Song of the Silent Harp (32 page)

Evan was doing his best to reassure the worried boy, but obviously his efforts were having little effect. Still, he persisted. “I'm sure she'll b-be all right, son. You must give her time, however. She's had a t-terrible loss, she's utterly exhausted and still st-stunned from it all. It may take some time before she's herself again, so you must be patient with her.”

Sitting on his side of the berth, young Daniel gave him a morose look. “You do think she's all right, then? Physically, I mean? You don't think she's ill?”

“Ill?” Evan tried to consider his reply with care, but his shoulder was burning with such a vengeance he found it almost impossible to concentrate on anything but his pain. He was beginning to question what, exactly, that bleary-eyed surgeon had done to him.

Shifting from his back to his right side, he grimaced with the effort. “No, of course not, though she will undoubtedly require your close attention. Your m-mother seemed somewhat…frail to me, lad, even before tonight's tragedy. The combination of grief and fatigue, added to her already weakened physical condition—well, it was simply t-too much.”

Pushing himself up onto one elbow, Evan watched the boy. “To be p-
perfectly frank, Daniel, I believe your mother has endured enough to devastate even a p-person in splendid health. She was weak to begin with, and so it's only natural that she would be…d-dis-traught…perhaps somewhat disoriented for a time.”

His head bowed, the boy nodded miserably. “I wish I knew what to do for her.” He looked up, and Evan winced at the frustration and pain in those magnificent eyes. “She—she doesn't seem to want me near her, you see.”

Evan stared at him with dismay. “Oh, n-no, son, you mustn't think that! Why, your mother is utterly
devoted
to you—that's as evident as can be. No, I think she has simply…withdrawn. Just for now. She's had more than enough to crush her spirit: losing her home, your brother, seeing Thomas Fitzgerald slain so brutally…” Evan shook his head, his words dying away.

“And Morgan,” the boy choked out. “The way they took him off—it grieved her something fierce, did you see?”

Evan felt a lump swell in his own throat at the thought of his last sight of Morgan Fitzgerald, clamped in irons like a common felon, his back bent in defeat. “Yes, yes, I saw,” he said. With a deep sigh, he rolled over onto his back, keeping his face turned toward the boy.

“I never knew…before last night,” Daniel murmured, staring down at the floor, “that Mother cared so about Morgan. More often she acted as if he were naught but a nuisance when he came round. They always seemed to argue, they did.” He paused, and Evan sensed his confusion. “But she must have counted him as a real friend, after all. I thought—I thought she would fly apart when they took him away, she was that shattered. She did care, much more than I knew.”

Evan looked away. “Yes, yes, I'm sure you're right,” he said softly. “And Fitzgerald cared greatly for your mother and you, as well.”

He had cared enough to risk his life, indeed to give up the freedom he prized, even
more
than life.

Dear Lord, have mercy on that valiant man…he may have done some wrong things, Lord, but his heart struggles to do right, it truly does…have mercy on him, Lord…have mercy on his tortured soul…

Seemingly lost in his own thoughts, Daniel lay down. Soon his eyes closed, and his breathing grew deep and rhythmic with sleep. Evan, however, remained wide awake. The muddled Dr. Leary had indicated he might be “somewhat uncomfortable” for a day or so; obviously, the man had been right.

He did hope the rheumy-eyed surgeon wasn't representative of the rest of the ship's crew or its facilities. Fortunately, the captain seemed efficient
enough, if uncompromisingly cold. Evan wondered about the stiff-spined Captain Schell. He was a disturbing sort of man, defying every preconceived notion Evan had ever held about brawny, adventuresome sea captains. The novels he read most often portrayed ship commanders as large and loud—brash, beefy characters who barked out their orders in a decided brogue and were rarely if ever clean-shaven.

The enigmatic Captain Schell, however, was neither brawny nor brash, and his beardless face appeared to have been waxed, so smooth and tight was the skin. There
was
just the slightest hint of an accent in the man's precise speech—Germanic, Evan thought—but it only served to strengthen the overall impression of quality education and unquestionable authority. The only flaw in Schell's otherwise marble-smooth skin was an ugly red slash of a scar carved almost the entire length of the left side of his face, from temple to jawbone.

The scar drew immediate attention, but not so much as the strange pale blue eyes that bored through round-rimmed spectacles. Those eyes seemed to mock the object of their attention one moment, only to freeze into a glacial stare the next.

Still, the man had surprised him twice before they ever set sail—first by remaining adamant in his refusal to delay weighing anchor when the authorities would have detained the ship, and again in his ready willingness to provide a burial at sea for the Kavanagh lad and Thomas Fitzgerald.

Neatly uniformed and precise in behavior, the captain seemed a stark contrast to the ship he commanded. Evan had read about the superiority of American vessels over British ships. That information, plus the knowledge that Fitzgerald himself had arranged for these passages, had led him to believe that conditions would be, if not luxurious, at least clean and comfortable.

Accommodations on the
Green Flag
were neither. Had Fitzgerald observed firsthand the immature crew—most appeared to be mere youngsters, a fact that Evan found unnerving—and the crowded, squalid conditions in steerage, he would undoubtedly have removed his family from the ship with all haste.

He supposed he might be judging the ship too quickly. He really hadn't seen much of it, after all, having spent the last twenty-four hours in this abominable, rancid bunk. And things always looked bleak when lying flat on one's back. At any rate, he couldn't afford to allow conditions around him to affect him too greatly. He sighed. With this miserable gunshot wound in his arm, it was going to be difficult enough to keep his word to Fitzgerald about looking after his loved ones; fretting over the ship's accommodations would
only make things more difficult.

Besides, no matter how unappealing their circumstances aboard the
Green Flag,
they could not help but be vastly superior to what Fitzgerald must be facing just now.

The unsettling image of the great Gael caged in a remote Mayo prison cell was enough to drive Evan off his bunk. Staggering from the hot pain in his shoulder, he sank to unsteady knees and began to pray.

For the first time in his life, Morgan was confined to a place where he could not see the sky, could not open the door and walk out a free man. God knew he had earned himself a cell—more than once, if truth be told. The real wonder was that his lawless and careless ways had only now caught up to him.

The gaol in Castlebar was a miserable hole, a dark, dank room reeking of vermin and unwashed bodies and years of mold. A filthy blanket tossed over a lumpy mattress of straw served as a bed, a bucket as a privy. There was no window, no chair, no water pitcher. The only sound was an occasional scurrying of a rat making its way from one corner to the other.

Morgan could not stand upright, nor could he take more than four broad steps from wall to wall. Had there been any furnishings he would have tripped over them, for the darkness was almost totally unrelieved, save for the palest wash of light from a candle outside in the corridor.

At the moment he sat on the edge of the mattress, his elbows propped on his knees, his head supported by his hands. He was neither fully awake nor quite asleep; his bad tooth throbbed just enough to keep him from getting any rest. It occurred to him for an instant that there was a dubious irony in a man plagued by a toothache when about to be hanged, and he smiled grimly to himself in the darkness.

He heard the jingle of keys and looked up with no real interest as the gaoler opened the door to allow Joseph Mahon entrance.

“I'll be just outside, Father,” said Cummins, the gaoler, waiting for the priest to enter the cell. “You've only to call if you need me. Have a care with that one—he's big and mean clear through.”

Mahon came the rest of the way in, his arms filled with some packages and Morgan's harp.

“Morgan,” he said with a nod, coming to stand near the bed. “How are you, lad? Here, I've brought you clean clothes. And some of your things from your saddlebags. They said you could have them.”

In the shadows, Morgan noted that the priest was as lean as sorrow, his long,
narrow face drawn and hollowed out, his silver hair thinned to a web across his skull. The Hunger exempted no man, not even a man of God.

Morgan thanked him for his things, laying them at the head of the bed.

“So, Morgan, what is this they are saying you have done? 'Tis a real fix you've gotten yourself into this time.”

Morgan patted the mattress beside him, and the other man sat down. “Aye, I'm in trouble for sure, if they've sent the priest,” he said. “With things that bad, it's not likely I'll have time enough for the books, Joseph.”

“You needn't play the
googeen
with me, Morgan,” the priest said quietly. “We have known each other too long for that.”

Morgan turned his gaze to the floor, disconcerted by the man's undisguised sympathy.

“I came to see if there is anything you need,” said Mahon. “And to tell you how sorry I am about Thomas. Your brother was a good man, a truly good man.”

“What have they done with him, do you know?” Morgan asked, cracking the knuckles of both hands.

“They allowed me to go aboard and administer the last rites. He was then to be buried at sea.” Mahon paused. “Along with the Kavanagh lad—young Tahg.”

Morgan lifted his head to face the priest. “Tahg?”

Mahon nodded. “He died before they sailed.”

Morgan stared at him for a moment, then again cupped his head between his hands, digging at his beard with his fingers. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God, how much more?”

“You at least have the peace of knowing Thomas died in a state of grace,” said the priest.

“Thomas
lived
in a state of grace,” Morgan bit out.

“Aye, more than most,” agreed Mahon.

“And just see his profit from it.”

“We do not live a godly life for profit, lad, but to the glory of our Lord. Your brother would have been one of the first to testify to that.”

Morgan said nothing, involuntarily drawing away when the priest reached to touch his arm.

“Morgan, you are a tormented man. Let me help you.”

“Help me?”
Morgan jerked to his feet. “What, then? Shall I confess to you? Is that what you'd have me do?”

“Ach, if only you would.”

“You know I have never believed in that way.”

“Then confess to your
Savior,
Morgan. Sure, and you still believe in Him, I would hope.”

“Are you saying I don't have to go through
you,
then, Joseph? Strange words for a priest.”

“Do not mock me, Morgan. I only came to help, and to tell you of your brother.”

Morgan unclenched his hands, splayed them on his knees. “Aye, I do know that,” he said with a sigh. “And it was kindness itself for you to come, Joseph. You are a good man. You have done much for my family and for the village.”

“Morgan, 'tis no secret to you and to my people that I myself have questioned certain tenets of the church from time to time. I've never been the one to say that every word handed down from Rome is divinely given.”

“That's so. I think you must be as much a renegade of the cloth as I am of the law, Joseph,” Morgan said, managing a thin smile.

In truth, he greatly admired the slight, aging priest. The man had poured himself out for the villagers year after year, spent himself completely, never complaining, with not a thing to show for it other than the stoop of age and an occasional kiss on the hand.

“Well, then, reject the Church if you must, but for the sake of your soul, lad, do not reject our Lord. He does know what He is about, even if we cannot see it.”

Unwilling to subject himself to a theological discussion, Morgan ignored the priest's caution. “Did you see the others when you went aboard, Joseph? Thomas's children…Nora?”

Mahon shook his head. “They wouldn't let me below decks. I was allowed only a moment with Thomas, they were that eager to set sail.” He stopped and clasped his hands together in his lap. “Morgan—for what it may be worth, I understand what you did last night. Cotter would have killed you if you had not got to him first. You and perhaps several others as well.”

Morgan shook his head. “Have no illusions about what I did, Joseph. I went mad, and that's the truth. I would have murdered George Cotter even if he hadn't shot my brother; more than likely I would have killed him even if he had no gun. And no doubt I would have finished off poor old Macken as well, had they not pulled me off him when they did.” Rubbing his jaw against the pain of the aching tooth, he went on. “No, the truth is that something inside me tore loose, changed me into more beast than man. But don't ask me to repent of killing the agent. God Himself could not convince me that George Cotter deserved to live.”