Four days later, Michael McNamara grinned as he stared out the window of his hired coach and took in the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Bristol, England’s most vital port city. A center of maritime activity since before the Romans ever came to the shores of Britain, as well as the birthplace of the notorious Edward “Blackbeard” Teach, Bristol was a bustling city with a population of over twenty thousand people. The harbor itself consisted of two hundred and sixty-two acres of dockland, in addition to homes, shops, public houses, and taverns. Warehouses were stuffed with a wide variety of valuable merchandise such as sugar, tobacco, rum, molasses, cloth, and cocoa.
The coach made its way down narrow streets, passing by all sorts of people: vendors, laborers, grifters, beggars, soldiers, whores, drunkards, and other residents of Bristol going about their daily activities. McNamara took pleasure in observing everything around him as the coach headed towards the docks. The exhilaration of setting forth on a new adventure had swept away the recurring gloom he felt about leaving Cavendish’s salle and his lack of specific future prospects - for the moment, at least.
The pleasure of seeing Bristol once again also cheered him. His grin broadened at the familiar sights of everyday life in this city. He watched children playing ball and dueling with wooden swords in the streets. He saw lovers discreetly sharing glances and people enjoying conversation or sitting silently, taking pleasure in each other’s company. I don’t know what else I’ll miss about England, he thought, but I will miss Bristol for certain.
Every important decision in his life, he reckoned, had revolved around Bristol in some manner. He recalled the thrill of embarking on his very first sea voyage, sailing from Bristol to Portsmouth in 1707 to join the British Royal Navy at the age of fourteen. The War of the Spanish Succession had been raging for six years by this point, and ever since hearing of the English victory at Vigo Bay, McNamara had dreamed of becoming an officer in the navy. His childhood thoughts had been consumed with setting sail for honor and glory and capturing treasure fleets just as his childhood hero Sir George Rooke had done. The letter he’d forced his father to write had allowed him to become a volunteer-per-order, meaning he would be trained as an officer and receive a midshipman’s pay. However, the quarrel that had ensued, in which the rest of the family sided against McNamara soured his initial joy, and he had made his way to Bristol alone. Come to think of it, all the times I’ve had to start my life anew, I’ve been alone, he thought morosely.
McNamara’s memories continued to drift towards the past, recalling his first bitter tastes of warfare. There was the disastrous Battle of Toulon, followed shortly afterwards by his narrow escape on board HMS Royal Oak from a French ambush near Lizard Point. There had been victories, of course – Minorca, Cape Passaro, Vigo, and Pontevedre – but for McNamara, these were only slightly sweeter to recall. The roaring of guns, the scraping of blade against bloody blade, and the screams of the dying all sounded the same to McNamara, regardless of which side was triumphant. Only the Battle of Cape Passaro, when a Spanish armada once again fell before the might of British warships, had made him feel any sense of genuine triumph.
Given McNamara’s early disillusionments with the so-called glory of war, he had taken being drummed out of the navy surprisingly well, by his own estimation. He had been far more devastated by the loss of a clear purpose in life, and the way old friends and acquaintances had shunned him – word of his expulsion had somehow reached them, but not the reason for it, and they had not been interested in explanations. Not knowing where else to go, he had returned to Bristol, scratching out a living giving private fencing lessons to naval officers who were not too particular about who they learned from. One of them had gotten word of an opening for an assistant fencing instructor at Cavendish’s salle in Bath, and recommended to McNamara that he apply for the position.
Now he was back in Bristol, once again out of work, once again not knowing what to do with the rest of his life, and worst of all, once again alone. All he had now was a vague notion that his chance for a new life lay overseas.
As the coach neared the harbor McNamara inhaled the familiar smell of sea salt and tar and he found it oddly refreshing. His brooding thoughts once again melted away at the sights, sounds, and smell of a ship. This ship that represented new adventure, new promise. He decided on the spur of the moment that he’d had enough of seeing Bristol from a window. The coach now felt too confining for him, and he stuck his head out the window.
“Let me off here,” he called out to the coachman. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
As McNamara disembarked from the coach he wrapped his traveling cloak tighter around him to keep out the February chill, adjusting the sword at his side so it would not entangle itself. The sword was a colichemarde, a variation of the smallsword that had replaced the rapier in recent years as the fashionable sword to bear. Its blade was thirty-two inches long, the forte of which was wider and stronger than that of the standard smallsword, narrowing at the debole. The balance of the sword made it ideal for rapid parries and thrusts, while the sturdier forte allowed it to withstand attack from heavy blades. The colichemarde itself was beginning to go out of style, but McNamara deemed its qualities and advantages more important than fashion.
After paying the driver, McNamara slung his satchel over his shoulder, grunting slightly under its weight. He hadn’t thought he’d brought all that much with him – just several changes of clothes, including more formal wear should he require it, some bottles of water, and a few random souvenirs from his time in the navy. To keep himself occupied he’d brought along a deck of cards and a few books. Among the latter were several fencing manuals by Sir William Hope, Aphra Behn’s Oroonko, a battered copy of John Milton’s Paradise Lost, Pierre Motteaux’s translation of Cervantes’s Don Quixote, and several books by Daniel Defoe: Robinson Crusoe, Captain Singleton, and Memoirs of a Cavalier. The books added substantial weight to his satchel, but he enjoyed reading when he could, and he hadn’t done as much of it lately as he liked. A long ocean voyage seemed as good a time as any to get caught up, in case there were no card players aboard. Games of cards had always been among McNamara’s favorite pastimes, especially on long sea voyages when there was little to do.
McNamara wandered across the docks, passing several large ships, until he found the one he was looking for - the Southern Cross. It wouldn’t depart until tomorrow morning, but he wanted to get a good look at the ship he’d be spending the next two months aboard. A husky man in a brown leather coat paced across the deck barking orders to the crew as they loaded cargo and scoured the decks, and McNamara wondered whether this was the captain, Richard Fillion, or perhaps his quartermaster.
He lingered for a few moments before continuing on his way. Tomorrow’s impending departure was making him nostalgic for the days he’d first lived in Bristol, where he’d kept quarters when not posted to a ship. A grin slowly materialized as McNamara passed by the various public houses and inns where he’d spent countless evenings drinking and playing cards late into the night with friends, keeping company with various young ladies before making their way to someplace more discreet, or toasting fallen comrades in the company of fellow officers. Those had been happy times. Perhaps the happiest he’d ever been in his life.
His grin broadened as he arrived at the Captain O’Brien, smaller and more rustic than some of the other inns he’d passed by. He could hear the din of the crowd even from the outside. The Captain O’Brien had long been a favorite haunt for sailors, and its tables were usually crowded with gamblers and carousers at all hours of the day.
McNamara stepped through the doorway, savoring the aroma of roasting meats and baking bread. A few faces looked towards him curiously, but most of the patrons were fixated on their drinks or their cards. A handsome black woman, nearly in her fifties, gasped as she saw McNamara.
“Michael!” she exclaimed. “Michael McNamara, after all this time! Oh, I could scarcely believe it when your letter arrived!”
“Hello, Mrs. Hurston,” McNamara replied, removing his hat and cloak. “It’s nice to see a friendly face around here.”
Angela Hurston looked him up and down disapprovingly. “You’re as skinny as a rail, you are,” she muttered. “Didn’t you ever take the time to get yourself a decent meal in Bath?”
McNamara shrugged. “I haven’t been particular about where my meals came from since leaving the navy, so long as I can afford to acquire them. How’s your husband?”
“Seth’s working hard, as usual,” she said, gesturing to the portly man filling a tankard of rum behind the bar. “It helps when your wife is your employer.”
“Employer?” McNamara said with a grin. “My congratulations, although I must confess I’m surprised. I never thought old Coyle would ever sell the Captain O’Brien. He’s not dead, is he?”
“His wife is, sad to say. They buried her five months past. He sold me the place before he left, and I’ve heard nothing of him since.”
“Poor man,” McNamara sighed. “I’m sorry for his ill fortune, although I’m glad for yours. I don’t suppose there are any recent letters for me?”
“None,” Angela said. “But your room is all ready for you. Also, there’s someone here who asked me to let him know when you arrived.”
McNamara raised his eyebrows at this. He hadn’t expected anyone besides his family to know he was here, and he couldn’t imagine any of them would bother coming all this way to see him. An old friend from the navy, perhaps? Or an old rival?
Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice calling his name over the crowd and felt a hand clasp his shoulder. McNamara turned around and blinked in disbelief at the barrel-chested grey-haired man, dressed in an austere black suit, smiling wistfully at him.
“Father?” McNamara exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I could not let my youngest son sail off into the unknown without words of farewell. Not a second time.”
“I-I thought when you didn’t answer my letters that... that…”
Michael McNamara’s words faded, and his father looked awkwardly at his feet before returning his gaze. “I was going to write for once, but I thought the occasion merited seeing you off in person and resolving things between us directly, rather than relying on a mere letter to do it for me.”
McNamara swallowed, struggling to find the appropriate words to say. Unable to come up with any, he gestured to Mrs. Hurston. “Father, this is Angela Hurston, an old friend from when I lived here for a time. Mrs. Hurston, this is Isaac McNamara, my father.”
“A pleasure, sir,” Mrs. Hurston said with a grin. “Your father’s been keeping a table in the back in anticipation of your arrival today. Can I bring you anything?”
“A tankard of your finest ale and a mutton pie, please,” McNamara said. “Reconciliations should always happen over a good drink.”
The elder McNamara nodded. “A tankard for me as well.”
Some time later, however, the two McNamaras had been sitting uneasily across from each other. The pie was gone, but they’d barely touched their ale, and they had spoken even less than they’d drunk. After all these years isolated from each other, McNamara had thought there would have been a great deal for them to say, but there had only been uncomfortable silence.
Finally, the elder McNamara spoke. “D’you think you’ll ever come back to Scotland?”
“Perhaps,” McNamara replied. “There’s nothing there for me at the moment, but I’ve no intention of turning my back on my homeland forever.”
“And in the meantime? Surely you are not planning to sail halfway around the world without any thought as to how to keep yourself from starving or sleeping in the streets?”
McNamara flushed slightly. “Other than not doing either of those things, nothing in particular.”
The elder McNamara bristled at this. “Nothing in particular? What are you hoping for, Michael? That employment will simply be handed to you by happenstance?”
“Of course not. But I can’t practice the only trades I’ve any competence or experience in anymore, and at the moment, I don’t know what other trade to pursue.”
“It’s not that hard to find another trade for yourself,” Isaac said gruffly. “You are still fit to do all manner of work with your hands. Instead of satisfying lofty and vain ambitions, you need to humble yourself, even if it means menial labor for the rest of your life. There may not be any riches or glory in it, but it earns men their daily bread, and it is work that needs doing. Or do you consider yourself too good for that?”
“No, Father, I do not,” McNamara shot back. “I do not consider myself too good for anything, and this isn’t about ambition. I simply…oh, you’ll never understand.”
“Then help me to,” Isaac said in a gentler tone. “Forgive my false inferences, please, and help me to better understand. There’s been enough bitterness between us these long years. I don’t want there to be anymore.”
“Nor do I, Father,” McNamara said, mollified by the sincerity of his father’s apology – let alone the fact that he had apologized at all. “As for understanding, let me ask you this. Why did you become a solicitor?”
“Because I love the law, the theory and practice of it. And it made me feel purposeful, helping people obtain justice for themselves. I never wanted to do anything else.”
“And what would you do if you could no longer practice the law?”
“I…I do not know,” his father replied. “I cannot imagine such a life.”
“I felt the same way when I was in the navy,” McNamara responded. “It was all I ever wanted to do. I’ve made peace with my expulsion, particularly given the circumstances that led to it. Still, at the time it happened, it was a terrible feeling to be cast adrift. And it was even worse to have it happen a second time. And right now…right now, I just don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what trade or skill I want to take the time to learn, or whether anyone would be willing to teach a man of my age when there are street urchins aplenty for them to train and hire for far less pay.”
“And you think you might find your answers in Jamaica?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But it’s worth trying. Kingston’s grown rapidly ever since Port Royal’s destruction. There are opportunities in such places, so maybe there will be such an opportunity for me.”
“I suppose I can understand that,” Isaac McNamara said. He took a sip of ale before sighing heavily. “Listen, Michael. What I told you once before about not wanting you to fight for England because of what she has done to Scotland, I still hold to. But that quarrel is with England, and it never should have been with you. You are still my son, Michael, and no matter what king you fought for, I am proud of you for the courage and integrity you showed in the line of duty, and for all you that you accomplished while you served.”
“You’re proud of all of it?” McNamara asked.
“All of it,” his father repeated, his own smile also cheeky. “Especially at the very end.”
McNamara was at a loss for words for a moment. “Thank you for telling me this, Father,” he finally said.
“I wish I’d said it sooner. Maybe there would not have been as much bitter silence between us all these years.”
“As do I. But it’s been said now, and that’s what matters.”
* * *
Father and son stayed up late into the night talking about a great many things over several more tankards of ale. McNamara regaled his father with his experiences on board the HMS Canterbury at the great English victory at Cape Passaro, and his more amusing experiences as a fencing instructor. His father spoke of life back in Edinburgh and the latest rumblings of the Jacobites. Only when weariness overcame them at last did they finally stop.
The morning found them sharing a hasty breakfast, Isaac McNamara groaning as he cradled his head in his hand. “I likely drank more ale last night than I have in my entire life,” he muttered.
“Mother will understand,” McNamara replied. “I don’t know if she’ll forgive, but she’ll at least understand.”
“Hopefully, she will accept the ache in my head as my punishment enough.”
“It’s a long way to Edinburgh,” McNamara said. “You’ll have plenty of time to recover.”
In the distance, they heard the chiming of a bell, and Michael McNamara rose from his seat. “It’s almost time for the Southern Cross to depart. I should go.”
“Would you object if I were to walk with you?” Isaac said as he rose. “I would like to see you off, if you do not mind.”
McNamara smiled at his father. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”
By the time the two McNamaras returned to the shipyard, the Southern Cross was nearly ready to set sail. Captain Fillion - McNamara was now certain the man in the long brown coat was indeed him - was barking orders left and right, supervising the last minute preparations on board the ship as McNamara’s fellow passengers hurried aboard.
Father and son hastily embraced, and Isaac clapped his son on the back. “Goodbye, Michael. May God bless you and keep you on your journey, and may He grant that you find what you are looking for.”
“Goodbye, Father. I hope we’ll meet again someday. And if it is God’s will that we do not, I’m grateful he gave us the chance to reconcile. Please give Mother and my brothers my love.”
“I shall.”
With a final wave, McNamara dashed up the gangplank and made his way to the railing so he could see the docks one last time as the Southern Cross departed. As Bristol slowly moved farther away, he could still make out his father among the crowd that had gathered to watch the ship departing, some of them waving farewells to friends and family that they might never see again. McNamara waved back and gave his father one last smile. Now that the bond between father and son had been restored, a thing he’d once thought impossible, it seemed to him a good omen of things to come. This is how a new life should begin.