Fortunate Son (14 page)

“Me, sir,” replied Jemmy. “‘Tis mine.”

“Well, I don't know who you stole it from but I'll keep it till it's claimed.”

Jemmy stepped up. “I didn't steal it, I—”

“Stand back!” the man barked. Jemmy froze, his eyes burning with anger. It was that wave of rage that came easily to him now, perhaps too easily—one moment on, the next gone, ready to return. He wished these men would just leave him be. If they—

“Stop! You shite-bastard!” another guard bellowed from behind the wagon. Jemmy jumped and then realized the man was yelling at someone else. Everyone fell silent. Jemmy followed the direction of the guard's blunderbuss to the wide eyes of the young Scottish servant who was frozen atop a wooded rise by the road. “Boy!” another shouted. “Where do you think you're goin' Scot?”

“No Kelly. Not now!” pleaded George, shaking his head.

“I'm not going back, George. I'm not.” The young man's voice was quivering. Watching Kelly, it occurred to Jemmy that the boy was not much older than himself, perhaps fifteen or so. Probably about the same age as George. Kelly slowly retreated, taking three scared steps backward until he bumped into a fallen tree.

“Get down here, lad!” a guard demanded.

“These bastards do the paddy's bidding,” George implored. “You know what he did to Robert. It isn't worth it.”

“Aye,” Kelly replied, his voice taut and high, “and if we stay on that wagon we'll end up working for Drummond too, we will.” With a shaky hand, Kelly slowly pulled a flintlock pistol from his torn waistcoat and held it by his side.

“Mother of God! Don't do this lad!” The guard's round flabby face was glistening with sweat. Jemmy heard the pop and click of the blunderbuss's hammer rocking into place.

“Damnit, Kelly!” George shouted again. “This isn't—”

“You damned runaway. Put down your squirrel gun,” said another voice.

The bearded guard stepped behind the man aiming the blunderbuss and whispered, “Shoot up, over his head. That'll stop him.”

“Kelly,” pleaded George, “I'm begging you. They aren't going to just let you go.”

“What are you holding there lassy?” a guard taunted. “Looks like an old Jacobite relic. Better check the pan!” Nervous laughter rippled among the others. Another joined in with a forced Scottish brogue, “Haven't ya any powder t' ya? What ya goin' t' burn—one of yar Highland turds?”

The young Scot narrowed his eyes and screamed, “Ya're all fackin' English scum!”

“Kelly!” shouted George.

With one fierce surge, Kelly jerked the pistol up and fired it while whirling around, leaping high over the fallen tree. The blunderbuss instantly erupted with a deafening boom and the back of the young Scot's head exploded red and he fell. Jemmy froze, staring at the crimson mist falling softly in the air.

Jemmy's foot slipped on a wobbly stone in the middle of Brandywine Creek, a half-day's ride from Coatesville, Pennsylvania. His split-sole shoe filled with cold water, sparking a flurry of curses. When he regained his balance it was too late. One end of the heavy log he was carrying slid from his arms and splashed into the creek, pitching water up to his waist. “Damn! Fack!” he bellowed. “Damn it to hell!” He stood still for a moment, the frigid torrent rushing around his ankles. “Damnit! Damnit!” he wailed into the surrounding trees. Finally, resigned to his wet fate, he ambled forward sploshing his way across the creek dragging the length of bulky cordwood behind him. Climbing the far bank, he quickly grew weary and the harder he tugged at the log the more his feet slipped and the slower he progressed up the slick slope. He fell on his rear and sat still, thinking about letting go—letting the log roll back down to the creek where it seemed so desperate to be. A rustle behind him caught his attention and he stretched up, panting heavily, trying to peer over the rise. But he didn't see anything. It was probably a rabbit. Perhaps a fox. He almost hoped it was one of those mysterious Iroquois Indians the others claimed were lurking just out of sight—coming to kill him, crack his head open with a tomahawk and relieve him of this withering fatigue which was equaled only by his fury, both of which had not waned a bit over the past four months. He turned and lay against the muddy bank, watching the cold creek gurgle by.

“Give it here,” George barked from over Jemmy's shoulders. “Wouldn't want his lordship bruising an elbow, now would we?”

“Damn ye,” groaned Jemmy, pulling himself to his feet. Now he was going to get that bloody log up the ravine if it killed him.

“Come now. Give it here, Master James,” George demanded sarcastically.

Jemmy stepped forward, clutching the log, teetering on losing his balance. “Get out of m' fackin' way!”

A mocking grin came over George. “The noble command of the Earl of Anglesea!”

“Go to hell directly,” Jemmy replied, clambering past George and over the top of the embankment with the log. He then heaved it into the wagon bed. He was furious at himself not only for having trusted George to be his friend, but because the night before he had made the mistake of telling George about his claim to the English peerage. He had said it at the tenant house, just after their evening victuals of hardtack and tepid stew. Sitting on the long front porch of the one room cabin that bunked fifteen woodcutters, including George and himself, they had talked, just the two of them. After George told, for the seventh or eighth time, his ‘harrowing' account of being nearly hanged for stealing bread from a Baton Bar baker in London, Jemmy decided it was time to tell his own story. But he didn't make it past the first sentence, “My father was the Earl of Anglesea and when he died—” before the derision began. Now, a day later, after nine hours of trudging hickory logs from the cutters' area, over a densely wooded hill, across the Brandywine, then back up the far bank to the waiting freight wagon, George was still at it, still mocking him. Jemmy was ready to hit him. He tried to focus on finishing loading the wagon.

Finally, much to his relief, the sound of horses' hooves and the jangle of harnesses came floating through the autumn-draped forest. Then the beasts came into sight. Riding one of them was a teamster bringing the four horses to pull Jemmy and George's full wagon to the nearest charcoal hearth where the logs, along with the loads of twenty-two other wagons from throughout Drummond's timberland, would be carefully charred in giant smoldering mounds, making charcoal for the plantation's iron furnace. Jemmy started to help the teamster hitch the horses, but George got to it first, so he held back. He didn't want to be anywhere near the fellow. The day was through now, they would ride back on the freight wagon and he could get warm. Perhaps tonight he could talk to the foreman, Mr. Clowes, about switching crew partners the next day. He glanced back at the horses and saw George and the teamster grinning at him, whispering. He had no doubt what George had just told the man.

“Is that true, Lord Angles?” jeered the teamster.

Jemmy glared at them, then turned. “It's Anglesea, ye arse,” he muttered under his breath. Perhaps he would just walk the three miles back to the hearth camp.

George was snickering. “He said he was the son and rightful heir—”

“I didn't say that!” shouted Jemmy.

“You did!”

“Ye lie!”

“I think he's goin' to cry, George,” the teamster chuckled, finishing cinching the harness. “Best leave him be,”

“Little Lord Angles is gonna cry,” sneered George. “Perhaps your mother will come wipe your royal tears!” Still looking away, Jemmy grimaced, his heart pounding. George continued, “But then, Lady Angles sold you to Drummond.” He added a mocking gasp, making the teamster laugh. Jemmy picked up a big hickory limb near his feet. “So,” shouted George, refusing to relent, “perhaps you're a bastard boy and Lady Angles wanted to be rid of you? Perhaps she's not your mum a'toll!”

“Goddamn you!” Jemmy spun and charged, brandishing the stick. George stepped aside, laughing, ducking under a horse, making it snort and move.

“Lads!” barked the teamster.

“I'm goin' t' kill ye!” Jemmy cried, running around the horses, leaping on George's back, pummeling him with the stick.

“Get off!” he shouted, waving his hands, trying to hit Jemmy, to knock the limb away. Though George was bigger, Jemmy's rage, speed and weapon gave him the advantage.

“Ye're a goddamned maggot!” Jemmy shouted as George fell forward. “It's Anglesea! And never say anything about m' mother again!” He whacked George again, feeling nothing, thinking nothing, just a frenzy of blind rage. George cursed and thrashed about, trying to repel the blows. Finally he managed to throw an arm around and knock Jemmy off, then scramble to his feet. Then Jemmy kicked him and George lost his balance, plummeting forward, his head smacking a stone. “Damn ye!” Jemmy was back on him, not noticing that George was no longer moving. “I'm sick of ye waggin' about m' family!” He smashed the stick across the back of George's head.

“Get off him!” demanded the teamster, throwing Jemmy aside to the wet ground.

Jemmy was no less enraged. “Ye're a fackin—”

“You've damaged him.”

“But he said—”

“Shut your ignorant trap!” the teamster snarled. He rolled George over.

Jemmy sat back hard in the brilliant red and gold leaves, winded, staring at the blood trickling across George's forehead. The sight stunned him. The idea of it. His breath shortened to the point of dizziness for now he saw the terror of what he had done. “Is he…?”

“Nah,” the teamster whispered angrily, still studying the unconscious young man. “You're not a murderer. Not today you're not.”

By the time the teamster brought George and Jemmy back to camp, George was conscious. Other men took him from the wagon and rushed him up to the plantation house. Jemmy jumped down and ran inside the cabin to his bunk. He lay still, ignoring the curious glances of the others. He listened through the wall as the teamster stood on the porch informing Mr. Clowes of the fight. Jemmy's stomach tightened into a knot of swarming bees. Ben Clowes, the foreman, was the kind of man Fynn Kennedy would have enjoyed knowing, which made Jemmy respect Mr. Clowes all the more. He even looked like Mr. Kennedy, in a way, though Clowes was taller and a bit stockier. Heavily religious, Clowes was a compassionate, gentle giant who never cursed, never raised his voice. And he had taken to Jemmy, the youngest in his crew, in a fatherly way, giving him counsel on more things than just the art of felling trees. Jemmy liked the man's soft voice and the way he would spend time talking, teaching him things, telling him about Indians, the Colonies, Drummond and God, showing him how iron and steel were made, taking him to the workers' chapel on Sundays. Now nervous tears welled in Jemmy's eyes as Mr. Clowes stomped inside. Without a word the foreman grabbed Jemmy by the arm and led him forcibly out to the collier's hearth. “What happened, James?” Clowes asked in a grumbling whisper. He released his grip and ushered Jemmy to sit beside him on a giant, ten foot diameter stump. They were away from the others where no one could hear. Jemmy relayed how George had called him names and slighted his mother. “That was it?” Clowes asked. He leaned into Jemmy's face. “That was it? That was sufficient for you to club him over the head?”

“Aye, sir,” replied Jemmy, looking down sheepishly. The smoldering smoke from the collier's hearth rose over them, casting a black veil across the evening sky, bringing on an early night.“That boy nearly died. Do you know that?”

“Aye, sir. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? You're sorry?” Clowes's voice was going deeper, tensing. “Do you realize what would've happened had you killed him?” Jemmy nodded, then looked away. A light autumn leaf landed gently on his head, then slipped to the ground. “This may be Quaker land,” Clowes continued, “but they'll still hang a murderer.”

“I didn't kill the fackin'—” Jemmy whispered.

“Watch your tongue! These Quakers don't take kindly to such vile language either.”

“Aye, sir. So I've heard ye say,” said Jemmy, hoping to keep the subject off the fight, even if they were now discussing something else he had done wrong. He glanced around quickly. “But there's not a Quaker within a mile, I'd reckon.”

“It doesn't matter,” snapped Clowes. “Quite frankly, your swearing offends
me
. No more. Even when I'm not around. Even when there is not a woodcutter or a teamster for a mile, and you think you're all alone. Especially then.” He paused, glanced about, then back at Jemmy. “Lad, when you think you're alone…you're not. You never are. God is always with you, listening to you.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mr. Clowes?” a man shouted from behind them.

“Aye?” Clowes stood. Jemmy saw the approaching man was at the far end of the collier's hearth, leading a horse.

“You're wanted at the furnace,” continued the man.

“Very well.” Clowes turned to Jemmy. “Stay here, lad. Don't move. Don't talk to anyone. I'll be back shortly. Then we'll get you something to eat.”

“Aye, sir.” As Mr. Clowes rode away, Jemmy began pitching bits of bark into an abandoned badger hole near his feet. Then he found a short, crooked stick and took to crushing a cluster of mushrooms. Once the mushrooms were decidedly dead, he leaned his head back and stared curiously into the canopy of leaves overhead. They seemed to be burning, roasting with flittering red, amber and golden-orange—on fire, yet not devoured. Then he focused on a gap in the canopy, a hole where the dim light from the greying sky fell through the brilliant autumn foliage. Was God truly up there, listening to him? How could God hear a man's words from way up there—way up there in heaven looking down through that unconsumed blanket of blazing leaves? He watched as the breeze made the burning trees drop their embers, floating them effortlessly down, filling the voids of the forest floor. Was that where he would go when he died, up above the forests, up to heaven? Where Juggy was? He looked harder into the underside of the trees, through them, beyond them. Was Juggy up there, watching him? Could she see him from heaven? What did she think of him? Was she also furious with him for nearly killing George? He focused on the brightest of the red leaves—a burning hell. That was where his father was, probably, and certainly where Richard, Bailyn, Captain Hendry, Drummond, and fellows like George deserved to go. No, he stopped himself—not George, and perhaps not Drummond either. No, Drummond too.

Nearly an hour later it was dark and Jemmy's stomach was complaining loudly. He sat illuminated by the massive mound of crackling embers at the base of the charcoal hearth just fifty feet away. They threw a peculiar reddish light, a warm glow, and in that light he could see Mr. Clowes returning. “You stayed.” Clowes sounded surprised.

“Ye told me to,” replied Jemmy.
Where else would I have gone?
he thought. He saw his quadrant in Clowes' hand.

“This is yours. So I've been told.” He handed over the brass object.

“Aye, sir,” Jemmy muttered, holding it. “Thank ye, sir.” He wanted to know how and where Clowes found it, how Clowes knew it was his, why was Clowes bringing it to him now, of all times. But he was too afraid to ask.

Clowes sat in the same place he had been earlier. “So, tell me now lad, you said George called you a liar. What was it he said you were lying about?”

Jemmy hesitated. Earlier he had overheard the teamster telling Clowes some of the details. He sagged his chin and mumbled, “Might ye already know, sir?”