Read Heart of the Lonely Exile Online
Authors: BJ Hoff
Heart of the Lonely Exile
Critical Acclaim for
Song of the Silent Harp
B
OOK
O
NE OF
T
HE
E
MERALD
B
ALLAD
S
ERIES
This popular novel of the Famine period glows with love and faith amid the hardships, and even cruelty, of life under absentee landlords in 19th century Ireland.
The author has created a cast of complex characters in a panorama that stretches from County Mayo to Dublin, London, and eventually New York where the Kavanaghs are to work out their destiny.
All the color and imagery of a film enliven this story as it unfolds against a background of aborted revolution, disappointed love, the elemental struggle for life fulfillment in a harsh society.
Rarely has a novel captured so authentically the enduring faith of the Irish peasant that sustains Nora Kavanagh through the tribulation and struggle of that harrowing period.
This is a compelling and uplifting read that adds to an understanding of Ireland in the last century.
E
OIN
M
C
K
IERNAN
,
F
OUNDER
, I
RISH
A
MERICAN
C
ULTURAL
I
NSTITUTE
T
HE
E
MERALD
B
ALLAD
S
ERIES
by BJ Hoff
Song of the Silent Harp
Heart of the Lonely Exile
Land of a Thousand Dreams
Sons of an Ancient Glory
Dawn of the Golden Promise
of the
Lonely Exile
T
HE
E
MERALD
B
ALLAD
BJ H
OFF
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
All Scripture quotations not marked otherwise in this publication are from the Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.
Verses marked
AMP
are from the Amplified Bible. Old Testament copyright © 1965, 1987 by the Zondervan Corporation. The Amplified New Testament copyright © 1958, 1987 by the Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
With the exception of recognized historical figures, the characters in this novel are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover photos
©
Thinkstockphotos; Shutterstock; Wikimedia
Cover by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota
Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370,
www.booksandsuch.biz.
The village of Killala in County Mayo, Ireland, does exist. The suffering that took place there and throughout Ireland during the Great Hunger of the 1840s was all too real and has been documented in numerous journals. Nevertheless, it is depicted herein by fictional characters.
Previously published as
Heart of the Lonely Exile,
book two of An Emerald Ballad series, Bethany House Publishers.
HEART OF THE LONELY EXILE
Copyright © 1991 by BJ Hoff
Published 2010 by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
ISBN 978-0-7369-2789-5
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any otherâexcept for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 / RDM-NI / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
BJ Hoff
's bestselling historical novels continue to cross the boundaries of religion, language, and culture to capture a worldwide reading audience. In addition to The Emerald Ballad series, her books include such popular titles as
Song of Erin
and
American Anthem
and bestselling series such as The Riverhaven Years and The Mountain Song Legacy. Her stories, although set in the past, are always relevant to the present. Whether her characters move about in Ireland or America, in small country towns or metropolitan areas, reside in Amish settlements or in coal company houses, she creates
communities
where people can form relationships, raise families, pursue their faith, and experience the mountains and valleys of life.
A direct descendant of Irish ancestors who came to this country before the Revolutionary War, BJ brings a decade of historical research and strong personal involvement to The Emerald Ballad series. Her understanding of the Irish peopleâtheir history, their struggles, their music, their indomitable spiritâlends to her writing all the passion and power of her own Irish heritage. BJ and her husband make their home in Ohio.
For a complete listing of BJ's books published by
Harvest House Publishers, turn to page 377.
My warmest thanks and appreciation to Harvest House Publishers for publishing this new edition of
Heart of the Lonely Exile,
the second book of The Emerald Ballad series, and for their ongoing support and encouragement of my work. Much gratitude is due the late Dr. Eoin McKiernan for the information and assistance he so kindly and patiently provided throughout the development of this series. Thanks also to the following: the late Thomas Gallagher of New York City; William Hughes of Baltimore, Maryland; Patrick Mead of Lake Orion, Michigan.
A Pronunciation Guide for Proper Names
6 The Church in Paradise Square
15 Binding Wounds and Broken Hearts
WINTER LAMENT
â¢
GATHERING SHADOWS
23 Between Destiny and Despair
24 An Encounter with Annie Delaney
25 Whisper of Hope, Sigh of Regret
SPRINGTIME ANTHEM
â¢
RAINBOW VISTAS
30 Dublin: Darkness and Daybreak
41 Secrets of the Lonely Heart
Other fine BJ Hoff Books Published by Harvest House Publishers
Aidan | Ä´den |
Drogheda | Draw´he guh |
Eoin | Owen |
 | (older form of John) |
Finola | Fi nÅ´la |
 | (from Fionnuala) |
Killala | Kil lä´lä |
Seanchai | Shan´a kee |
Tierney | Teer´ney |
How shall we sing the Lord's song
in a strange land?
PSALM 137:4 (
AMP
)
And through the dread, dread night,
And long, that steeped our island then,
The lamps of hope and fires of faith
Were fed by these brave men.
SEUMAS MACMANUS (1869â1960)
Ballina (Western Ireland)
1705
D
onal the Twin, son of Eoin Kavanagh, sneaked away from his nephew's cottage before dawn on Sunday morning.
He took nothing with him save the Kavanagh harp slung over his back and his few meager items of clothing, wrapped and knotted onto a stick like a peddler's pack. Around his neck he tied his shoesâthin as pages from an old book; he would save them for later, when the snow came.
Half-sliding, then stumbling the rest of the way down the scrubby incline, Donal waited a moment to catch his breath before getting to his feet. Turning, he rubbed his bruised ribs as he allowed himself one final look at the dark hillside hut that had sheltered him for weeks.
While it grieved him to leave without a final goodbye to Taber and Ellen, he knew it was best to go like this, unnoticed. Now his nephew and family could in all honesty plead ignorance when the British soldiers came.
Ah, but he would miss themâwould miss the children's laughter at early light, their evening prayers at sunset. It had been a grand thing to be part of a family again, if only for a brief time.
Blinking against the sudden sting in his eyes, Donal drew in a ragged sigh, then turned his face toward the north. For months now, a number of families in and near Killala had been pleading with him to return and resume a hedge school for their children. Perhaps God was speaking through last evening's narrow escape to call him away from the comfort and safety of Taber's home.
Still, it was a hard thing, harder now than ever before, for Donal knew that, this time, he would not be going back. From now on he would live as a fugitive in the wilds of Mayo, without hearth or home.
There were still good people willing to shelter a renegade schoolmaster or priest, of courseâthe kindly Brownes and the Elliots, although Protestants, had hidden him more than once. But it went hard for those who dared to harbor an outlaw Catholic schoolmaster, and Donal could no longer live with the fact that he might subject othersâespecially his own nephewâto the risk.
There was winter on the wind in this hour before dawn. Donal butted his head against the cold, wrapping his cloak more tightly about his throat as he started north. Even in the darkness, it was evident that the countryside had taken on the bleak appearance of early November. Gnarled tree branches, stripped of their leaves, writhed upward, specters in the cloud-veiled light of the new moon. The red bog had gone dull and barren, and the low mountains of Mayo loomed, desolate and lonely and forbidding.
A pool of melancholy stirred somewhere deep inside Donal's spirit, and he shuddered beneath his cloak.
He approached the small whitewashed cottage of Bran O'Gara, his closest friendâin truth, his
only
friend. Suddenly he stopped, startled by the sight of Bran's thin, birdlike figure swooping out the door, lantern in hand. Protected from the elements by only a threadbare jacket, Bran flailed his arms as he came running to the road to meet Donal.
“Faith, Bran, what are you doing roaming about at this hour?”
“And what else would I be doing but watching for
you,
Donal Kavanagh? Didn't I suspect you'd be sneaking out of Taber's house before dawn, what with the trouble last night?”
In his right hand, Bran clutched a small poke, which he now thrust at Donal. “Mary fixed a bite to tide you over until you reach wherever it is you intend to go.”
Grateful, Donal nevertheless felt shamed. His friend had so little, yet
gave so generously. “That is kind of you, Bran, but not expected. These are hard times.”
“Ach, 'tis only some biscuit and taties. Sure, and we can spare that much for you, Donal.”
“I do thank you, then. You are a kind man.”
Lifting the lantern, the thin-faced Bran squinted his eyes and peered at Donal. “What I am is a man who thinks it a crime to hunt down a schoolmaster as if he were a felon!” he burst out, shaking his head with indignation. “'Tis a terrible thing when men must risk their lives to teach the children!”
Donal nodded, meeting Bran's eyes in the light from the lantern. “Aye, it does seem a bitter thing when knowledge is outlawed in a land that holds learning so dear.”
“'Tis not
knowledge
the British have outlawed!” Bran spat out. “'Tis being
Irish
they have made a crime!”
Again Donal nodded in sad agreement. “Aye, and that would seem to be the truth.”
Putting a hand to his friend's sleeve, Donal attempted a smile. “My deep thanks to you, Bran. I will not forget your kindness. But I should go now.”
In the wavering light of the lantern, Bran's face was lined with anger and despair. “Aye, it will be light soon. Go, then, Donal. And God speed you!”
Donal forced himself not to look back as he left his friend standing alone in the road. He would miss Bran, almost as much as he would miss his nephew, Taber, and his family. God be thanked for them all; they had risked much for his welfare.
But it was folly itself to dare the devil more than once, and so he had decided to leave before daybreak. Once the soldiers realized their prey was no longer about, they would certainly let up on their harassment of Taber and his family.
It chilled his blood to think how close he had come to being taken last night. It would have meant gaolâor worseâfor his nephew. The soldiers had been almost halfway up the hill when little Mary had sounded the warning.
Donal had known for some time they were onto him. He'd barely escaped being caught just last week, when he and his band of raggedy
scholars had sheltered themselves behind the hedges on the hill to study the Latin and the Greek. Though he got away clean that time, he knew he'd been spotted; sure, and his red hair was hard to miss.
The soldiers had shown up every day since, lurking at the foot of the hill to spy out the cottage, then finally trekking up to the front door last night.
Only his nephew's quick wits had given Donal the extra time he'd needed. With a quick word of explanation, Taber had flushed the children from the front door, sending them at a run into the yard, bawling and yelling like terrified calves as they went. Their mother immediately took off after them, flapping her skirt and shrieking at the top of her voice, as if to murder them both for whatever offense they supposedly had committed.
The distraction had been just enough to allow Donal to escape out the back of the cabin and make his way up to the glen. Thanks be to God, the soldiers had not brought the hounds along with them!
Upon returning to the cottage much later, he learned that the soldiers had been rough with the family, nearly provoking Taber to a foolish outburst. Donal knew then he had to go.
And so here he was on the road, as he had been many times before, and all for the crime of teaching Ireland's children.
He stubbed his bare toe on a stone and yelped, waiting for the pain to subside before going on. Limping down the deeply pitted road, Donal clenched his teeth from the pain in his toe and the cold ground stinging the bottoms of his feet.
“What kind of a land is it,” he mused with a great sorrow, “when it is unlawful to teach a childâeven one's own?”
For years now, all education had been forbidden to Catholics, including the right to employ a Catholic teacher or to educate one's children at home. Why, he could not even act as guardian to a child among his own relatives!
The list of Forbiddens was endless. Because he was a Catholic, he had no vote, could not bear arms, enter a profession, or hold public office. Nor could he buy land. Why, it was even illegal for him to attend Mass! And the priestsâthey were hunted down with bloodhounds, just like the schoolmasters! To compound the wrong, those Protestantsâand there were manyâwho would protest the heinous laws by aiding a Catholic
friend or neighbor soon found themselves in as much trouble as if they had committed the trespass themselves.
This was a time of terrible shame for Ireland, and that was the truth! Priests and schoolmasters had to be smuggled to the Continent if they were to receive an education of any sort. Some never returnedâand yet a surprising number
did.
Like Donal, they made their way back to Ireland, hiding out like common criminals in the hills, meeting with their students or congregations among the rocks, while sentries took turns keeping watch for the soldiers. Some were slaughtered where they stood when the British came upon them without warning.
To avoid persecutionâand to keep their landsâmany of the Irish adopted the Protestant faith, even intermarrying with daughters of British landlords when possible. Such was the course Donal's twin brother had taken. Indeed, Fergus seemed to have turned his back not only on his faith but on his family as well. Twice he had tipped information to the soldiers about Donal's whereabouts, and once had even attempted to lead the troops to the hedge school. Only a warning from an alert scholar had saved Donal from capture.
For his betrayal, Fergus inherited their father's humble cottage and few belongings, despite the fact that Donal was the firstborn by minutes. The one thing left to Donal was the Kavanagh harpâand that was only because Fergus didn't want it.
Taber, Fergus's son, had grown to be a fine young man, embracing all the values his father had rejected. Over the years, the lad had come to be like a son to Donal, whose wife and infant son had died of typhus. Indeed, only because he loved Taber and his family so fiercely could he bring himself to leave them.
Ah, but one dayâ¦one day, they would be together again, if not on this side of heaven, then on the other. Then he would no longer be an exile in his own land, would no longer be forced to roam the hills alone. One day the exiles would come together at last: together with the Lord.
And so, in spite of the pain of leaving his loved ones, in spite of the prospect of loneliness and deprivation awaiting him, Donal was able to smile just a bit through his tears. Stopping, he tucked Bran's gift of food into his pack with the rest of his things, then retrieved the harp. Bracing the old instrument against his shoulder, he turned his face to the horizon.
Down the road toward Killala, in the cold hours of predawn, Donal
Kavanagh walked on toward his destiny. And as he went, he strummed the small minstrel's harp and sang the unchanging promises of his God:
“And the redeemed of the Lord shall return, and come with singing unto Zion, and everlasting joy shall be upon their headsâ¦.They will know gladness and joy, and all sorrow will flee awayâ¦.”
