Song of the Silent Harp (13 page)

Evan sighed.
An Irish Robin Hood, no less.

“Is that all?”

Evan looked at him. “Well…yes…except that there are some, Cotter included, who suspect Morgan Fitzgerald of being this, ah, Red Wolf.”

Sir Roger actually growled—a choked, phlegmy rumble. For a moment Evan feared it might be the beginning of a seizure, but the Grasshopper was simply grinding his jaws in rage.

Leaning forward, Gilpin hurled the crumpled letter to the desk. “I want you to leave for County Mayo at once! At
once,
do you hear?” He made a jabbing motion with his head to the letter in front of Evan. “You'll deliver those instructions to Cotter personally, as my emissary!”

Wagging a long talon of a finger in Evan's face, he went on shouting. “And you'll stay in Killala until you see my orders carried out, do you understand? I want those…
creatures…
off my land and those…
bandits…
hanged!”

Good heavens, the man was
serious!
Evan squirmed.
He
—go to Ireland? Worse yet, to
Mayo?
Why, according to Quincy Moore the place was nothing more than a bleak, desolate rock pile, its inhabitants unwashed savages and wild men, most of whom still spoke some ancient, unintelligible tongue!
Furious fools,
Tennyson called them. Oh my, no—it was impossible!

“I'm afraid that's…quite impossible, Sir Roger,” he said as firmly as he could manage. “I have a slight lung condition, you remember”—he cleared his throat—”and I understand the c-climate in western Ireland is abysmal. Besides,” he hastened to add for good measure, “who would assume my responsibilities in my absence? My workload is heavier than it's ever b-been before.” There.

That should take care of
that.

“You'll do as I say or your
workload,
” Sir Roger snarled, “will be considerably lightened. Considerably.”

Evan lifted his chin in what he hoped was a gesture of defiance. “S-see here, Sir Roger—”

The Grasshopper was already hopping to his next thought. “Naturally,” he said in a more conciliatory tone, turning his back on Evan, “you'll be generously recompensed for your travel expenses and your inconvenience. And of course, once you return you'll be due a sizable increase in wages.” He paused, then turned back with a somewhat malicious smile to add, “And perhaps a vacation, as well, eh?”

Evan swallowed. He hadn't had a vacation in years. Perhaps the climate wasn't all
that
wretched. “A vacation, did you say?”

The Grasshopper showed his teeth.

“Think of it as—an adventure, Whittaker! Yes, that's it, an adventure! I should think a young, handsome fellow like yourself would be eager for a bit of travel and excitement.”

Dear heaven, the man was actually patting him on the shoulder! Evan cringed. An adventure might be well and good, but he hardly thought a forced visit to Ireland qualified as such. Still, it would be a change of scenery. And there was the promise of a vacation…

“Well, if you're certain it's absolutely necessary—”

“Absolutely!”
Gilpin boomed, thumping him solidly on the back. “This is excellent. You'll be able to give me a firsthand account of the famine conditions, as well.”

Evan rose from his chair to avoid another bone jarring back pounding. “I thought Mr. C-Cotter and some of our other c-correspondents had already done that, sir. I'm sure they d-didn't exaggerate—the newspaper accounts c-confirm—”

“I should hope they didn't exaggerate!” Gilpin gave a short laugh, crossing the room to the gleaming mahogany sideboard. He poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter and tossed it down in one enormous gulp. “For my part,” he said, wiping his lips on the back of his hand, “I consider these potato blights heaven-sent. Yes, indeed,” he went on, pouring himself another tumbler of whiskey, “a distinct act of Providence, I should think. So do Elwood and Combs and some of the other landlords at the Club. Why, it's the very solution to the Irish problem!”

He downed his drink, rolling the tumbler around in the palm of one large hand as he continued. “God knows we need to rid the land of those scavengers, and this famine has got them dropping like flies!”

Setting the tumbler down, he crossed to the fireplace, backing up close to it and clasping his hands behind him. “Cattle and horses, that's what we'll replace them with. It's Divine Providence, all right, Whittaker,” he said, shooting Evan a pleased smile. “The Irish were starving anyway, dying of their own indolence. Why, the only thing those savages have ever known is poverty! They're too lazy, the lot of them, to turn an honest day's work. We landlords have to save ourselves before they bleed us dry! Once we get those
papists
off the land, we can turn it over to grazing and protect our investment in that wretched island.”

From what Evan had read, not all the starving Irish were of the Roman Catholic faith, but he doubted that this fact would matter one way or the other to his employer.

“It's just as Trevelyan says,” Sir Roger went on in a somewhat sanctimonious voice, “the Irish overpopulation and immoral character are altogether beyond our power to correct. Only God Himself can deal with those idolaters. And it would seem that He is doing just that at last.”

Trevelyan, assistant secretary of the treasury, had indeed seconded the Prime Minister's belief that the famine was the work of a benign Providence. And numerous members of Parliament seemed eager to echo that sentiment.

Evan wasn't entirely sure just what he thought about the Irish. But he was fairly certain that the God he knew would not share Roger Gilpin's attitude. He recalled his father—a clergyman for forty-odd years now—making a remark in one of his recent letters about the “suddenly pious Trevelyan is convinced that God has cheerfully set about starving to death thousands of infants and children, simply because their parents placed some statues in their churches.”

Not being personally affected by the conditions in Ireland, Evan had given the matter little thought. Now, it seemed, he would have the chance—albeit unwelcome—to see for himself whether or not the devastation was, indeed,
the judgment of God upon an idolatrous people.

Sir Roger roused Evan from his thoughts. “Well, then, it's settled! You'll leave for Killala right away. By the end of the week at the latest.”

Evan forced an unhappy smile. “Yes, I suppose I shall.”

“Good man.” Sir Roger stretched up, poised on the balls of his feet, then dropped down. The Grasshopper preened. “Write up whatever papers you may need, and I'll sign them in the morning. Just be sure that Cotter understands there's to be no more delay—they're
all
to be turned out, with no exceptions! And if he doesn't do the job this time, I'll hire a man who
will
!”

A thought struck Evan, and he moistened his lips. “About this Fitzgerald person—”

“Fitzgerald be hanged!
And I'll see that he is! Cotter says he has family there, in the village, and they're as destitute as the rest of the peasantry. Perhaps you can use them to bring Fitzgerald into line, eh?”

Evan nodded vaguely, chafing to get away from his employer. Sir Roger was quite a disgusting man, actually.

“Come, now, Whittaker, you needn't look so despondent! Perhaps you'll find yourself one of those saucy little Irish tarts to brighten up your trip. Make a man of you!” Gilpin gave his loud, abrasive laugh, obviously delighted with himself. “Just see that you don't bring her home with you. London has quite enough of them scurrying through the sewers as it is.”

For a moment Evan feared the man was about to cross the room and slap him soundly on the back again. He edged his way to the door and, calling up an immense amount of self-control, managed not to bolt and run.

When at last he escaped the library, he went directly to the front door, dragged it open, and stepped outside. Pulling in a long, cleansing breath of cold air, he willed the frigid wind to wash away the stench that seemed to have settled over him.

10

And my heart flies hack to Erin's isle,
To the girl I left behind me.

T
HOMAS
O
SBORNE
D
AVIS
(
1814-1845
)

New York City

N
ot for the first time, Michael Burke found himself wishing for a uniformed police force. The idea of uniforms had been discussed and dismissed any number of times, mostly due to the men's fierce complaints. Many of the Irish lads, who comprised the majority of the total police force, were virulently opposed to the idea. Equating uniforms with the livery worn by English footmen, they remained adamant in their resistance to being decked
out like “British lackeys.”

From the beginning, Michael had disagreed, seeing the uniform as a means of gaining a bit more authority on the street. He was convinced that the instant recognition afforded by a uniform would automatically give a man greater influence, and thereby more control, among the rabble—at least a good deal more than their present copper badges could provide. From what he had seen in the streets of New York, Michael would have welcomed the edge of intimidation a mass of blue uniforms could effect.

He sighed and donned the blue woolen shirt lying on the bed, rubbing a calloused thumb over the copper badge affixed to his chest. For now, this makeshift uniform would have to do.

Michael headed for the kitchen, tucking in his shirttail as he went. Tierney, standing at the door, was just stepping aside to admit a stranger.

“Someone to see you, Da,” Tierney said, studying the stranger with obvious curiosity.

“Sergeant Burke?”

Michael gave a short nod, taking in the stranger's appearance. Although he was dressed decently enough in the clothes of a working man, a furtive look filled the hooded dark eyes, and a hard set to his mouth immediately put Michael on guard.

“I've a letter for you,” the man said without preamble.

Irish. There was no mistaking the accent.

Michael frowned. “Have we met, then?”

The man shook his head, volunteering nothing further as he pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Michael.

“I was to see this safely into your hands,” said the stranger. He paused, then added, “And I was asked to collect your reply as quickly as possible.”

Michael recognized the large, untidy scrawl across the front of the envelope immediately. “Morgan,” he said, surprised. “Morgan Fitzgerald.”

The stranger gave a brief nod.

“But how—why the personal delivery?”

“I was told only that it's urgent, sir, and would you please send an answer back with me as soon as possible.”

Michael studied the man's impassive face. “I didn't get your name.”

The stranger met his gaze. “Barry will do. Do you think I could collect your answer by tomorrow, sir?”

Again Michael looked at the envelope in his hand. “You're going back to
Ireland that soon?”

“Aye. I have some business to attend to in the city; then I'll be leaving.”

“How is it that you know Morgan?” Michael pressed.

“I'm sorry, sir, did I lead you to think that? I don't actually know him at all. We have some mutual friends, you see, and when they learned I was coming over they asked me to deliver this for Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Tierney had come to peer over his shoulder. “Aren't you going to open it, Da?” he asked eagerly.

Michael lifted his hand to silence the lad. “You say you need my reply by tomorrow?”

“If at all possible, sir. I need to get back straightaway.”

“All right, then, I'll have it ready.” Anxious now for the man to leave, Michael followed him to the door.

Tierney was at him again as soon as he turned around. “Is it really from your friend Morgan, Da? Why do you suppose he had it carried by messenger?”

“It's from Morgan right enough,” Michael said, ripping open the envelope.

Tierney hovered at his shoulder. “What does he say? Is something wrong?”

“Hush, now, and let me read it so we'll know.”

As soon as he began reading, Michael realized the letter had not been written in answer to his own, mailed back in November. If Morgan had received it at all, he made no mention. Neither was it typical of the hastily scratched notes Morgan usually wrote; it was several pages long and written in a careful hand.

“Aren't you going to read it aloud, Da?”

Hearing the impatience in Tierney's voice, Michael shook his head distractedly. “It's too long. You can read it a page at a time as I do.”

The further he read, the more disturbed he became. The news accounts he'd been following for weeks leaped to life through Morgan's vivid descriptions and uncompromising accounts of Ireland's tragedy. Michael felt as if Morgan were here, in this very room, telling him face-to-face of the devastation, the horrors that had fallen upon their country. All the ugliness he had heretofore only imagined became dreadfully real. And behind every line, he could sense Morgan's pain and his rage at his utter helplessness.

Handing the pages to Tierney as he finished each one, Michael's heart began to pound. The more he read, the worse it got. Morgan reeled off news about his own family and others Michael knew and remembered.
Nora…

She had lost her husband—and her little girl! Dear heaven, her oldest son was failing, too? Michael realized he had moaned aloud for her pain when Tierney put a hand to his arm.

The only hope for her at all is to leave Killala…to leave Ireland. While I know I'll have the time of it, convincing her to go, somehow I must find a way. Although Nora has not faced it yet, I doubt that Tahg, her oldest lad, will last until spring, and her father-in-law—do you remember Old Dan Kavanagh?—will most certainly be gone before then. If she does not leave, and soon, Michael, she will perish with all the others.

If have told her nothing of this yet, but with the help of some of my lads, I'm sure I can raise passage money for her and those of her family left alive, as well as for Thomas and his young ones, to come across. But I'll be needing some help, and that's where you come in, old friend, though what I'm about to ask is not an easy thing.

Curious, Michael frowned and scanned ahead, reading beyond the words of apology until he reached the next page.

And so, keeping in mind that you've been without your Eileen some years now, and remembering there was a time when you had a true fondness for Nora, I'm anxiously wondering if you could find it in your heart, Michael—you and Tierney—to take Nora and what remains of her family by then, into your home.

Stunned, Michael's eyes fastened on the last line for a long moment before Tierney's voice broke through his incredulity. Looking at his son, Michael hesitated, then handed him the page he had just read. His pulse skipped, then lunged and raced ahead as he went on with Morgan's letter.

The only chance I stand of making her listen to reason is to give her the security of knowing someone will be there, waiting for her, when she arrives. In truth, what I am asking, Michael, is that you consider marrying our Nora...

Marry her? Marry Nora?

Michael's eyes went back over the words again, the blood roaring to his head.

I know there was a time when you had a great fondness for her, and with that in mind, I'm hoping an arrangement such as I suggest might not be entirely to your disliking.

By now I'm sure you're newly astounded at my always considerable nerve, but I must stretch your patience even further. Knowing Nora's infernal pride and insistence on propriety, I believe the only way she would ever entertain such an extreme idea would be if you were to write her yourself—just as if all this were your doing, rather than mine. Perhaps—and only perhaps—if she thought the need were more yours than her own, she might be willing to start a new life in America.

The room swayed around Michael. His mouth went dry, and his heart pumped wildly. But there was more.

You have a right to ask, and are wondering, I'm sure, why I do not wed Nora and bring her over myself. I cannot deny that I love the lass and have for most of my life long. But we both know it would be worse than folly for a woman like Nora to wed a man like me—even if she would have me, which I doubt. I can offer her nothing but a heart forever chained to a dying country. I cannot leave; besides, Nora deserves far more than the fool I am. And so I'm praying you will find it in your heart to make room for her and her youngest, Daniel John—and, should Tahg survive, him as well. I'm sure the old man would never leave, even if he should recover enough to travel.

I hope to secure passage for both families and perhaps raise some extra funds as well. I know the increased financial burden in this is no small matter.

In closing, I would ask that you send me a private answer by the lad who delivered this letter to you, and if, please God, your answer is yes, then send Nora a letter by him as well. I will see to it she never knows but what the idea was entirely your own.

If you must forgive me for anything, my friend, then forgive me for remembering your utter selflessness and your eager willingness to help others. I thank you, and as always, I remain...your loyal friend, Morgan Fitzgerald.

Michael stared at the last lines of the letter for a long time. He felt oddly detached from his surroundings—lightheaded, isolated, weak. The only reality seemed to be the letter in his hand and the sound of his heart pounding violently in his ears.

When Tierney reached for the last page of the letter, prying it carefully from his father's fingers, Michael was only vaguely aware of releasing it. Finally he blinked and turned to look at his son.

The boy was gaping at him with a dazed look of disbelief that Michael was
sure mirrored his own dumbfounded expression.

“What in the world are you going to do, Da?”

Numb, Michael stared at the boy. Then a thought struck him, jerking him back to reality.

“The question is, what are
we
going to do?”

Tierney stood watching him, the letter clutched in his hand. “What do you mean?”

Michael willed himself to think. “This affects you every bit as much as me, lad. We're talking about taking in an entire family—I can't make a decision like that alone.” He stopped, swallowing down the panic swelling up in him. “Dear God, how can I make a decision like this at
all?”

Silence stretched between them until Tierney finally broke it. “I still remember Mother. Does that surprise you?”

The boy's soft words caught Michael completely off guard. “Of course, you do, son. Tierney, no one is suggesting that Nora could ever take your mother's place, nor would she—”

Tierney shook his head. “I didn't mean that, Da.”

Michael waited. “What, then?”

The boy looked away, embarrassed. “It's just that…sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be nice, having someone—a woman—” He looked up, his face tight and pinched. “It might make it seem more like a home.” His shoulders relaxed a little, and he released a long breath.

Michael's face must have mirrored the dismay he felt at the boy's words, for Tierney quickly tried to retract them. “I don't mean we don't already have a home, Da, nothing like that—I—”

With a small wave of his hand, Michael nodded. “I know. I know exactly what you mean, and it's all right. I've had the same thoughts myself, lad.”

“You have? Honestly, Da?”

Again Michael nodded. Going to the stove, he set the kettle on for tea. Then he turned back to Tierney, who stood watching him, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“Da? What did Morgan mean—about your once having a—a fondness for Nora?”

Michael moistened his lips. He had not noticed before now the spurt of growth the boy seemed to have taken—he was nearly as tall as Michael himself—or the faint dusting of fuzz on his upper lip and cheeks, the newly angled lines and planes of his face. His son would soon be a man.

And so he would talk with him as a man. “Sit down, son. We'll have some breakfast, and I'll tell you about Nora…and how she was special to both Morgan and me. And then—then we must be deciding what to do.”

Only then did Michael manage to admit to himself that he did not necessarily find Morgan's astounding request all that unthinkable.