by BJ Hoff
Annie nodded. “Especially with Finola’s babe about to be born.”
Another fear. Morgan swallowed, managing only an agreeing murmur. “So, then,” he returned, “you could say that my opinion. our opinion, if you will…about the Queen’s visit is somewhat skeptical, at the least.”
“Perhaps,” Annie ventured slowly, “she only means to help the Irish people.”
“A noble sentiment on her part, though somewhat belated, I fear,” Morgan said, struggling to keep the full force of his resentment under control. “Unless, of course, she intends to decorate the common graves about the land.”
“I think it’s obscene!” Tierney’s outburst didn’t surprise Morgan in the least. During the few weeks in which the boy had been a guest at Nelson Hall, he had proved himself to be nothing if not assertive.
“She has the gall!” he went on, snapping his knuckles as he rose to his tirade. “Coming here with her decadent pomp, while the country is starving! All this fuss about ‘illuminations’ throughout the city and the need to redecorate the Vice-Regal Lodge for her stay. I think it’s a disgrace!”
Morgan let him go on for a moment. Tierney seemed to feel compelled to establish his loyalties to Ireland at every opportunity.
Finally, when the boy stopped for a breath, Morgan offered an observation. “The Queen isn’t altogether responsible for the foolishness of her officials. They seem to be the ones calling for all the expense.”
He ventured no comment on the fact that Victoria and her prince were bringing their four children and a host of servants—a party of some thirty-six people altogether, according to the papers. An entire army of workmen had appeared in the city weeks ago to begin preparations for the royal visit. Triumphal arches, platforms, and the like were being hastily erected, St. Patrick’s Hall redecorated, and Dublin Castle thoroughly cleaned and repainted.
He was surprised at Annie’s next remark. “Well, I expect my opinion is the same as the Evening Mail’s” she said solemnly. “‘If we have funds to spare, let them be spent not on illuminations, but on Her Majesty’s starving subjects.’”
Morgan smiled at her. “Aye, lass, I concur. For once—although it’s rare—I, too, agree with the Evening Mail.”
Folding his breakfast napkin, he turned his attention to Tierney. “I am going to Richmond Prison today, to bid William Smith O’Brien farewell before he sails. You may accompany me if you’d like to meet him.”
The boy was eagerness itself. “I would, sir, thank you! What time shall we leave?”
Annie interrupted before Morgan could answer. “And shall I be going too, Seanchai?” she asked eagerly.
Morgan looked at her. “Why…no, lass. Not today. The prison is no fit place for you.”
Immediately, her features darkened. “I don’t see why I can’t go. Mr. William Smith O’Brien is a hero. I would like to say goodbye to him, too.” That said, she favored Tierney with a fierce glare.
Ignoring her petulance, Morgan shook his head firmly. “I’ll not take you to the prison, and that’s that. Aside from the fact that it’s a mean place for a man, much less a lass, I want you here with Finola.”
One eye narrowed, just slightly, and the pouting mouth pursed still more. But finally she yielded. “I suppose that’s best, then.”
“Thank you, lass.” Morgan reached to squeeze her hand. “You will keep a close eye on Finola?”
“You know I will,” she said, leaping up from her chair. “Is Sandemon going with you to the prison?”
“Of course. And before you go upstairs, would you remind him that I’d like to leave within the hour?”
“He needn’t go,” said Tierney. “I can help you manage just as well.”
Morgan looked at him. Even before today he had sensed something vaguely disturbing about the lad’s attitude toward Sandemon—a certain coolness, a subtle undercurrent of resentment that almost seemed to border on jealousy. On occasion he had the distinct feeling that Tierney only condescended to Sandemon out of deference to Morgan’s obvious affection for the man.
Morgan found the boy’s bearing toward Sandemon unsettling. At times, he thought he sensed a disturbing streak of cruelty—or at the least, a certain pettiness—in Tierney. Most often, it would manifest itself as arrogance or even rudeness. Whatever it was, Morgan found it troubling, for it seemed in stark contrast to the boy’s other, finer character traits.
Often, he could almost feel the conflict going on in that restless young spirit. He was quickly learning that Michael’s son was every bit as complicated—and as difficult—as he had been heralded to be. Tierney could be generous to a fault, yet displayed an occasional spark of malice toward the younger scholars. He was charming, capricious, and engaging—yet quite capable of withdrawing and turning cold as a snake.
Even with Sister Louisa, the boy could be impudent—no easy feat, to Morgan’s thinking. Toward Sandemon, he showed no hint of emotion or respect. Yet, with Annie, he seemed to be fitting into the mold of the proverbial elder brother and comrade. And, though he teased her unmercifully, the lass did seem to dote on him—most of the time.
Besides Morgan himself, the one person in the household toward whom Tierney showed a genuine respect was Finola. Though seldom in her company, for Finola rarely came downstairs these days, Tierney was every bit the gentleman when they chanced to meet.
But, then, Morgan reasoned with a faint smile, didn’t Finola hold virtually the entire household in the palm of her slender hand?
The very thought of his delicate young wife and the imminent birth of the babe made Morgan’s hands tremble slightly on the table. To avoid Tierney’s probing gaze, he straightened and said firmly, “Sandemon will go with us.”
He did not miss the flicker of impatience that passed across the boy’s face.
“I would like the two of you to become friends,” he went on, as if he hadn’t noticed. “Sandemon has much to offer a young man like you. You would do well to seek his company.”
Tierney made no reply, but his insolent stare spoke enough to make Morgan uncomfortable.
Deciding to confront him now, before things went any further, Morgan braced both hands on the edge of the table. He studied the boy for a moment, then said, “What, exactly, is this problem you seem to have with Sandemon?”
Tierney looked down at his plate. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do,” Morgan returned, more sharply than he had intended.
The boy lifted his head. Those unnerving blue eyes met Morgan straight on. “He’s arrogant. For a Negro.”
With some difficulty, Morgan kept his voice even. “Sandemon is anything but arrogant. You misunderstand him entirely.”
“It’s different in America,” the boy countered. “Perhaps that’s why I don’t understand. Negroes aren’t treated the same there.”
Inwardly, Morgan seethed at his insolence. “I know very well how black men are treated in America…by some.” He paused, then added, “I would have thought you above such ignorant behavior.”
The boy flushed. “I won’t insult your friend, sir,” he said harshly. “But you needn’t think I’ll be his chum, either.”
Morgan leaned forward, struggling to keep his temper. “Understand this: You will treat Sandemon with nothing but the utmost respect at all times. He deserves it—and I insist on it. Do you understand?”
The boy’s face was a mask. “Of course, sir. It’s your home, after all.”
Morgan eyed him for another moment, then sighed. “It is also your home, lad,” he said wearily. “For as long as you want. I simply thought it best that you understand how things are with Sandemon.”
Tierney’s gaze held steady. “I do understand.” Abruptly, he rose. “If you’ll excuse me, sir,” he said shortly, then turned to leave the room.
At the door, he met Sandemon, who was just entering. As Morgan watched, the boy hesitated for an instant, then gave a brief nod to acknowledge the black man’s greeting.
S
andemon turned slightly to watch Tierney’s exit. Morgan tried to read his expression as he came the rest of the way into the dining hall, but could detect nothing in those noble features other than what might have been a trace of puzzlement, or perhaps even disappointment.
17
Among Men
Three coins tossed by a fool:
Pride of face, pride of name, and pride of manhood.
MORGAN FITZGERALD (1849)
Most of the way back in the carriage, Tierney reflected on the surprise William Smith O’Brien had turned out to be.
He couldn’t have said what, exactly, he had expected of the imprisoned Irish leader, but the stiff, ascetic-looking man at Richmond Prison certainly belied his expectations.
Instead of the anticipated glint of fire in the eyes, there had been only a hint of restrained anger. Far more apparent had been O’Brien’s weariness and sense of defeat. The polite, even elegant bearing seemed to announce the consummate aristocrat, not the zealot Tierney might have imagined him to be. Indeed, Tierney thought with some disdain, Smith O’Brien more closely resembled an English landowner than an Irish rebel.
If O’Brien had proved surprising, his circumstances had been downright astonishing. Rather than being submerged in the bowels of a cold, filthy dungeon, O’Brien had been given rooms in the home of the governor—the warden—of the prison. Not only did he have access to two large gardens, he was allowed his regular servant on hand to provide for his needs! There seemed no actual restrictions on him, save that he could not leave the grounds.
Unable to keep his silence any longer, Tierney finally blurted out: “What sort of imprisonment is that, anyway? It’s more like he’s a guest in a swank hotel!”
“Richmond Prison is under the control of the Dublin Corporation,” Morgan explained with a grim smile. “Public opinion in the city is such that the authorities dare not treat O’Brien with anything less than deference. They’re smart enough to know they don’t need another Irish martyr to stir up the people.”
Tierney shook his head. “Well, sure, he’s not that, now is he? He doesn’t seem to have much to complain about, I’d say.”
“Once he’s transported, his situation will be vastly different, I can assure you.”
Tierney thought Morgan’s reply sounded rather testy.
“O’Brien will be a felon, and no doubt will be treated as such. He will be without country, without family, and without any real hope of ever changing his condition, although a number of us will continue to work for pardon.”
Unable to shake his disappointment, Tierney blurted out, “He doesn’t even seem Irish! He’s nothing at all like what I thought he would be!”
Morgan crossed his arms over his chest, studying Tierney. “What were you expecting, lad? A wild-eyed warrior with long hair and a spear in his hand?”
He stopped, glancing out the window of the carriage before going on. “Don’t make the same mistake that many others do about the Irish, Tierney. Don’t try to force them into your own preconceived notion of what they are, instead of discovering the truth for yourself. The English have been doing it for centuries, and consequently they still don’t understand what we’re all about. Smith O’Brien, like many others in leadership roles, is a highly educated, cultured man who could have done most anything he wanted to with his life. The fact that he chose to spend it on what some see as a hopeless cause makes him no less the man. Perhaps it only gives him that much more nobility.”
Feeling himself chastised—and grudgingly admitting that there was some truth in Morgan’s rebuke—Tierney merely nodded and said nothing.
The black man had been silent throughout their return journey. But now Sandemon spoke, his tone distracted, as if he were thinking aloud. “I suspect,” he said slowly, “that most of the ancient prophets were also greatly misunderstood. More than likely, their contemporaries viewed them as madmen—or as fools.”
Morgan nodded. “It does seem that we have a way of relegating anyone whose motives we don’t understand to one category or the other.”
He turned back to Tierney. “Your father often wrote of your interest in Ireland—and its people. I would hope that you will take the time and make the effort to discover the truth about both. That may mean having a number of your illusions shattered, but if you truly want to explore your own Irishness, you need to begin from the point of reality.”
Tierney thought about what Morgan said. The truth was, the young man had already had a number of his illusions shattered, and he was beginning to think Morgan Fitzgerald might be one of them.
The man sitting across from him was not the heroic figure of his childhood fantasies. Oh, in some ways he was everything that Tierney had imagined him to be. In size and strength, despite his crippled legs, he was very much the giant who had trod through Tierney’s boyish daydreams, polished his ideals. Morgan’s intellect was staggering, almost beyond comprehension; he could not be outdone in conversation or in chess—although he insisted that he disliked the game.
But where was the fire, the relentless zeal? Where was the blazing love of country, the passion for Irish freedom, that had fired the youthful renegade of Da’s memories?
This man spent his hours teaching in a classroom or buried deep in the pages of some dead priest’s journal. When he wasn’t thus involved, he could be found either mooning over his wife—understandable, Tierney admitted—or else coaching his daughter in her lessons. He seemed to spend the rest of his time either writing or playing the harp.
Whatever he was, he was definitely not the phoenix Tierney had envisioned. Indeed, the Irish hero of his childhood would seem to be something of a disappointment.
Why, the man was even a teetotaler! Who had ever heard of an Irish rebel who wouldn’t take a drink?
Tierney had looked forward to sitting around the great stone fireplace of an evening, lifting a glass with Morgan Fitzgerald while listening to tales of his heroic exploits. Obviously, even that was not to be.
Disgruntled, Tierney thought it might be high time to look up his Gypsy friend, Jan Martova. The Gypsies were known to like the drink, weren’t they?
Not that that was the only reason for searching out Jan Martova, he quickly rationalized. He had liked the Gypsy well enough, thought they would get along just fine. He wanted to see him again, that was the thing.
On impulse, he leaned forward. “Where would I find the Gypsy, Jan Martova, sir? He said he was from the city.”
Morgan looked at him, then nodded. “No doubt they’re camped in the Liberties.” “The Liberties?”
“It’s a section in the western part of the city. A slum, actually. And a good place to avoid.”
“A dangerous place, surely,” put in Sandemon.
Tierney gave him an impatient glance. “Still, I’d like the chance to see him again. To thank him.”
“Then it would be best to invite him to Nelson Hall,” Morgan said firmly.
“I doubt that he’d come. He was uncomfortable there.”
Morgan considered him with a look that made Tierney vaguely uneasy.
“Couldn’t you just drop me, sir? I can make my way home on my own later.”
Morgan shook his head adamantly. “Must I remind you of the cholera epidemic in the city? It will be even worse in a place like the Liberties! No, it would be more than foolish! You would be putting yourself and the entire household at risk. Absolutely not!”
Tierney glared at him. It was on the end of his tongue to remind him that he had no right to tell him what he could or could not do. He was seventeen years old, a man grown—and certainly not answerable to Morgan Fitzgerald. But he reconsidered, acknowledging, if grudgingly, that he would do himself no good at all by deliberately provoking the man. He was living under his roof, after all.
He would have to be patient, wait for the right time to slip away into the city. As for managing a drink before then, his instincts told him that the watery-eyed old butler had himself a stash somewhere on the grounds.
Tierney had a hunch that for the right price, Artegal might be convinced to share his secret store.
18
A Momentous Occasion at Nelson Hall
And I that would be singing
Or whistling at all times went silently then.…
PATRICK MACDONOGH (1902-1961)
Morgan knew there was something wrong as soon as the carriage turned and started up the lane to Nelson Hall.
Annie was standing just outside the wide front doors, squinting as if she were awaiting their arrival. As always, the watchful-eyed wolfhound stood beside her.
The moment she saw the carriage approaching, she bolted away from the door and ran to meet them. Fergus raced ahead of her, leading the way.
“Seanchai! Seanchai!”
Morgan leaned out the door as Sandemon hurried around to help him with the chair. “What is it, lass? What’s wrong?”
“’Tis Finola! The babe is coming, Seanchai! Sister Louisa says the babe is coming!”
Seized by a mighty wave of fear, Morgan stared at her. “The babe—you are sure?”
The girl shifted from one foot to the other, her head bobbing wildly up and down. “Aye, Sister says!”
“The surgeon—have you sent for Dr. Dunne?” stammered Morgan as Sandemon tugged him from the carriage into the wheelchair.
“Aye, Seanchai! He should be here any moment,” Annie assured him. “Sister sent Colm O’Grady for him nearly an hour ago!”
Finally settled in the wheelchair, Morgan allowed Sandemon to wheel him hurriedly up the ramp into the house. All the while Annie chattered beside him, answering his questions with more of her own.
Sister Louisa met them in the entryway. “Ah, thank the Lord, you are back! But where is that doctor?”
Beside Morgan, Annie asked, “How long do you think it will take, Seanchai?”
Feeling lightheaded, Morgan looked at her. “How long?”
“For the babe to be born!”
“How should I know such a thing?”
He looked to the nun for help, but she merely lifted her eyebrows. “Only our Lord and the babe could be knowing.”