Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  He had a broken arm and a few cracked ribs to prove him right.

  The scene of domestic tranquility in the great room at Nelson Hall should have brought contentment to Morgan Fitzgerald. His wife, Finola, and his newly adopted daughter, Annie, sat sewing for the coming babe, while Sister Louisa hovered near, inspecting their progress with a watchful eye.

  No doubt he would have reveled in such a setting under different circumstances. But there seemed to be no serenity for his soul this night, no peace for his aching heart.

  It had been three days since Evan Whittaker’s letter had arrived with the dire tidings of Little Tom’s death. Even now, the waves of shock and grief roared through Morgan with such force he could scarcely bear the pain. He had read the letter over and over again, as if he’d somehow missed a part of the story, some saving grace hidden amid the lines which, when deciphered, would reveal that it was all a mistake.

  But it was no mistake. Little Tom was dead, and Morgan felt bruised and raw with the anguish of it. It almost seemed that each time he believed he had finally come to grips with the loss of his family—that he had at last been able to store the memories away where they would no longer wound him so—another tragedy would strike. Once again, the cumulative pain of the past would wash up, overwhelming him with regret and sorrow.

  His gaze returned to the scene across the room for another moment, lingering on Finola’s golden head and Annie’s dark one, bent low over their sewing. The quiet pleasure he usually found in moments like these now eluded him. Tonight he craved only solitude. He needed to be alone with his memories.

  With one last reluctant glance at Finola, he turned and wheeled himself out of the room.

  Tierney opened his eyes as keys jangled outside in the corridor. Heavy, shuffling footsteps signaled the approach of Boiler Bill.

  Tierney tensed, waiting. After a moment, the cell door opened, and the barrel-chested guard sent a new prisoner scrambling into the cell.

  The new arrival let go a stream of invective that sounded like a foreign tongue. With one heavy-booted foot, the guard kicked the prisoner in the back and sent him sprawling against the wall.

  “Got some company for you, Yankee-Boy!” the guard announced to Tierney. “You’ve had the royal suite to yourself long enough.”

  Tierney glared at him, pulling in a long breath. The pain in his ribs reminded him that he was in no shape for a pounding from Boiler Bill, so he remained silent.

  “The both of you should make a sterling pair,” sneered the guard. “A Gypsy horse thief and a Yankee dock rat.”

  Deliberately, Tierney studied the disgusting boil that bulged just below the guard’s left ear, then transferred his attention to what appeared to be a large gravy stain on the front of his shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the new prisoner slowly uncoil himself from the wall and stand, hands clenched, glaring at the slovenly guard.

  Tierney straightened a little to get a better look at his new cellmate. A Gypsy horse thief, the guard had called him. He looked the part, right enough.

  There had been some Gypsies in New York, mostly in and about Shantytown. In their strange-looking clothes and brightly painted wagons, they attracted attention and suspicious stares wherever they went.

  This one was young, probably not much older than Tierney himself, and looked to be about the same height. Long-legged and lean, he wore stovepipe trousers with several rows of stitching around the bottom, a bright yellow shirt, and a blue-and-white printed scarf knotted loosely about his throat. Dark brown boots, apparently of fine quality, showed beneath his trousers. A small gold earring glinted in one ear. His hair was the color of pitch, as was his roguish mustache. He was dark-skinned, though not as dark as most of the Shantytown Gypsies Tierney remembered.

  The door clanged shut, and Boiler Bill shuffled on down the corridor, taking the lamp with him. Only a faint trace of moonlight slipped in from the small barred window high on the outside wall.

  The two prisoners stood appraising each other in the shadows for a moment. The Gypsy was the first to break the silence. “Did that happen in here?” he asked, motioning to Tierney’s arm.

  Tierney nodded but offered no explanation.

  The Gypsy’s black eyes took on a knowing look. “One of the guards?”

  “No,” muttered Tierney. “Two of them.”

  The other winced as if he, too, had felt the pain. “How long have you been here?”

  Tierney’s arm inside the grimy bandages itched, and he tried to work it back and forth in the sling to gain relief. “Close on three weeks,” he said, making no attempt to mask his frustration. “It seems like three years.”

  The Gypsy nodded, studying him. “The guard called you ‘Yankee-Boy.’ You are not Irish, then?”

  “American. Irish American. My parents emigrated.”

  “You have come from America recently?”

  Tierney gave a bitter laugh. “So recently that I managed to get myself thrown into jail less than an hour after getting off the ship.” The disappointment of having his plans so rudely thwarted washed over him again, renewing the pain, reviving his anger.

  The other’s dark eyes glinted with interest. “I have never met an American.” He paused. “Have you come to visit family? I thought these days most ships sailed away from Ireland.”

  Tierney remained silent. He was in no mood to relate his life history. Certainly not to a Gypsy.

  “Forgive me. It is not my place to ask.” His new cellmate turned his eyes away, looking down at the floor. After another moment, he said quietly, “I am Jan Martova. And I am sorry for your pain.”

  Tierney looked up, surprised. He was caught off guard by his cellmate’s good manners. In New York, the Gypsies were viewed as little more than filthy, thieving savages. Ignorant beggars to be shunned.

  Still, he’d had no one to talk with for weeks now, except for the brutish guards—and they seldom made a sound beyond a grunt or an oath. Though he admitted it grudgingly, even to himself, he was lonely. Lonely and homesick—for his da, for his pals and his old neighborhood.

  “My name is Burke,” he finally offered. “Tierney Burke.” He paused, then asked, “So—why are you here? What did you do?”

  The Gypsy sighed and shrugged. “I am accused of stealing a horse.” He looked at Tierney with a faint smile. “All Gypsies are horse thieves, no?”

  As a matter of fact, that was pretty much what Tierney had always heard. Even Da, a man not given to bigotry, had had little use for the Gypsies and what he called their “thieving ways.”

  Still smiling, Jan Martova crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened was that I came upon a British soldier caning his horse. A fine animal—the horse, that is—but far too spirited for the soldier’s liking. And smarter, too, no doubt.”

  Abruptly, his expression sobered. “I undertook to relieve the soldier of his cane and free the horse. As it happened, there were other soldiers on the street at the time.” Again he shrugged. “And so now I am in jail, for horse stealing.” He met Tierney’s gaze straight on. “Not such an uncommon circumstance for a Rom.”

  “Rom?”

  “Romany. My people are Romany Gypsies.”

  They fell silent for another moment. Tierney was intrigued by his cellmate, somewhat taken aback by his almost refined speech and courteous demeanor.

  “I hope your offense is not grave,” the Gypsy finally said.

  Tierney uttered a grunt of scorn. “My offense,” he bit out, “was to try and set two drunken sailors off a wee, scrawny lad before they killed him! They claimed he picked their pockets.” Twisting his mouth into a semblance of a smile, he added, “And he probably did. But I could see he was half-starved. I wasn’t about to let them murder him for being hungry! Unfortunately, one of their pals called the police on me. They socked me in jail and took the boy off somewhere else.”

  The Gypsy nodded, as if Tierney’s tale were a familiar one. “Not exactly the best of welcomes. Do you have anyone in th
e city who will be anxious for you? Anyone who could help?”

  “I was on my way to find my father’s old friend. I’m supposed to be staying with him, at his estate just outside Dublin.”

  He twisted sideways, and a sharp, searing pain shot along his tender ribs, making him catch his breath. At the same time, a different kind of pain gripped him, a pain made of resentment and frustration at the mess he’d gotten himself into. After all these years, he had finally achieved his dream of seeing Ireland, only to have it ripped away before he was scarcely off the docks!

  “Your father’s friend has an estate? He must be a wealthy man.”

  Immediately Tierney’s guard went up. The Gypsies were notorious for swindling and robbing the rich. “It might not be an estate exactly,” he hedged. “I think the place belonged to his grandfather.”

  Jan Martova regarded Tierney with a studying look. “And does your father’s friend know what has happened to you? That you are here?”

  Tierney shook his head, still smarting from the reminder of his foiled plans. “I’ve had no way to get word to him.”

  The Gypsy nodded, saying nothing. Turning, he crossed the cell, the heels of his boots clicking loudly on the stone floor. For a moment he stood staring at the mean excuse for a bed. With a look of distaste, he remained standing.

  Scraping at the floor with the toe of his boot, he seemed to consider his words carefully. “I might be able to help you,” he said. “Perhaps we could arrange for you to get a message to your father’s friend. If he’s wealthy, he must have influence. Perhaps enough influence to get you out of here.”

  Tierney heard the undertone of a bargain in the making, but he was unable to bank the fires of interest that rose at the Gypsy’s suggestion. “And just how could you manage that?” he asked warily. “It seems to me that you’re locked up as tight as I am.”

  The Gypsy’s answering smile was cryptic. “But my people are not. One of my cousins is out there somewhere, right now, keeping watch,” he said, gesturing toward the high, narrow window. “He will be acting as lookout for my older brother, in order that no undue harm might come to me. It would be a small matter to pass a message outside and have it delivered.”

  He stopped, rubbing his fingertips along his chin. “But it would have to be a written message. Your wealthy benefactor is not likely to believe the word of a Gypsy.”

  Tierney didn’t miss the barbed edge in the other’s tone. Nor did he give any further thought about bringing trouble on Morgan Fitzgerald. If there were any chance, even the slightest, of getting out of this hellhole, he’d be a fool not to take it!

  “What is his name, your father’s friend?” asked the Gypsy.

  Tierney hesitated only an instant. “Fitzgerald. Morgan Fitzgerald.”

  Jan Martova looked at him. “The one they call the Seanchai? The great poet in the wheelchair?”

  “You know him?”

  The Gypsy shook his head. “Only the stories I have heard. Morgan Fitzgerald is a man of much controversy—and great respect.”

  Tierney would not be distracted from his purpose. “What would you expect,” he asked bluntly, “in return for helping me?”

  Jan Martova gave a small gesture with one hand, then smiled. “Perhaps I might hope the great Seanchai would help me as well. I’ve been here before, you see, and I don’t like the place any better than you do.”

  Tierney would have promised him Ireland itself if it meant a way out of this foul-smelling hole! “You said a written message. Where am I to find pen and paper in here?”

  Still stroking his chin, the Gypsy said nothing. Suddenly, he caught the sleeve of his shirt at the elbow and began tugging at it until a piece of the material ripped free. Dangling it from his fingers, he motioned toward Tierney’s broken arm and said, “This will serve as your paper. But I hope that is not your writing hand.”

  Tierney glanced over the makeshift splint. “It is,” he muttered. “You’ll have to do the writing.”

  Jan Martova gave him a long, steady look. “I’m afraid I cannot. You must manage with your other hand.”

  It took Tierney a minute, but he finally realized his mistake. He remembered his father telling him that most Gypsies could neither read nor write, that they refused to send their children to school, and so each generation continued to grow up illiterate.

  Embarrassed, Tierney nodded curtly. “I’ll manage.” Pushing himself up from the bed, he stood watching in bewilderment as the Gypsy went to the cot on the other side of the cell and, dropping down on his knees, began to search underneath and at the sides. At last he stopped, his face breaking into a wide smile. He got to his feet, holding up a nail for Tierney’s inspection. “And this,” he said, still smiling, “will be your pen.”

  Tierney stared at him.

  “We will need ink, of course,” said Jan Martova, clearly undaunted.

  It struck Tierney that, not only had he gotten himself mixed up with a Gypsy, but a daft Gypsy at that. “And where,” he asked impatiently, “do you propose to find ink?”

  The dark eyes took on a glint. “Blood,” replied the Gypsy, withdrawing a small knife from inside the heel of his boot. “Blood will do the job very nicely, I think.”

  “Blood?” Tierney echoed incredulously, braced to defend himself in case this crazy Gypsy made a move toward him.

  Jan Martova grinned. “Blood,” he said again. “Don’t worry, Yankee-Boy,” he added. “We will use Gypsy blood. I have plenty.”

  5

  You Will Always Have Your Memories

  Those we love truly never die.…

  The blessed sweetness of a loving breath

  Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years.

  JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY (1844-1890)

  In the library, Morgan poked the logs in the great stone fireplace back to life, scowling at the unseasonable cold that seemed to permeate the house.

  Wheeling himself back to his desk, he idly shuffled through some papers for a moment, then slumped back in the wheelchair.

  He was heartsore and bone-weary, but it was not late enough to retire. He had enough trouble sleeping as it was, spending most of the early nighttime hours with his nose in a book, until his eyes and his mind grew numb with fatigue. Since the news about Little Tom had come, even those precious few hours when he normally slept were often interrupted with painful memories and unsettling dreams.

  He was greatly concerned for his niece, Johanna—the last remaining member of his brother’s family. Poor lass, she had more than her share of misfortune as it was, what with not being able to hear or speak. Her baby brother had been like a gift from heaven to her. From the beginning, she had doted on him like a little mother, caring for him, playing with him, hovering over him. What might the loss of wee Tom do to her?

  He sighed, wiping the dampness in his eyes with his sleeve as he sank even farther back in the wheelchair.

  To take his mind off Little Tom, Morgan deliberately turned his thoughts toward Tierney Burke. The lad should have showed up long before now.

  Michael’s letter about his son’s troubles and his passage to Ireland had come more than a week past. Ever since, Sandemon had been going to the docks daily in anticipation of the boy’s arrival. Then, just this past Friday he had learned that the ship had actually put in more than two weeks ago. Yet Tierney Burke was nowhere to be found.

  Upon receiving Michael’s letter with the news that his son would be coming to Ireland, Morgan had felt a mixture of eagerness and uncertainty. While he looked forward to meeting the son of his oldest friend, he could not help but wonder what sort of problems Tierney Burke might bring to Nelson Hall.

  Michael had been characteristically candid in his letters about the conflict between him and his son, occasioned—at least according to Michael—by the boy’s rebellious, hotheaded temperament. Throughout the years of their correspondence, Morgan had been unable to ignore the apparent similarities between Tierney Burke and himself. As a youth, he, too, had
been frowned upon as being factious and rebellious. When they were boys back in Killala, Michael had often—and only partly in jest—accused him of chasing trouble as a hound did a hare.

  Morgan smiled faintly at the thought. What a bitter irony for the practical, sensible, reliable Michael to have a son who was apparently a mix of quicksilver and fire—much like the friend he had always found so exasperating.

  Imagining Michael’s frustration and pain, Morgan realized that there lay the difference between him and young Tierney Burke. His own father had been little troubled by Morgan’s rebellious ways. Aidan Fitzgerald’s fatherhood had been almost entirely characterized, if not by actual indifference, at the least by a kind of lethargy—even when sober, which was not often the case. Except in the area of education, Morgan and his older brother, Thomas, had virtually reared themselves. Their father’s lack of interest had allowed them an excessive amount of freedom while growing up, a freedom keenly envied by other youths in the village.

  Perhaps it was his own careless upbringing—as well as Michael’s faithfulness as a friend—that now made Morgan so determined to do his best by Tierney Burke, to provide the boy a home and whatever guidance he might allow. In time, he hoped they might even become friends.

  Unhappily, he seemed to have failed in his good intentions before ever laying eyes on the lad!

  He dragged his hands down both sides of his beard, closing his eyes for a moment against the dull ache that had set in along his temples.

  “Morgan?”

  He looked up to see Finola standing just inside the doorway. As always, his heart warmed at the sight of her. Straightening in the chair, he motioned for her to enter. “Did you grow tired of the sewing?”

  She shook her head, giving a shy smile as she came the rest of the way into the room. “Actually, I came…to see about you,” she answered, her voice soft. “Are you thinking of your nephew tonight, Morgan?”