Fortunate Son (26 page)

“That's all I'm asking.” Richard took off his hat and smoothed it, then popped it back on. “That's all.” His voice was back to English propriety. “I'll return to Dublin, speak to those English constables, then travel on to London.” He pulled a sack of coins from inside his coat. “Do take this. It should cover your passage and inn fees. You'll have expenses.”

Seán knocked the sack away. “Keep yer blood money.”

“'Tis yours.” He placed the sack on the mossy wall. “Do with it as you please. Leave it here for the next passerby, if you insist.” He looked at Seán blankly, then shifted to a concerned, fatherly expression. “I know this is difficult for you. Do call on me if I can be of any assistance.” Turning, he signaled his driver, who quickly brought the coach forward. As he climbed in, he looked back, tipping his hat. “Till London, Seán.”

“See ye in hell.”

Richard smiled, stepping inside, snapping the door behind him. Seán watched the coach kick up gravel. Then he looked at the sack of coins resting on the wall beside him. With slumped chin and eyes closed, he blew a long huff. Finally, without looking, he picked up the leather sack and brought it to his chest. He shifted it from one hand to the other, feeling its weight, considering its heaviness. A jingle sang from within. Gritting his teeth, he thrust the sack into his pocket.

Three weeks later the Newgate turnkeys came to the l'ord and hauled the young boy away, along with nine others, all bound for the Old Bailey. Half the day passed before two of the convicts were returned, relaying the outcome of the trials. One of the nine was freed, they said. Four, including the boy, were scorched with the Bailey-burn, then hauled to the quays for colony transport as indentured servants. And the last three, sentenced to hanging, were already thrown in the condemned hold. The two tossed back into the hellish l'ord were given sentences of six years each. A rickety old man leaned close to James's dirty, bearded face and predicted disease would kill those two before winter.

A few hours later, when a set of keys jangled just beyond the door, the ward fell silent and a group of pus-filled eyes turned toward the sound, watching eagerly, anticipating a windfall perhaps, anxious to evaluate the new inmate's possessions. The door creaked open and a turnkey stepped in, followed by a tall well-dressed man, eyes widening then narrowing as he scanned the fetid room. He spotted James and moved toward him. “James! James Annesley! What am I to do with ya?”

James struggled to his feet, the pain from being crumpled on the hard floor searing his legs. “Mr. Mackercher,” he called out. “M'God, how glad I am to see ye!”

Mackercher stepped over a few comatose bodies and clasped James by the arm, keeping him balanced. “I was sorry to hear about Fynn. How terrible ya must feel.”

James's head sagged slightly. “Aye, ‘twas horrible.”

Mackercher sighed, peering around warily, wrinkling his nose. “This place is a hogsty.”

“Worse. Far worse.”

“Come now, let's get ya gone from here. I have someone who wants to see ya.”

“Gone?” James eased.

“To the middle ward. At least ya'll be safe there, before yar trial.” They moved to the door, which the turnkey cautiously opened.

“My trial? When is it?” asked James, shuffling past the guard. The man glared at him, as though James's move to another ward were a personal affront.

“Tomorrow,” said Mackercher.

“Tomorrow?”

Mackercher stopped. “I arrived as quickly as I could.” He put a hand on James's back as they resumed walking. “I petitioned yar civil cause against Richard, to the King's Bench in Dublin.”

“That's grand, ‘tis,” said James, attempting the difficulties of optimism. “I trust ye know—t'will be all for naught if I'm hanged.” He kept moving, albeit awkwardly in his leg irons.

Mackercher shook his head. “Precisely Richard's design.”

James double took the man. “Not the reassurance I was hoping for, Counselor.”

Mackercher pulled his mouth tight, saying nothing.

James's pitching walk nearly ran him into an oil lamp, one of the many lining the hall. Their fires lit the air, soot-blackening the upper walls and ceiling, turning the hall into a long, dim, smoky tunnel. His face fell somber. The irons clanged, reverberating against the stone floor, sending rough vibrations through his knees. “My trial, tomorrow—ye'll argue for me?”

“Aye, m'lord,” replied Mackercher.

“Thank ye, sir. It will be simple? As it was an accident.” When Mackercher didn't answer, James stopped. “Mr. Mackercher?”

Mackercher stepped in front of James, then turned to face him. “I'd hoped it would be a plain matter. Straight. Easily dispensed with. Yet….”

James turned his chin to the side, eyes fixed on Mackercher. “Yet what?”

“This way,” a guard barked, urging them on. From a distance, the bell of St. Sepulchre's Church rang its hollow toll for the condemned.

“Something has happened,” whispered Mackercher, resuming his pace.

“What?” James asked, alarmed. “What happened?”

“Let's get ya downstairs. We'll discuss it in private. These walls have ears.” He turned to the guard behind them and asked, “Good sir, will ya please remove this man's irons.” The guard stared back without speaking, unsure of what to do. “This man is my client,” Mackercher explained as he advanced, his big frame looming in the flickering light. “Mr. Pilchard is commander of this watch?”

“He is,” the guard confirmed, stepping back.

“Mr. Pilchard has assured me that ya'll comply with my requests.”

“That's right Henry,” a guard declared from somewhere ahead, down the hall. At that, the first guard quickly removed James's shackles.

“Much better,” James sighed. The cool draft moving through the hall stung his raw ankles, but he thought it felt wonderful.

“Good,” Mackercher said. Then he turned to the guard who was now holding James's irons and said, “Lead us on.”

“Please,” James whispered as they started walking again. “What has happened?”

Mackercher slowed, glancing back. James could see the worry in the man's gentle eyes. “I made a promise to yar guest that I would let them tell ya. Please be patient.” He turned, moving on.

James followed. “Who? What guest?” As he asked, he realized the probable answer: the one person he most dreaded seeing. “Seán? Is it Seán?” His gut tensed.

“Here,” the guard snapped, pointing as he stopped. “Down these stairs to your left. First room to your right.” He left them standing alone in the corridor.

“No, James,” Mackercher whispered shaking his head. They arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “It isn't Seán. Now step in here, if ya will. I've a fresh suit for ya.” He motioned to an open door.

James gave a puzzled look, then stepped inside the small room lit by the flames of a little corner fireplace. A set of clothes lay on a wobbly wood table, and a bucket of water sat on the floor, a brush and soap beside it. “Who am I gettin' cleaned for?”

“Ya'll see. But ya need a wash and shave first.” He tried a smile, adding, “Most desperately.”

James looked directly into Mackercher's eyes, considering him. “This guest ye have for me; he must be carrying grave news.”

“In a way, but an extraordinary individual none the less.” Mackercher ushered James to the table. “I'll wait in the hall.”

Richard paced the small dining room in the back of the White Horse, one of London's exclusive public inns. A square oak table was in the middle of the dim room, and on it were two goblets, one half empty, the other nearly full. The man sitting at the table took a sip from the nearly full goblet, returned it silently, then resumed smoking his pipe. His strong blue eyes focused on Richard, his chiseled jaw clenched, his solicitor's wig held in perfect place.

Richard broke the silence. “So Giffard, you think you're the best?”

“Do you think I am?” the man responded gently, eyebrows peaking.

“How in Christ would I know? Sure, you're the most expensive whore I've ever hired.”

“But does that make me the best?”

“It damn well better! That bastard will either be shittin' himself at Tyburn before the week's out, or you won't be worth a ha'penny!”

“He will if the evidence exists,” Giffard said, his voice calm and methodical. “And if we are allowed to present our entire case tomorrow morning.”

“You're hedging.”

“There are no absolutes with the law, Lord Anglesea.” Giffard's steely gaze didn't flinch. The room was growing musty, filling with the smell of the rain pouring on Piccadilly just outside.

“You damn lawyers,” Richard mumbled, walking back to the table for another drink.

“You want this man convicted of a murder that is dubious at best. Or worst, as it may be.” Giffard took another drink, then continued. “And his relation to you is widely known.”

“Assumed relation. Rumored relation. Goddamned lies.”

“The judge will have read the newspapers. He'll know James's claim, even if James doesn't declare it from the stand. Though I presume he will. You will need to be clear of the Old Bailey during the proceedings. My client's identity should not be so blatantly obvious.”

“Give me a straight answer, Giffard. Can you get a guilty verdict?”

“It will be difficult.”

“Why, for Christ's sakes? There was only one other man there, and he's our damned witness! What more could we hope for?”

“More witnesses.”

“Well, damnit, there aren't any! Just Seán! The best witness we could ever have—son of the very man James murdered.”

“His testimony will be seen as biased.”

“But his testimony is the damn truth!” bellowed Richard. “You'll just have to make that maggot judge believe it.” He turned away, muttering under his breath, “T'will be a pleasure watching him hang. If only he had another neck for me to strangle with my bare hands.”

“Dead is dead, m'lord.” Giffard took another sip, then relit his pipe. After a few puffs, blue clouds billowing over, he returned his intense gaze to Richard. “How is it, Lord Anglesea, that the son decided to testify for us?”

Richard closed his eyes, then slowly reopened them. “You do your job. I'll do mine.”

“It may come out, under cross-examination.”

“Don't let it!”

“Lord Anglesea, let me explain procedure in the Old Bailey—”

“Damn you!” Richard slammed his fist on the table, upsetting the goblets. Fine brandy spewed over burnished wood and Richard was snarling. “Let me explain something to
you
. See that James is hanged, or God help you. You'll have me to deal with.”

“I don't work under threats.”

“No? You'll whore for a sack of silver. Ten thousand pounds, to be exact.”

Giffard took another long pull on his pipe.

“I swear, Giffard, you'd better get it done,” fumed Richard. “This is my chance to bury that bastard, and you will not fail me!”

James felt more alive than he had in a week. The bath, though tepid, had soothed his aching feet and numbed the split pustules and itching scabs that consumed him. When he finished dressing, he opened the door and smiled at Mackercher, who was leaning against the corridor wall.

“Better?” Mackercher asked.

“Aye. Thank ye.” The clean clothes were tremendous; a fresh shirt and breeches had never felt so comfortable.

“Good. Come, if ya will.” Mackercher extended an arm. “Yar guest awaits.”

They walked down the stale-smelling hall for a short distance, then through another passage, finally stopping at a short iron staircase leading down to a sunlit courtyard.

James looked sideways at Mackercher, silently asking,
Out there?

“I'll join ya soon.”

James gave a wary, confused grin. “All right.” He stepped slowly down the stairs and into the light, almost blinded by the brilliance. As his eyes adjusted, he saw several people sitting around, most under the covered areas, talking quietly. He scanned them, and immediately saw Captain Blackwell, who appeared to have just noticed him as well. Blackwell gave him a courteous smile, then turned away and whispered to a woman who spun quickly around, revealing her face. James's knees buckled slightly, his mind seized, giving him only a few words to mutter: “Ah, my God! Laura!”

Tears streamed Laura's smiling cheeks. “Oh, James!” she exclaimed, racing to him.

“Laura, m'God,” James stammered.

She wrapped him in her warm arms, softy crying. “I've missed ya,
Acushla
,” she whispered.

“I am…shocked. I am so pleased.” He felt his body relax into her, stunned, amazed. He inhaled her. He embraced her. “Ye're here.” He engulfed her, kissing her hands dizzily.

“I just couldn't…” she began, still excitedly whispering. “I just couldn't wait.”

“M'God,” he said again, his mind caught in a swirling vortex.

“I am no good without ya.” She smiled, her teeth bright. “I cannot be without ya.”

“No. No. Me as well. I cannot tell you. It means so much for ye t' be here.”

She pulled back to see his eyes. “Are ya all right? Are ya vell?”

“Yes. I'm fine,” he said, though not entirely sure. ‘No' might have been the better answer, but how could he be anything but well and fine in this moment? With her so near he could actually smell her. No imagination required. “Let's sit.”

“Of course.” She kept an arm around his waist, leading him to a bench.

“My sweet
Acushla
,” he whispered, sitting. “Ye needn't have come all this way.”

“I had to,” she insisted.

“Captain Blackwell, he brought ye?” James saw the man talking with an older woman.

“Oh, aya, he did. That's Madam Kristin, my aunt. She's my chaperone. The captain was most kind to give us passage.”

“Indeed!” James nodded. “Deserving a rich reward.” He studied them. “Yer aunt?”

“Aya. She arrived in Virginia not long after ya left. She was eager to travel and wanted to come.” She paused. A smirk. Her head cocked. “Alright, so I pressed her tirelessly!”

“I'm so glad ye did. And Blackwell?”

“Once he returned, and with Madam Kristen my ally, my parents conceded.”

“This is incredible,” he said, struggling for the right words. “I love ye. I must say, I am overwhelmed ye're here. That ye're right here. Sitting here. Yer hands in mine.” As he leaned to her, she brought her mouth to his, slipping one hand behind his hot neck, pulling him close. They kissed passionately, sloppily, almost painfully. As they had never done in public. But was this “public,” the bowels of Newgate Prison? Besides, what rules of prison decorum could be thus-wise offended? Neither cared. And neither noticed Madam Kristen observing them, smiling meekly. It was the power of that moment, of those months, of their journeys, the heartaches and fears, the loss, the longing, all of it colliding, coming together to grant them release, loosing them, pardoning them, handing them over to the grip of insuppressible passion, pulling at them, each together—gravity grabbing sky, earth holding heaven near.