Song of the Silent Harp (28 page)

“Oh, there's no mistaking it,” O'Dwyer assured him. “There's a green silk hanging from the steerage deck, just as we were told! Aye, it is your ship, right enough. There will be no need to head for the mountain this night,” the man went on. “We can take your people directly to the pier.”

Disoriented by this unexpected turn of events, Morgan's mind groped to change directions. “Tonight? But will they let them board tonight, do you suppose?”

O'Dwyer's grin turned sly. “Sure, and we will convince them to do so.”

“Mind, we can't afford to take any more risks than are absolutely necessary,” Morgan cautioned. “Especially with an ailing boy on our hands. We dare not have him jostled about or lying in the cold.”

“The lass did say that most of the agent's thugs had started on for Ballina,” Quigley reminded him. “That should leave only the bailiff and Cotter himself. It's not likely the two of
them
would give us any grief.”

Morgan nodded vaguely. It was beginning to make sense. Indeed, it occurred to him that their chances were now better than they might have hoped, with Cotter's bodyguards and the constables out of the picture. Still, he could not feel altogether easy with their circumstances—not yet. It seemed too smooth, and it had been his experience that when things appeared too smooth, trouble was often lurking nearby.

“All right, then,” he said, still apprehensive as he scanned their thickly shadowed surroundings. “We will get them ready to go at once. You men will need to give us all the guard you can, in front and in the rear.” He paused, glancing at Daniel John, who stood listening to the exchange with a mixture of excitement and uneasiness in his eyes.

Returning his gaze to O'Dwyer and Quigley, Morgan continued. “We cannot be stopped,” he said quietly. “No matter what happens, we cannot be stopped. We
must
get them aboard that ship.”

“Morgan,
you
dare not be seen!” O'Dwyer exclaimed. “They'll have you on the gallows by dawn if you're caught! Let us take the ailing boy with us, and you go on to the mountain!”

Shaking his head emphatically, Morgan dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. “I will see them aboard that ship first.”

“But if you are spotted, man—”

Again he cut O'Dwyer's protest short. “I must go back inside. Stay here and keep watch while I tell the others.”

Beside him, Daniel John put a hand to his arm. “Morgan—”

Morgan looked at him, then shook his head. “We have said what is to be said, lad. Come with me now. Your mother will need your help.”

The boy studied him for another moment, then dropped his hand away.

Thomas was just coming out the door with another box as they approached. “This is the last of it, except—”

He stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes going from Morgan's face to Daniel John's.

“The ship is in,” Morgan said without preamble. “There is no longer a need to go to the mountain. We will ride directly to the harbor instead.”

His brother stared at him. A combination of surprise, regret, and long years of unspoken feelings hung between them.

“Put that in the cart, Thomas,” Morgan said quietly, gesturing to the box. “We are leaving at once.”

Still Thomas hesitated, his eyes going over Morgan's face. At last he gave a small nod and took off down the mud-slicked path, loping awkwardly toward the cart that held his meager belongings.

Morgan watched him for a moment, then turned to the boy. “Let us go and tell the others,” he said quietly. “The waiting is over.”

The waiting was over…and still he had not given Nora the letter, Michael's letter…

Now she would have no privacy for reading it—yet read it she must. As yet she did not know that on the other side of the ocean help was waiting.

Ah, well, there was no more opportunity to choose the proper moment. He would have to give her the letter before they left the cabin, let her read it wherever and whenever she could—after they boarded the ship, if need be. At least she would leave Ireland with the assurance that she would not be without security, without protection, once she reached the States.

Michael, Michael, she is coming. Be there for her. Be good to her, old friend…be everything to her that I could never be…

It was a rare night that George Cotter was still sober by eleven o'clock; tonight was such an occasion. So great was his anxiety that the two drinks he had downed earlier might just as well have been water. So when Harry Macken, the bailiff, appeared at his door in an obvious state of agitation, Cotter was alert enough to make sense of the man's ranting.

“There is a ship in the bay! I saw it myself!” Macken exclaimed, brushing past Cotter.

“What are you raving about?” Cotter snapped as he stepped aside to let him enter. Closing the door, he turned to face the excited bailiff. “And what are you doing
here?
I thought you were with Gleeson and Sharkey.”

Worrying his hat between both hands, the hatchet-faced Macken scowled. “I
did
go with them—at least, that is, until they left for Ballina. They felt I should stay behind in case Fitzgerald turns up back in the village.”

“Ballina?” Cotter's head began to throb. “What do you mean, they left for Ballina? Make sense, man! Are you saying they have not found the boy yet?”

Macken shook his head. “Your Mr. Whittaker seems to think that Fitzgerald and the Kavanagh boy are on their way to Ballina, that they won't be back until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Fitzgerald
and
the Kavanagh boy?” Deep inside Cotter's belly a fire flared to life, adding even more agony to the already hammering pain in his head. “Gone to Ballina?” he choked out.

“Aye, so the Englishman claims to have heard. Anyway, Gleeson and Sharkey took the others and started out. I was headed home and saw the ship making anchor. I thought it best to make you aware of it right away.”

“I know about a ship!” Cotter snapped, leaning toward the bailiff. “Gilpin himself paid for a number of passages, just to get the rabble off his land.” He stopped, rubbing the stubble on his chin with an unsteady hand. “What kind of ship does it look to be?”

Macken shrugged. “It flies the Stars and Stripes. It's not such a big vessel, though. Mid-sized, from what I could tell in the fog.”

“Stars and Stripes?” The tremor in Cotter's hand grew worse. “An American ship?”

Macken nodded. “Aye, it was that, I'm sure.”

Enraged, Cotter let out an oath. The passages Gilpin had paid for were booked on a British vessel!

Cotter's mind raced. Hatred boiled up inside of him, hatred for the outlaw Fitzgerald and for the sniveling young scoundrel who was obviously depending on the bandit for protection.

“You said the Englishman told you about Fitzgerald and the boy—” he burst out suddenly. “Where did you see him? Where was Whittaker?”

Macken lifted a quizzical brow. “Why, at the widow's cottage. He was waiting for Fitzgerald's brother.”

“Why there?”

As Macken explained. Cotter's fury rose. He stared at the bailiff for a moment. Abruptly, he turned, going to the closet under the stairway. “Wait—I'll need my coat.”

Macken stared at him. “Your
coat?
Where would you be going at this time of night?”

“To the harbor, that's where!” Cotter shot over his shoulder. “And you are going with me!”

They thought him a fool, that was clear enough. Fitzgerald, Whittaker, even the boy
—
they thought him too dull-witted to see past their traitorous scheming.

Well, they would find out their mistake soon enough. He would show them that George Cotter was not nearly the fool they liked to think.

Killala slept as the American packet drifted into the harbor. Here and there a dim flicker of candlelight could be seen behind a cabin window, but most of the village was shrouded in fog and darkness. Even the sluggish, tarnished waters of the bay were black now, except for the reflected wash of moonlight around the ship.

Nobody in the village would have suspected that escape lay just beyond the weathered, drab buildings near the bay. Nobody would have dreamed that deliverance waited at the end of the pier. It would have made little difference if they had, for the few remaining residents of the
village with health enough to travel would have had no money for passage to America.

The packet had already dropped anchor and now rocked gently in the waters, her silhouette forlorn in the fog-wrapped moonlight. Waiting in the deserted harbor, shifting silently in the dead of night, the lonely ship might have been one of the ghost vessels from the old tales repeated by the fireside in better days. Draped in mist and distorted by shadows, she was eerily quiet, except for an occasional creak or groan from the hull. Even the ocean beneath her seemed to whisper, as if reluctant to disturb whatever presence might wait above.

She was small but fully rigged, with three masts and a graceful, apple-cheeked bow. Sturdily constructed and buoyant in appearance, she was not a new vessel by any means. A seasoned cargo ship, she had originally been built to carry cotton and corn eastward, iron and machinery westward. These days she carried emigrants—mostly Irish—to North America.

She was the
Green Flag,
and only her crew knew that she was not all she might appear to be.

24

The last may he first! Shall our country's glory
Ever flash light on the path we have trod?
Who knows? Who knows? for our future story
Lies hid in the great sealed Book of God.

L
ADY
W
ILDE
(1824-1896)

L
eaving Thomas's home was almost as painful for Nora as leaving her
,
own. Spartan and plain as it was, the small cabin echoed with memories: the sound of Catherine's soft humming in the kitchen as they worked together, the children's laughter and the men arguing politics beside the fire, the long waiting throughout the night of wee Tom's birth…

God in heaven, how many goodbyes can a heart survive before it is broken beyond repair?

She sat on the edge of the bed beside Tahg, studying the dimly lit cabin as if to memorize it. They were ready to leave. The ship was in, most of their belongings loaded in the cart, the candles extinguished, all but one. Whittaker was holding the door to let the children file outside with some small bags and boxes. After a moment he followed them out, leaving Nora alone with Tahg and Morgan.

Still wrapped in his bedding like a babe, Tahg lay drifting in and out of his feverish dreams. Watching him, Nora stroked his arm beneath the rough wool blanket. His face was pinched and bloodless, white as a winding sheet
except for his spotted red cheeks. His eyes were closed, his long, dark lashes edging lids that looked swollen and bruised. One thin hand clutched the bedding, and she reached to enfold it gently with her own.

He had never been strong, her eldest son. Even as a little boy he had appeared frail and delicate, tiring easily for no apparent reason. Could he possibly survive this night…and the nights to come?

Oh, merciful Lord, help my son. Wrap love and strength around him like these blankets, and protect him from the dangers of this night. Protect us all from the dangers of this night…

“I will bring the boy and his mother,” she heard Morgan say to the burly man who had just stepped up to the door. “Keep a close eye on the children.”

The man nodded, leaving the door ajar as he left. “Nora?”

She looked up. Morgan had come to stand in front of her, a wool blanket tossed carelessly about his shoulders like a makeshift cloak. His face was lined with worry and fatigue, his eyes somber. He was holding something in his hand—an envelope.

“I should have given this to you before now,” he said, “and did intend to. But one thing or another kept happening. Now”—his voice faltered, and he glanced away for an instant before going on—“now there is no time left. You will have to read it after you're aboard.”

He seemed awkward, uncertain; a rare thing for Morgan. Nora's eyes went to the envelope in his hand.

“This is for you,” he said quietly, pressing the envelope into the palm of her hand and closing her fingers around it. “It's from Michael.”

Nora stared at him, then glanced down at the envelope in her hand. “Michael?” she repeated, frowning in confusion as she read her name on the front of the envelope.

He nodded. “Aye, our Michael. Michael Burke. I have written him much of the Hunger and the sad state of things across Ireland.”

“But why is he writing to
me?”
Nora gaped up at him. “And how…why did he send it to you?”

Raking a hand through his hair, Morgan looked everywhere in the cabin but at her. “I received a letter as well,” he said, turning away to stand at the window. “When I last wrote to Michael, I told him I hoped to convince you to make the voyage with Thomas and the children. He is simply offering to help you get settled, once you arrive. I
…
I imagine your letter is much the
same as mine.”

When he turned to face her, his expression had brightened, though it seemed to Nora that his tight smile was forced. “He has done well for himself, Michael has, being a policeman in New York City. He knows people—he'll be a great help to all of you.”

Nora stared blankly at the envelope. “He still remembers us?”

“Did you think he wouldn't?” Morgan interrupted, crossing the room. “Michael was a good friend, still is. But tuck the letter away for now, Nora. We dare not delay our leaving any longer. After you're safely aboard the ship, you can—”

“Morgan!”

The harsh cry came from the large, powerfully built Cassidy. He stood framed in the open doorway, his face taut and white. “Riders coming! From the east!”

Morgan seemed to freeze, but only for an instant. Uttering a choked groan, he spun around, swinging Nora into his arms. “Take the lad with you!” he shouted to Cassidy, jerking his head toward Tahg's motionless form on the bed.

The brawny Cassidy scooped Tahg into his arms, hastily pulling the bedding about the boy's face.

By the time they reached the road, the others were already mounted, waiting. As Morgan swung Nora onto his own stallion's back, she saw Daniel John with Whittaker, astride the small mare.

“Get those children out of the cart!” Morgan shouted to his men. “Ward—bring the little boy here! Daniel John—get off the mare! I want you on a horse to yourself, up here with me and your mother! One of the lasses can ride with Whittaker.
Hurry!”
He swiveled then to Cassidy, and together they anchored Tahg securely on the big man's albino mount.

A youthful-looking man with an eye patch ran up and plopped Little Tom into Nora's arms, immediately trotting off. Even as she attempted to soothe the whimpering child, Nora quaked with fear. As if sensing his rider's panic, the big stallion threatened to shy. Snorting, he lashed out with his forefeet, quieting at once at an angry command from Morgan, who was frantically tossing some of the heavier tools over the side of the cart as an anguished Thomas looked on in despair.

Nora realized she was still clutching the letter from Michael in her hand; with trembling fingers she now tucked it down inside the front of her dress. Waiting for Morgan to return, she sat shivering at the feel of restrained power in the enormous creature beneath her. So long of leg and broad in girth was the red stallion that she could almost imagine she sat upon one of the giant steeds of ancient legend.

When Morgan finally swung up into the saddle behind her, she choked out a deep sigh of relief. Again the horse snorted, tossing his mane, but Morgan quickly settled him with a sharp litany in the Irish, hauling on the reins to turn him around. “Ride hard and keep your heads,” he bit out, meeting the eyes of his men one by one for an instant. “We must not be stopped!”

He paused, turning his mount even more in order to appraise the caravan he would lead. “Ward,” he said, jerking his head toward the youth with the eye patch, “you and Quigley stay behind. Do what you can to delay them. Stop them altogether if you can! We need time!”

He yanked the horse around, and the stallion reared as if to expel some of his excess energy. Coming down, he pawed the ground, then tore off down the road in a fury.

The wind smacked at Nora's face, sucking the breath out of her. Terrified, she felt her heart slam hard against her chest and begin to race wildly, mimicking the frantic rhythm of the thundering hoofbeats beneath her. She caught Little Tom against her in a smothering embrace, praying for divine protection as they flew over the mud-slicked, deeply rutted road.

From behind, Morgan's big arms locked her in a vise. She could feel his labored breathing at the back of her head. Just the thought that Morgan was rattled was enough to parlay her own fear into panic, but she fought it down. She must not pass her terror on to the child in her arms.

It was a ride straight out of a ghastly dream, a nightmare flight of horror through the fog-fingered darkness. The treacherous highway seemed to leap up like a snake as they pounded over it, while on either side trees strained their naked, gnarled branches toward them. The fog thickened as they neared the bay, wrapping its dank, cloying tendrils around both horse and rider until they were all but lost from one another's sight.

As they rode, Nora's blood chilled with a sense of evil all about them. She imagined the arms of the rag-clad corpses along the road reaching out, groping upward in a macabre attempt to pluck them from their horses, forcing them to join the roadside legion of the dead. It seemed for all the world as if the very pit of hell had opened, spewing its horde of demons into the fog to run them down. She could almost smell the stench of sulphur at her back.

The night seemed filled with the sounds of their desperation. Lathered horses pounded and snorted, anxious men lashed them to an even greater frenzy. Amid the smothered sobs of the children, Nora was certain she heard Tahg moan from somewhere behind her.

Suddenly wee Tom made a sharp cry, and Nora realized she must have
clutched the boy too tightly in her terror. Quickly she dipped her head to murmur a comforting word in his ear, squeezing her eyes shut for an instant.

“There, ahead!”

At Morgan's cry, Nora's eyes snapped open. Directly ahead of them, at the far west end of the harbor, lay a three-masted ship bobbing gently in the bay waters. Draped in fog and silhouetted against the pale, moon-lit sky, the aging vessel looked like an eerie apparition.

A mixture of relief and alarm welled up in Nora at the sight of the ship. This was their goal, then, the end of the road. It might just as well have marked the end of her world. The very ground was being torn from under her feet. Any moment now she would be hurled into a vast unknown as dark and unfathomable as the great Atlantic itself.

Tears scalded her eyes as she glanced at Daniel John. His face set straight ahead, he leaned far forward on his brown-and-white horse, his eyes locked on the ship ahead.

“Morgan! They come!”

It was the youth with the eye patch, the one called Ward. He came roaring up through their ranks, his horse lathered and wild-eyed.
“Cotter's men!
They are coming through the village! Riding hard!”

As soon as they reached the pier, Morgan hurled himself down off the stallion, swinging Nora and Little Tom onto the ground.

Immediately he turned to yank Daniel John from the mare's back, giving him a firm shove toward Nora.

“Stay with your mother!” he ordered, meeting Ward as he dismounted.

The youth was clearly shaken. “They were too many!” he exclaimed, his face ashen. “They got past us! Quigley was shot—he is dead!” He stopped, wiped the back of his arm over his mouth, as he gasped for breath. “They are right behind us, Morgan! You must get away before you're taken!”

Except for Thomas and Johanna, who were still coming with the cart, the others had arrived and were dismounting. Now they gathered in close to listen.

Cassidy grabbed Morgan's arm. “Ward is right! For the love of heaven, man, get yourself out of here! We will see to your people!”

Morgan shook him off without a reply, then sent both him and Ward off to join the others.

For a moment, Nora could not think beyond the horror of the young Quigley lad, murdered on their behalf. Her gaze abruptly flew to Morgan, who had pulled his pistol free from his waistband and stood, waiting anxiously for
Thomas.

Only now did the full extent of his sacrifice for his family—for them all—strike her. It could just as easily be
Morgan
lying back there in the mud, his life forfeited for their sake.

Hiking Little Tom against her shoulder, she clutched at Morgan's arm with her free hand. “He is right, Morgan! You
must
come with us! It's the only way! Sure, and you will hang if you stay here!”

He looked down at her, briefly covering her hand with his, his eyes searching hers as if to read her heart. “Believe me,
ma girsha,
you will never know just how much I want to come with you.” He lifted his hand to her cheek.

They stood in silence for another moment.
Weariness. So much weariness filled those eyes that had once laughed and danced with the reflection of her love for him.