Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  He nodded. It was almost unnerving, the way she always seemed so in tune with his thoughts. “Aye, I am. I cannot seem to think of much else. Except for the whereabouts of Michael’s son, that is. I’m growing more than a little concerned for the boy.”

  He wheeled himself out from behind the desk, stopping to draw the heavy, rose-colored drapes against the darkness. “Come, sit with me,” he said, gesturing toward the fireplace, “although I know I’m poor company.”

  He watched her settle herself carefully into the large fireside chair. He loved the way Finola moved. In spite of the fact that she was growing heavy with child, her every movement, every gesture, was as graceful as a waterfall.

  Her flaxen hair fell in a heavy braid over her shoulder. In her honey-colored gown, her fair skin glowing in the firelight, she appeared golden and fragile and exquisitely lovely.

  “There has been no word, then, about Tierney Burke?”

  “None,” Morgan said, dragging his eyes away from her and looking into the fire. “Perhaps I should have expected the ship sooner. One of the importer’s clerks told Sandemon it was a new vessel, one of the Farmington packets—and a great deal faster than most of its predecessors.”

  “Sure, nothing would have happened to the boy? You did say he was close on seventeen.”

  Morgan lifted his hands in a gesture of puzzlement. “How can we know? And there’s the rub. Where do we even begin to look? The lad could be anywhere by now!” He stopped, giving a heavy sigh. “I do not seem to be having much success as a guardian.”

  “Whatever do you mean? Why, you’re wonderful with Annie!”

  He looked at her, then turned back to the fire. “I cannot seem to stop thinking of the last time I saw Little Tom and the rest of my family…the night I set them aboard the ship for America.”

  Squeezing his eyes shut against the wrenching image, he said nothing for a moment. These past few days had brought back so many painful memories he had tried to put safely away: seeing Thomas, his brother, shot down before his eyes, slain in his attempt to save Morgan’s life…the terrified eyes of the children as they were hurried, half-carried aboard ship…Nora’s anguish…the loss of her eldest son before the ship ever left the harbor.…

  “I can still remember the boy’s arms about my neck when he said goodbye… so thin, those little arms…he didn’t want to let go.…”

  When he realized he had spoken aloud, he started, glancing quickly at Finola, who was studying him with undisguised sympathy.

  “Your little nephew?” she asked softly.

  Morgan nodded, hugging his arms to his chest. “He was scarcely more than a babe then…not even three years yet. He and the little girls were so frightened, with all the uproar on the docks—I’ve told you most of it.…”

  She leaned forward, touching his hand but saying nothing.

  “I thought—I was convinced—that I was sending them off to a better life, a land of hope.…”

  He shook his head, tormented by the still-vivid memory of wee Tom’s enormous green eyes—the “Fitzgerald eyes,” Thomas had always called them. He remembered the fear and bewilderment in that startled gaze when the tyke had first understood that his daddy was dead and would not be going with them to America.

  First Katie, now Little Tom, God have mercy on them. Even in America, they had found no hope.…

  Finola’s soft voice broke into his troubled thoughts. “You did what you thought best, all you could do. You gave them all you could give, Morgan. You must cling to the assurance that, at least for a time, they were surely happier than they would have been if they had stayed in Ireland.” She paused, still touching his hand. “And your memories, Morgan…you will always have your memories. How you must cherish them now—”

  At the sound of much throat-clearing outside in the hall, she broke off, and they both turned toward the door.

  Artegal appeared in the doorway. The pallid, cadaverous footman stood unmoving, his usual disapproving expression fixed firmly in place.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but there is—” He swallowed with obvious effort, as if a wad of grapeshot had lodged in his throat. “There is a Gypsy boy at the back door. He insists on seeing you.”

  Morgan stared at him. “A Gypsy boy? Here?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. Shall I send him on his way?”

  “What reason does he give for wanting to see me?”

  The footman rolled his pale eyes in contempt. “He says he has a message for you.”

  Morgan considered this announcement for another moment. “Very well. Bring him in. And send Sandemon to me, please.”

  Artegal’s eyes widened. He made no reply, nor did he make any attempt whatsoever to mask his disapproval. “Very good, sir.”

  As soon as the footman was out the door, Morgan turned to Finola. Unbidden, every old tale he’d ever heard about the Gypsies’ penchant for stealing children and settling curses on the unborn came flooding upon him. Impatience with himself for entertaining such nonsense battled with a fierce sense of protectiveness for his young wife.

  “Perhaps…it might be best if you go back to Annie and Sister Louisa.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  He expelled a deep breath, still irked with himself. “One never knows what to expect from the Gypsies, you see. They are a very…peculiar sort of people.”

  Her expression was still puzzled as she got up, smoothed her skirts, and left the room.

  As it turned out, it was Sandemon, not Artegal, who ushered in the mysterious messenger. The black man towered over a small boy, somewhat ragged and none too clean.

  Upon entering, Sandemon’s dark eyes glinted with an uncharacteristic guardedness. His usually serene features were drawn taut.

  Studying the boy, Morgan would have reckoned him to be no more than ten, perhaps younger. His black eyes were hooded, his narrow face smudged, and about his neck he wore a faded print kerchief. That he was Gypsy was evident. No doubt he came from one of the Romany tribes that often camped in vacant lots about the slum districts, such as the Liberties.

  Morgan wheeled himself back behind his desk. “What’s this about?” he asked, glancing at Sandemon.

  The West Indies black man raised one dark, dubious eyebrow. “This boy claims to have an urgent message for you, Seanchai. I asked for proof, but he refuses to show it to me.”

  Morgan frowned, turning his gaze on the Gypsy boy. “So, then—what is this urgent message?”

  The shaggy-haired youth thrust his chin up in a defiant air. His black eyes snapped with what looked, incredibly, like indignation.

  “The message is here,” he said, tapping the front of a very dirty white shirt. With an arrogance Morgan found slightly amusing, the Gypsy boy continued to study Morgan and the wheelchair. “I am to give it to nobody else but the Gorgio called Morgan Fitzgerald,” he finally said.

  “‘Gorgio’?” questioned Sandemon.

  “That’s what the Romany call anyone who’s not a Gypsy,” Morgan answered, not taking his eyes off the boy. He had known a few Gypsies over the years, none well. He doubted that any Gorgio ever knew a Gypsy well. They were a secretive, primitive, insulated people, the Romany—a race of strangers who lived behind a seemingly impenetrable fort of their own exclusiveness. It was a rare outsider indeed who ever managed to breach the wall.

  “I am Morgan Fitzgerald,” he said to the boy. “And, now, if you please, I will have this message you claim to bear.”

  The black eyes raked over him. Morgan thought this was likely the first time he had ever known the contempt of a green gorsoon—and a Gypsy at that. Had the lad not been so young, he might have been annoyed. “The message?” he prompted firmly.

  He watched as the Gypsy boy dug inside his shirt and withdrew what appeared to be a piece of material. Without a word, the youth closed the distance between Morgan and himself and handed over the swatch of cloth.

  “What—” Morgan unfolded the material, stretching it taut between both hands. Hi
s gaze went from the boy to the cloth. For a moment he stared at it blankly, not comprehending.

  “Seanchai?”

  The worried tone in Sandemon’s voice roused him. Finally, he took in the words crudely scrawled across the material.

  His throat tightened, and his heart began to drum heavily in his chest. “Where did you get this?” he snapped, looking up at the Gypsy boy.

  The boy studied him for a moment, then said curtly, “From my cousin. In the prison. He passed it out through the window of his cell.”

  “The prison?” Morgan stared at him, dumbfounded.

  The Gypsy youth bristled. “My cousin Jan Martova is in gaol—falsely accused!” Drawing himself up to his full height, he added, “He entrusted me with this message for his Gorgio cellmate.”

  Cellmate…

  Morgan groped for understanding. Then, his eyes still on the Gypsy boy, he handed the torn piece of material to Sandemon. “The message,” he said, his voice low, “is from Tierney Burke.” Pausing, he swallowed against the dryness of his mouth. “Apparently, he is in gaol, here in Dublin.”

  Sandemon scanned the words on the material. When he looked up, his expression was startled. “This looks as if—”

  Morgan nodded, feeling somewhat ill. “As if it were written in blood.”

  6

  Meeting in a Dublin Gaol

  We fell by each other—though it was senseless,

  It was the encounter of two heroes.

  NINTH CENTURY IRISH

  The cell door flew open. Metal clanged against stone, jarring Tierney out of his sleep.

  There was no time for his head to clear or his eyes to focus before Boiler Bill and Rankin, one of the other guards, came charging into the cell, curses flying. Red-faced, Rankin went after Jan Martova with his fists doubled. At the same time, Boiler Bill hurled himself toward Tierney.

  “What—” Scrambling to his feet, Tierney ducked the guard’s intended blow. Boiler Bill pivoted, coming at him again. Tierney saw the heavy chain wrapped around his knuckles and averted his head just in time to avoid a savage blow. Thrown off-balance, Boiler Bill stumbled against the wall with an explosive oath.

  Tierney saw that Jan Martova was taking a pounding from Rankin, a hulking dimwit twice the size of the Gypsy, and poison-mean. But he knew he had no hope of helping his cellmate. He had all he could do to ward off his own raging assailant.

  “You conniving Yankee scum!” The guard was on him again, his beefy hands circling Tierney’s throat. Panicky, Tierney felt his breath crush out of him, his windpipe about to collapse. His head reeled. Flecks of light danced in front of him, and he flailed his free arm, lashing out at the guard in blind desperation.

  Teeth bared, the guard roared and flung Tierney against the stone wall of the cell. “Sneak your messages out with the dirty Gypsies, will you? You made a bad mistake, you American dog!” He spat in Tierney’s face, then drove a fist into his stomach.

  Tierney gagged on the pain that slammed through him. Feeling his knees buckle, he fought to retain consciousness. Boiler Bill grinned, spewing his rancid breath into Tierney’s face, clearly enjoying the sight of his pain.

  Rage gave Tierney one last surge of strength. Bringing a leg up, he plowed his knee into the guard’s groin. Boiler Bill’s eyes bugged as he staggered backward, screaming in pain.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tierney saw the Gypsy slip under one of Rankin’s punches. Stooping, he withdrew from his boot the same knife that earlier he’d used to draw his own blood. He came up with a flash of steel and a look of hatred. But before he could move, Rankin fell on him, his heavy body throwing the other off-balance. The guard swung a killing blow to the Gypsy’s head, and Jan Martova went down with a thud.

  As he fell, the knife flew out of his hand, clattering across the floor. Springing forward, Tierney went for the knife. But just then, Boiler Bill rallied enough to lunge clumsily for Tierney, grabbing him in the midsection and holding him fast.

  Gasping for breath, Tierney twisted and struggled to throw the guard off, but with his arm splinted in the sling, he was virtually helpless in the giant’s clutches. He saw Rankin retrieve the knife, then turn on Jan Martova, who was still sprawled, seemingly unconscious, on the floor.

  Tierney cried out a warning, but the Gypsy didn’t move.

  At his back, Boiler Bill growled. “So the Gypsies sneaked a message to the gentry on the hill for you, did they?” His fetid breath washed over the side of Tierney’s face. “Well, precious little good it will do you!”

  His beefy arms tightened around Tierney’s abdomen, squeezing the breath out of him, making him feel sick and lightheaded.

  Somehow, he managed to find the strength to kick back, gouging the guard in the knees with his heels. At the same time he twisted, finally wrenching himself free.

  Lurching forward, he whipped around and saw Boiler Bill coming at him. The big guard’s hands were clenched above his head, ready to launch a murderous blow.

  Tierney stiffened, then deliberately lifted his splinted arm, gasping at the pain the movement caused him. He aimed the crude, sharp edge of the makeshift splint at the guard’s neck—and shoved it directly into the center of the angry red boil. The guard screamed out in agony, clutching his neck as he fell to the floor.

  In spite of the hatred and anger pulsing through him, Tierney winced at the man’s agony. Turning back to Rankin and Jan Martova, he saw that the other guard had been temporarily stopped by Boiler Bill’s scream of pain. Knife in hand, Rankin stood gaping at his cohort, now a whimpering heap on the floor of the cell.

  Tierney hurled himself at him with a roar, his good hand outstretched to seize the knife from the guard’s hand.

  Raising the knife as if to throw it, Rankin exploded in a savage roar.

  “Stop!”

  At the rumbling shout behind him, Tierney whirled around, Rankin momentarily forgotten.

  “Drop the knife! Now!”

  Just inside the open doorway of the cell sat a fiery-eyed, copper-haired giant in a wheelchair, holding a pistol on Rankin. Behind him stood a big black man in a purple shirt and a seaman’s cap.

  Lifting the gun, the big man in the wheelchair growled out his warning once more. “I said…drop the knife!”

  This time Rankin obeyed.

  The piercing green eyes of the man in the wheelchair drilled the guard another instant before turning their full force on Tierney.

  An involuntary shiver skated down the boy’s spine. He swallowed hard, then again. For a moment, he felt his eyes riveted to the blanket-draped, lifeless legs of the man who sat glaring at him. Finally, he dragged his gaze upward, to the gun, then to the bronze-bearded face, flushed with obvious anger.

  The man sat, his back rigidly straight, one large hand holding the gun perfectly level, the other gripping the arm of the wheelchair. Feeling himself seared by the look of incredulous fury in the big man’s gaze, Tierney had to force himself to stare back.

  He knew who the giant was, of course. Although his appearance was unexpected, their surroundings unlikely, he recognized Morgan Fitzgerald at once.

  Before him was the hero of his boyhood imagination, the subject of countless stories his father had related over the years about the old friend of his childhood: stories of boyhood pranks and young men’s daredevil antics and, later, wondrous tales of the roving rebel-poet who had assumed almost legendary proportions in Tierney’s mind.

  The man’s presence, even confined to a wheelchair, was compelling. He had the bearing of a monarch, an ancient chieftain, a warrior prince. The strength that emanated from him seemed to fill the small, mean cell with a humming energy.

  For as long as Tierney could remember, he had idolized this man, had yearned for the day he would finally meet him face-to-face, this giant who seemed to embody so many of his own grand hopes and ideals. But even though he had been aware of the injury that had paralyzed the man, seeing the grim evidence in front of his own eyes struck him like a blow.

/>   It occurred to him that the dread wheelchair was but another kind of cell, a prison from which there could be no release. For a moment, an inexplicable wave of bitter disappointment washed over Tierney: disappointment and outrage that a man like Morgan Fitzgerald should be forced to suffer such an atrocity.

  The dark images passed, leaving him shaken and somewhat stunned at the realization that he was actually standing in a Dublin prison cell, in the presence of Fitzgerald himself. Humiliation was an exceedingly rare, almost alien feeling to Tierney. But at this instant, he felt himself to be humiliated. That his first encounter with the man who had inspired him since his childhood should be a crude scrambling in the middle of a dank, filthy cell made him feel small and insignificant and altogether foolish.

  The hard green gaze went over him, raking him thoroughly in one sweep. “If you are quite finished with maiming your warders, perhaps you would be good enough to confirm what I already suspect: that you are Tierney Burke, son of Michael.”

  The voice was a surprise. Deep and rich, its distinctly Irish cadence held a touch of quiet refinement. Yet, Tierney sensed an underlying power that, if unleashed, could shake the very walls of the prison. Growing more miserable by the moment, he forced himself to meet the big man’s eyes with far more confidence than he felt. “I am, sir. I am Tierney Burke.”

  The great copper head gave one brusque nod. For a second or two, Tierney could have sworn he saw a glint of amusement in that steady green gaze, and the thought made him bristle with anger.

  But when Morgan Fitzgerald spoke, his tone was dry, his words clipped. “Aye, somehow I thought as much.”

  For a moment, Morgan was seized with the unnerving sensation that he had been catapulted back in time twenty years. The slender, lean-faced youth standing, legs spread, in the middle of the cell, looked so much like his father that Morgan almost voiced his old friend’s name…

  Michael…

  The same proud, unyielding jaw, evident despite a growth of black beard. The thick dark hair. The familiar glint of confidence in the eye. The well-set wide shoulders. The roguish good looks, marred only by an angry white scar that slashed over his left eye. Morgan thought he could have picked the lad out of a crowd of thousands.