. Recent newspaper accounts had detailed a new war with the Spanish. He had seen solicitations for seamen, promises of prizes, uncountable riches and immense spoils. That meant hundreds of men ambling Yorktown were also runaways, like him. Only they were attempting to find work, passage of some sort, to conspicuously disappear—which was risky at best as the streets were undoubtedly crawling with bounties. It was a dance between two starving lots, the poor runaways and the poor bounties, each seeking a reward, to return home with a jingle in their pocket. Who won depended mostly on raw instincts for the hunt, the chase, avoidance and capture. For many runaways the only hope was to be quickly pressganged onto a man-of-war. Always good for the Royal Navy. They needed more men to fight, to die. James thanked God for his fortune. At least he had his passage arranged on a merchantman. Though he feared the pressgangs more than the constables, he tried to force himself to not dwell on either. To worry was to stay still. To stay still was to get caught. To be caught meant seven more years of slavery, or to die of malaria off some Spanish island. Damn. Everyone passing the alleyway had the face of a pressganger or bounty. He was worrying again.

His body receded further into the shadows while his mind tried to rally him back into the open, back to the long open wharf. He studied what he could see from there—the forest of topgallants over the roofs, beyond Water Street. He scanned the thicket of poles and arms and ropes and flags for the orange colors of the
Kathleen
. He knew it was ridiculous but he stayed anyway. Up the alley a door creaked open, startling him. He turned, hiding his face from whoever was coming. He heard a metallic scratch. He glanced around to see a cragged old woman scraping a pan into the sewer trough. The image instantly transported him to the stinking alleys of Dublin, the Long Alley rats, Copper Alley with its chalked skull. He shuddered. It was time to leave the alley. To never return. The shriek of a man in severe pain split the air. James jumped, spun, crouched, turned, looking around wide-eyed. The sound had come from within the building behind him. The old woman was watching James. The man cried out again, then another voice shouted, “Hold him! Hold him!” Then more thrashing and moaning.

“Ye nocks?” the plump hag asked James. She was closer now. He could smell her foulness. She peered at him, awaiting an answer as if he had understood the question.

“Ye nocks?” she repeated with a gin drinker's crackle, a gnarled finger pointing away.

“Next? For what?” he muttered, turning to leave. The loud moaning continued.

“Doc's plierin' teeth. Ye nocks?”

“Nay!”

She waddled in front of him and her eyes came alive. “Lookin' for a lil' swivin', eh?”

“Swivin'?” He smiled meekly. “Nay, ma'am. I'm best on m'way now.”

She curled her lips back in what might have been a smile and revealed her absent teeth. “Magic with m'mouth, I am. And only a ha'shillin' for ye,” she wheedled, before erupting in a wrenching cough.

Giving her a half-smile, a bless you, and a tip of his hat, James was past her and out onto De Grasse Street where he turned on Water Street now filled with seamen, merchants, women and children, wagons and horses, streets smelling of horse manure and boiled beef. He brushed shoulders, kept his eyes averted, kept moving, crossed the street where he could, pacing quickly toward the wharves. Keep moving. Don't look at them, he told himself. He had to find the
Kathleen
. A symphony of ship bells rang out the first-dog watch, the sound echoing softly against the shanties, taverns, the Custom House, the churches and homes. He stopped, unsure if he was going the right way. Then resumed. It was getting darker quicker than expected. A waft of fresh bread tightened his stomach. Only a bit longer. He regained a swift step. Only a bit. Soon he would be aboard the
Kathleen
, eating with the second-dog watch. He walked past the colossal war ships. He would keep working north now.

A group of seamen stepped boisterously from a tavern and into James's path. He shuffled to avoid them, darting his gaze to the dirt. “Ho there!” one exclaimed in a loud Irish brogue. James kept walking, passing them into the street, into the maze of people. “Ye there! Stop!” it came again. This time James dared a glance back. The group was laughing about something. All but one—the one staring at James. Through the flicker of faces and wigs, horses trotting by, the sounds and dirt, a slight fog forming, James only saw the man's eyes. They were on him. An alley cat locked on a mouse. James kept going, but he felt the eyes remain. Compelled, he looked back again. He could scarcely see the man, the eyes now. Gone. Then back again. In an opening here and there, between the people. There they were. Not menacing, just fixed, almost curious in their demeanor. Why was he still staring? Damn, he recognized me from the announcement! He's a constable from Richmond! Damn! Another glance. There was something piercing, something familiar in the man's eyes, the way he focused on James. A jaunting car momentarily blocked their view, then cleared. The man was still there. Panic hit James. He picked up his pace, made three turns, backtracked down an alley, and didn't walk nor breathe easier till he was back on Water Street, well out of view of those eyes. He was shaking on the inside. Find the
Kathleen
. Find the
Kathleen
. He forced his mind back.

Fog was dropping, ushering the following darkness. He passed ship after ship docked bow to stern, their hulls moving up and down, tied alongside the wharf. He studied the jacks. He scolded himself for waiting so long on De Grasse Street. He should not have stopped. Now this was becoming useless. How could he see an orange-and-white jack in this thick grayness? He moved closer to the ships, reading their sterns. The
Montclair
. The
Fo
r
titude
. He would find her. The
Monarch
and
Warwick
. He would not ask anyone. The
St. David
and the
Hillsome
. Certainly not one of these seamen or marines. Not anyone. The
Falmouth
and the
Breda
. They all had bounty eyes, the look of constables on the prowl. No talking. The
Good Hope
. Keep moving. She is here.
The Guernsey
. Somewhere.

And she was. Over an hour later, he found her. He couldn't help grinning, thanking himself for keeping going, for not giving up. She had been nowhere near the main dock. She was a half-mile north, sandwiched longwise between the hulls of what appeared to be two British warships whose seamen were crowding the pier. He approached slowly. By the light of the dock lamps he could see her, a merchantman, an orange and white jack, the name
Kathleen
on her stern. It was her. He watched the seamen closely, then slipped into the black space between round hogsheads, tobacco barrels standing eight-foot upright on the wharf. He would wait till the pier was mostly empty, then walk slowly along her bow, careful to not draw attention, then hurry across her gangway and find Captain…. Was he on board? What if he wasn't? Could he be sure? What if Captain Blackwell was spending the night ashore? The first mate might hand him over for the four pounds. He could not go till morning, till he was certain Blackwell was aboard. He felt in the dark, further in, finding a hidden gap where three hogsheads were pushed together. He gathered a soft pile of coiled ropes and plopped down. His stomach ached hollow. He leaned over, drifting in heavy nods. Soon he was dreaming of a ship named
Acushla
. A toothless woman shoving him overboard. A man with the piercing eyes pulling him ashore.

*

Awakened by an urgent need to relieve himself, James eased onto the pier. Cold first light set the mist aglow as it rose over the York River with the Chesapeake beyond. His feet were cramped, his right arm dead, and his stomach growled a cacophony of base expletives. A pair of red eyes were watching him. He stretched his back, then kicked at the rat, shooing it away. He could see the
Kathleen
a bit more clearly. Her name painted in orange on her green stern. She was quiet, rocking her inhabitants slowly, not a soul on her decks or gangway. He urinated off the pier then returned to his nest of ropes. He pulled the wrapped key from his pocket, considered it a moment, then slipped it around his neck.

An hour later he was again awakened, this time by a warship's morning bells. Now the fog was completely gone and the hogsheads were stretching long shadows down the wooden pier. He stepped into the open, then immediately staggered back, astounded by the sight before him. Docked immediately behind the
Kathleen
was a massive British war ship. He had known it was there, but hadn't realized the entirety of its size. He stared at the hull a city block long dotted with three decks of gunports, room for over eighty cannon, below towering masts, the massive Union Jack nearly touching the poop deck, the broad pendant flicking clouds. “M'God!” he muttered, humbled by the formidable strength. He had read about these. It was a Royal Navy man-of-war, first class. An armada in itself with over eight hundred men. He could see many of them high in her rigging, others along the rails. On her stern he read:
H. M. S. PRINCESS CAROLINE.
He leaned against a dock house wall, settling in to watch for the captain of the
Kathleen
. But his gaze was on the
Caroline
.

By ten o'clock, the three hogsheads had been loaded aboard the
Kat
h
leen
, the wharves were crowded with seamen, and he still hadn't seen Captain Blackwell. The sun, stretching to get over the
Princess Caroline
, was throwing a gigantic shadow across the
Kathleen
, graying the smaller ship's rising sail, darkening her hull and the greenish water around her. He studied the decks, looking for Blackwell. He had to be there. He noticed crewmen in the
Kathleen's
ratlines working the rigging, setting her forecourse for departure. Below skiffs were in the water, tow ropes secured for…
Depa
r
ture!
The
Kathleen
was about to get underway! He quickened. He had to get aboard. What was he doing? Why had he been standing there? Crewmen were near the gang board, preparing to pull it in. James sprinted along the pier, cutting through a group of seamen and ship-chandlers, and knocked over a stack of galley crates as he ran for the gangway.
Leave the gangway!
he shouted silently. Men stared as he passed and some shouted, but he ignored them, focusing only on boarding. He was almost there, almost to safety. He hit the wooden gangplanks at full speed, but then stopped short, avoiding a collision with two crewmen dragging a last sea chest up. “Pardon me!” he blurted, panting, his mind shouting at them to get out of his way. They ignored him. He was in the open. “Please sirs, I must get aboard,” he barked.