Song of the Silent Harp (24 page)

Nora stopped struggling, her mind finally beginning to register the awful truth in his words.

His grip on her shoulders relaxed only slightly. “Hush, now, and hear me out,
ma girsha,”
he said, his voice dropping to a low, soothing tone. “There is a way out of this, after all. But you must mind what I say.”

She shook her head in hopeless protest. “Do not try to deceive me, Morgan,” she choked out brokenly, no longer even trying to stop the tears. “You know as well as I that nothing can save us now! 'Tis the road for us…oh, God help us, how will we manage? What am I to do with Tahg?”

“Stop that!”
His voice cracked like a whip, and he shook her soundly. “You
must not give way, do you hear me? I will do all I can, but you must keep your wits while I am gone.”

“Gone?”
The word struck her like a blow.

He nodded, watching her closely. “Only for a short time—an hour, perhaps two. I'm going to bring some of my men down from the hills, with extra horses. They will help us to get away.”

“But Tahg—”

He slid his hands down her shoulders to grip her forearms. “There's a cabin where we're going. Tahg will be warm and safe until the ship arrives.”

Nora gaped at him. “But what of Cotter's men while you're gone? What if they turn us out before you get back?”

His hands tightened on her arms. “You'll be all right until I return with the lads. Whittaker is going to make certain of that. In the meantime, you must get some things together for you and the boys. Pack only what you need—no more. When I come back, you must have Tahg ready to leave, and yourself as well. Can you do that, Nora? Whittaker will help you.”

When she hesitated, trembling, he pulled her to him. Dipping his head to make her meet his relentless gaze, he cupped her face between his hands. “You will be all right, lass, I promise you. I will let no harm come to you or your sons, but you must do your part. And you must not give in to your fear.”

Nora closed her eyes. Her head was pounding, her mind reeling. “Nora? Look at me.”

She opened her eyes, slowly dragging her gaze to lock with his. Still framing her face with his hands, he again spoke her name. “Nora . . you used to trust me, do you remember, lass?”

Nora could not answer, but merely nodded, all the while allowing his eyes to hold her captive.

“Can't you trust me again,
ma girsha?
At least once more? For the sake of your life, and that of your sons, Nora? Please?”

She searched his eyes, still unable to allow herself to hope. Yet he seemed so determined…so sure.

“Nora?”

Slowly, she nodded, unable to wrest her eyes from his.

“There's my good lass,” he said, his voice softening to a hoarse whisper, his gaze brimming with an old, familiar fondness. “It will be all right. You will see.”

At the unexpected touch of his lips on her forehead, Nora caught her breath sharply. She stood unmoving as he tipped her face up to look at him. “I will go now,” he said, his eyes searching hers, “and fetch our English hero. First,
though, you must promise me that you will do whatever he might ask of you while I am gone.”

When she would have protested, he touched a finger to her lips. “Nora, impossible as it may be to comprehend, I know in my heart that Evan Whittaker is a good man, an honorable man. And a clever one as well, if I'm any judge. For now, we will simply have to trust him.”

He held her gaze until she finally gave him a small, uncertain nod of assent. Then, with seeming reluctance, he released her, picked up his cloak and harp, and hurried out of the room.

Moments later, behind the cottage, Evan watched the small mare Cotter had given him to ride sag as Fitzgerald swung himself up on her back.

“How long will it t-take you?” he asked, convinced the little black mare could not carry so heavy a burden for very long.

“Two hours at the most—one is more likely,” Fitzgerald replied, raking Evan with a measuring stare. “It's not far, but I'll be stopping at my brother's on the way out of town. To make sure Daniel John is safely hidden, and to have a word with Thomas about what to do should Cotter's thugs decide to come calling.”

Evan was uncomfortably aware that he was being appraised. He sensed that Fitzgerald, if not actually having second thoughts about his trustworthiness, was at least making one last attempt to reassure himself.

“You saw how frail she is?” he asked Evan abruptly.

“Mrs. Kavanagh? Yes, I did. I told you, I shall help her however I c-can. If she w-will allow me to help her, that is,” he amended.

Still delaying, Fitzgerald glanced up at the rain-heavy clouds. “We will need bedding for Tahg—several layers, if she has it. I'll try to borrow one or two cloaks from my lads as well.” He paused. “You are absolutely certain you can turn away Cotter's men?”

Hooding his coat over his head, Evan fidgeted impatiently. He was going to have the most ghastly chest cold after all this came to an end—if indeed it ever
did
come to an end. “Yes, yes, of c-course, I'm certain,” he reassured Fitzgerald, ignoring the immediate twist of doubt that followed his words. “You really
m-must
go now! You dare not be caught here!”

“Aye, I am going,” the other man answered, starting to turn the horse.

Both of them jumped at the distant sound of hoofbeats. Fitzgerald whipped around, shooting a startled look first toward the road, then back to Evan. “It's too soon! What are they doing back in town—”

Panicked, the blood pounding in his ears, Evan stared at him. “Get
out
of here!”

Fitzgerald slanted him one last warning look as he yanked the mare around. “If anything happens to her or her sons,” he bit out in a murderous voice, “you are a dead man!” Hauling up sharply on the reins, he tore off in a frenzy across the field, throwing rocks and splattering mud as he went.

At that moment, Evan knew with absolute certainty what he had only suspected before:
Fitzgerald was in love with the Kavanagh woman!

His mouth went dry. Pressing the knuckles of one hand to his forehead, he groaned aloud. Fitzgerald was not the kind of man to make idle threats; of that, Evan had no doubt. And now that he was aware of the real motivation behind the big Irishman's actions, he knew with chilling conviction that his own life depended on his being able to save Nora Kavanagh and her sons.

The drumming sound of approaching horses was growing louder by the second. Evan watched Fitzgerald's back for an instant more before hurrying around the side of the cottage, cringing as the deep, sludge-filled ruts sucked his feet down and filled his boots with cold, muddy water.

He shuddered, more from desperation than cold, and went back inside. As yet he had no idea what he was going to do to turn Cotter's bully-boys away.

But he must do
something.
There was too much at stake for him to fail.
Lives
were at stake.

Lord, I don't know where to start…Please show me the next step to take. Help me not to fail these people. Lord…help me not to fail You.

20

Many times man lives and dies
Between his two eternities,
That of race and that of soul.

W. B. Y
EATS
(1865-1939)

T
he Fitzgerald cabin was cold and dank. There was plenty of wood left from Morgan's recent trip to the hills, but Thomas had ordered them not to light a fire. “We'll not be wanting to call attention to ourselves in any way,” he explained. “We will keep warm by packing for the journey. There is much to do this night.”

Daniel admired Thomas for the way he had risen to this most recent crisis. Many of the villagers considered Morgan's brother a dull, plodding man, albeit a kindhearted, honorable one. Through the years-long friendship between their families, however, Daniel had come to know Thomas Fitzgerald as a quiet, orderly individual, unswervingly devoted to his God, his family, and his friends, in that order.

The two brothers were more alike than was usually perceived, especially in
their mutual love for the land. While Morgan's passion was more inclined toward Ireland's culture, her history, and her always questionable destiny, Thomas found his fulfillment in working the land itself, coaxing it to yield its maximum bounty. Despite their differences, both men shared a basic bond with all that was Irish and a common instinct to preserve it.

At the moment, Thomas was showing keener instincts than most of the townspeople would have credited him with. As soon as he shoved Daniel safely inside the cabin, he set him and the children, including Little Tom, to preparing for their forthcoming “adventure.” Deliberately fueling their excitement about the voyage to America, he assigned each of them specific jobs, encouraging their efforts with occasional words of approval. In the midst of a dilemma that might well spell ruin for them all, he still managed to convey a sense of expectation to his children for what lay ahead, reminding them that God was very much a part of this, as He was in all things.

While the silent Johanna and wee Tom helped their father to pack the most essential of their meager belongings, Daniel and Katie worked hurriedly to collect the few remaining bottles of Catherine's homemade medications and herb ointments. Opening the wooden box that held her midwifery instruments, they emptied its contents onto the kitchen table, replacing them with precious containers of medicine, as well as vinegar, soap, needles, and dressings.

While they worked, they talked sparingly, speaking in low, strained voices. Mostly they watched one another with anxious eyes. Daniel was more than a little worried by Katie's appearance. In spite of the food Morgan had managed to provide, she appeared to be failing at an alarming pace. She was wretchedly thin, so slight her bones seemed to protrude through her skin, all sharp angles and knobs. She wheezed with every breath, as if the slightest movement required great effort.

He tried his utmost to be cheerful as they worked, making frequent efforts to reassure her. But his own mounting anxiety about his family, combined with a nagging whisper of guilt, made it nearly impossible to keep his mind on what he was doing. While Morgan had not pointed a finger of blame, Daniel knew he had set something in motion during his ill-fated encounter with George Cotter. Apparently, his actions were going to exact a dear price from them all—and for that he was deeply grieved and ashamed.

“Daniel John?” Katie's soft voice tugged him back from his troubled thoughts, and he looked over at her.

“What did you mean when you said Cotter had made your mother's decision for her?”

Forcing a note of brightness into his voice, Daniel replied, “Just that she can't very well refuse to go to America now, since after today we'll have nowhere
else
to go.”

Katie tucked a small vial of ointment in between some dressings. “But you don't really want to go, do you?” she asked.

Daniel shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “This is not the time to think of what I want or don't want,” he replied. “From what Morgan told your da, we'll either go to America or go on the road.”

“I never thought it would happen to us,” Katie said in a choked voice. “I suppose I've always thought that somehow Uncle Morgan would
keep
it from happening to us.”

Her eyes seemed enormous as she stared into the distance, biting her lip. Daniel fumbled for words that might ease the haunted look about her, but his own throat was treacherously swollen. “Your uncle Morgan has done all he could, and more,” he said lamely. “At least our passage is paid, and our families will be crossing together.”

“But Uncle Morgan
isn't
going,” said Katie dejectedly, dragging her gaze back to his. “And nobody seems to understand why.”

“I don't suppose anyone but Morgan could understand that,” Daniel said. “He is tied to Ireland in a special way, a way that only he can fathom. It's almost as if his heart is somehow…chained to the land itself.”

“I—I really don't want to go either, you know,” Katie said in little more than a whisper. Clutching at the knuckles on both hands, she added, “I suppose I'm afraid.”

The woeful expression in her large green eyes told Daniel this was no time to play the brave man. “To be sure, I might be a bit afraid, too.”

Her quick, grateful look made him glad he'd been honest. “Are you, Daniel John? Truly?”

He nodded. “I am. But I'd rather be afraid in America and have some hope for a future than to stay here in Killala, and have to be afraid every day of dying on the road. That would be a harder thing, I am thinking.”

As he spoke, he absently touched the harp on the end of the table. The sight of the ancient instrument that had been passed down through so many generations made him wonder if his youthful ancestor, Eoin Caomhanach, had also suffered this same unmanly fear at the idea of leaving his home for an unknown land.

Katie seemed to consider his words. “It helps me to know that you will be going with us,” she said with her usual directness. “I'm sure I won't be quite as frightened with you there.”

Daniel wished he shared some of her confidence in him. He didn't think he'd ever been quite this frightened, except perhaps the day Cotter had caught him trying to loot the agent's garbage barrels.

“Daniel John…why is this happening?”

“What do you mean, Katie?”

“The Hunger. So many people starving and dying, losing their homes—I don't understand. Doesn't God care about us at all anymore?”

Staring down at the open box in front of him, Daniel shifted from one foot to the other. He had no answers for Katie, none for himself.

When he made no reply, she continued. “I once heard your mum tell mine that maybe God had placed a curse on Ireland,” Katie remarked gravely. “She said the Hunger might be His way of punishing us for our sins.”

Daniel looked at her. Her eyes were glazed, her skin a waxen white. Even as they stood there, scarcely moving, he could hear her laboring wheeze. He wished for a cheerful answer to give her, but could think of none. His mother often spoke of punishment and sin, and he was aware that she believed Ireland to be suffering the hand of God's wrath. He wasn't at all sure he agreed with her—at least not altogether. He still had a problem with the thought that a God who loved enough to send His own Son to die for depraved sinners would just as easily punish innocent babes.

At times even Grandfar had seemed to chafe at his mother's grim comments, actually scolding her upon occasion for such “talk of doom.” His da had known best how to deal with what he called her “dark moods,” had always seemed to know instinctively when to tease, when to cajole, or when to simply leave her alone until the despondency passed.

“Is that what you believe, Daniel John?” Katie asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. “That we are cursed by God?”

Slowly, Daniel shook his head. “No, in truth I don't,” he said, feeling a faint nudge of guilt, as if he were somehow betraying his mother. “Da used to say it was England who had cursed us, not God.”

“I never knew a country could curse another country,” said Katie skeptically.

“It's more that they condemn us, I should think. By keeping us slaves on our own land and taking the very food out of our mouths—food we have grown ourselves—they've condemned us to poverty and hopelessness.”

Closing the lid of the medicine box, Katie looked at him thoughtfully. “You sound just like Uncle Morgan.”

Daniel gave her a faint, sheepish smile. “Well, in truth, they are his words,
not mine.”

“Why do the English hate us so, Daniel John?” she asked abruptly. “They don't even know us, not really. How can they hate us so fiercely when they don't
know
us?”

Daniel looked into the dead fireplace. “Morgan says it isn't so much hate as indifference.”

When he turned back to her, Katie was staring at him with a blank, uncomprehending look.

“It's as if they don't consider us—
worthy,”
he tried to explain. “We're not so much human beings in their estimation as we are beasts. Animals. They believe us to be wild and ignorant savages that must be kept in our place. They've always held that Ireland belongs to them, you see, not to the Irish. They colonized a part of it, and so as far as they're concerned, they have every right to do whatever they please with their own land.”

“But it's
not
their land, it's ours!”

“Aye, Katie, but what we look at from one side, they look at from the other—and neither they nor we are seeing the entire picture.”

“That sounds like Uncle Morgan, too,” she said testily, running her hand over the top of the wooden box.

Daniel shrugged. “What do
you
think?”

She gave him a long, burning look. “I think,” she replied fiercely “that I
hate
England! It's an evil country entirely.”

Tying a rope around the box to secure it, Daniel glanced over at her. “I don't know that an entire country can be evil,” he said carefully. The last thing he wanted, with her feeling so poorly, was an argument, but she was obviously cross with him.

“Well, people
can
be evil,” she countered, “and I think the English people must be very evil indeed!”

“Sure, and the English have no sole claim on wickedness, lass.” Thomas had crossed the room and now stood at the end of the table, watching the two of them. Bracing both hands on the back of a chair, he added quietly, “Evil abounds wherever the old, sinful nature rules the heart, and many are the places throughout this world where that is the case, Ireland being no exception. You both must know by now that only our Lord can change hearts, and change them He does, Katie Frances. Even English hearts, at that.”

Katie shot him a skeptical look. “That may be so, Da,” she muttered grudgingly, “but soon there will be neither good nor evil folks in Ireland. They will all either be dead or gone to America.”

Daniel felt a chill skate down his spine. There was no denying the bitter truth
of her words. He was grateful when Thomas ended the exchange, calling everyone to gather around the table for a time of prayer.

Hearing Thomas Fitzgerald pray was much like listening in on an intimate conversation between good friends, Daniel thought. Thomas never so much seemed to talk
to
the Lord as to talk
with
Him. So forthright, so earnest were his words—and so frequent his silences—that at times Daniel found himself trying to imagine what the Lord might be saying in response.

At the moment, however, he was finding it nearly impossible to keep his thoughts focused on Thomas's prayer. The day had simply been too much. He felt as if he had been swept up in a rolling ball of thunder, a storm hurtling faster and faster toward destruction. He was almost ill with fear: fear for his mother, for Tahg, for Katie and her family—and for Morgan. It was a new kind of fear, an overwhelming, cloying sort of terror that seized both his mind and his body and held them prisoner. He had never felt quite so young and utterly helpless in his life.

“…
Aye, preserve our young, Lord God, that they might have many tomorrows to live for You…”

As Thomas's quiet words finally penetrated the turmoil in Daniel's mind, he willed himself to listen, to focus his attention on the simple but fervent prayer being lifted up. Gradually, his pulse stuttered and slowed to a normal beat. Catching a deep, steadying breath, he now added his own silent assent as Thomas went on praying.

“Guard us all and see us safely through this night and the days to come, Lord. Protect Nora and young Tahg and the courageous Englishman who is risking himself to help us. Shelter Daniel John and all the rest of us as well in the shadow of Your love, and see us safely to Your appointed destination. And, as always, Lord God, I pray for the soul of my brother, Morgan, who has not yet recognized the fact of his love for You or the depth of his need for You, but who is, without even knowing it, a man much like Your chosen prophet, the sorrowful Jeremiah, whose great heart was broken by his own country…”