Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  Incredibly, Tierney managed to stand, one arm flung around Jan’s shoulder for support.

  “You would kill us all for this Gorgio?” Greco went on roaring a stream of invective, as Jan slowly began to tug Tierney toward the quilts in the corner. “I told you! Didn’t I tell you? You see now what comes from letting the Gorgio into our midst? Get him out of here or I will drive him out with the whip!”

  “ Come, my friend,” Jan urged Tierney, dragging him to the bedding on the floor, then helping him lie down. “He will not leave my vardo, brother,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. “I will drive the wagon outside the camp, where there is no danger to you and the others.”

  “No!” Dimly, Tierney saw Greco lift a burly arm as if to strike his brother. “Are you mad? You would risk your life for him?”

  Jan Martova paused, then covered Tierney with a quilt. “You have forgotten that I owe my life to him,” he said quietly. “He is my friend.”

  “He will be your doom if you do not heed what I say, little brother!”

  Tierney squinted, saw Jan get to his feet and face his brother. “I am more than twenty years,” he said quietly. “I am no longer your little brother, Greco. I am a man. You will not order me about like a child. Tierney Burke is my friend,” he said, “and I owe him my loyalty. Now get out of my way. This is my vardo, and I will take it—along with Keja, my mare—wherever I choose.”

  Greco pierced Jan with an intense glare, his eyes narrowed. “If you leave the kumpania this night, little brother,” he said through clenched teeth, “you will never be welcome here again.”

  Then he turned on his heel and strode off into the night.

  After hitching Keja to the vardo, Jan Martova stood, thinking. Thinking and worrying. He had no special ability with sickness, especially one so deadly as cholera. The women in the camp saw to all the healing measures, not the men.

  Finally he went seeking Nanosh, his young cousin. “There are two things I need you to do,” he told the eager-faced boy. “And they are both very important. Can I trust you not to fail me?”

  Nanosh straightened his slim shoulders and puffed out his chest. “You can trust me, Cousin.”

  “Good. First, you must ask your mother to send me any medicines at all that are good for cholera. Tell her I will need enough for—I don’t know how long. Then I want you to run all the way to Nelson Hall on the hill and tell the big black man who works for the Seanchai what has happened.”

  Jan paused for breath. “Explain that Tierney Burke has been taken ill with the cholera, and that I am bringing him in my wagon to the land that runs across the stream from the big house. Tell him I will come that far only, no farther, so as not to endanger the Seanchai or his family.”

  His young cousin nodded and started to turn. Jan put a hand to his shoulder. “You must hurry, Nanosh. And you must do exactly as I say. Your word?”

  “My word, Cousin.”

  Jan watched him turn and run, his heart sinking within him. He had made his choice. He hoped that neither Nanosh—nor any others among the family—would be stricken with the cholera. And he hoped with equal fervency that once all this was past, his family might find a way to forgive him for putting an outsider before them. Given Greco’s parting words, however, he already knew his hope was futile.

  27

  Bad Tidings

  This heart, fill’d with fondness,

  Is wounded and weary.…

  FROM WALSH’s IRISH POPULAR SONGS (1847)

  Sandemon was dozing at the table, his head resting on his arms, when the pounding came at the back door.

  He looked up, disoriented for a minute as he waited for his head to clear. The chair scraped the floor when he lurched to his feet, and he banged his leg against the corner of the table.

  Was the boy drunk, to make such a racket at an unlocked door?

  The sharp reprimand on his tongue died when he flung open the door to find, not the errant Tierney Burke, as he had expected, but a small Gypsy boy. It took a moment for him to realize that this was the same shaggy-haired child who had appeared at Nelson Hall some months past, the one who had carried the message to Nelson Hall from the Dublin gaol.

  The boy appeared to be wearing the same soiled white shirt he had worn that night, and his face looked only slightly cleaner. His dark eyes brimmed with obvious excitement.

  “I’ve a message for the Seanchai from Tierney Burke!” he burst out with no preamble.

  So his suspicions had been right: the American boy HAD been consorting with the Gypsies on his late-night expeditions.

  “The Seanchai is abed, as you might expect at such an hour,” Sandemon responded sharply. “What is the message?”

  The boy studied him as if to assess his reliability. Remembering the little Gypsy’s impudence the night he had hauled him into the library to face the Seanchai, Sandemon crossed his arms over his chest and fixed the child with a stern glare. “The message?” he demanded again.

  “You are to tell the Seanchai that Tierney Burke is ill,” announced the boy, preening with the importance of his errand. “He has the cholera and has been banished from our camp.”

  Stunned, Sandemon instinctively stepped back. “Cholera?” An entire flood of memories assailed him. He had encountered the killer disease in Barbados and again in Ireland, where he and the priests had fought helplessly to stem its spread as hundreds died. It was an ugly, vicious plague. The word itself struck fear into the bravest of hearts.

  Suddenly, the boy seemed to throw off his arrogance and give in to the drama of his mission. His next words poured out of him like grapeshot. “The American boy is very ill, I think! My cousin Jan Martova is bringing him in his vardo—his wagon—to the land across from the stream!”

  A storm of emotions roared through Sandemon as he stood staring in horror at the child in the doorway. If only he had heeded his instincts and confronted the treacherous youth before now! He should never have put off telling the Seanchai, should not have withheld what he knew. This, then, was the deadly result of his delay.

  “Why do they think it is cholera?” he challenged. “The epidemic is long past.”

  The boy bristled. “My cousin Jan Martova knows all about the cholera! He is a man and has seen such things.”

  “And he is certain?” Sandemon pressed.

  The Gypsy boy studied him. His indignation with the persistent questioning seemed to wane, almost as if he had sensed, and understood, Sandemon’s fear. His tone was less challenging when he answered. “Jan is certain. It is the cholera.” After a slight hesitation, he asked, “Will the American die?”

  Sandemon looked at him, still struggling to absorb the boy’s bitter tidings. The unexpected question jolted him, and he made no attempt to reply. “They are coming here? You are sure of this?”

  The boy nodded. “Jan sent me ahead to warn the Seanchai of their arrival. They should be here soon, but will not approach the house. My cousin will park the vardo in the field on the other side of the stream.”

  “And then what?” Sandemon asked the question of himself, not the child. They would need a physician…medicine…nursing care.…

  A momentary shudder of despair seized him, but he shook it off. By sheer force of will, he suppressed the panic threatening to engulf him. Finally, his mind slowed and reason returned. No matter what, the household must not be exposed, must not be put at the slightest risk. The Seanchai must be protected at all costs, as well as the family.

  A thought struck him, and he leaned over, searching the Gypsy boy’s eyes. “Have you been exposed? I must know the truth.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “You are absolutely certain?”

  The sharp little chin lifted defiantly. “I am certain. I was nowhere near the American—only Jan.”

  Straightening, Sandemon said, “Very well, then. You go out to the stream and watch for the wagon. When they arrive, go close enough to make yourself heard, but no closer—stay on this side of the strea
m. Do you understand? You must not cross the water.”

  The boy frowned but nodded.

  “Tell your cousin to park the wagon on the other side of the stream, and to stay there. We will send for a physician. Under no circumstances is he to cross the stream. Be sure he understands. By now he may be carrying the disease himself. He must stay away from the house!”

  “I will tell him,” the boy said solemnly. For the first time, his large dark eyes showed a hint of fear.

  Sandemon regarded him, softening somewhat toward the child, who had, after all, taken on a burdensome responsibility for one so young. “We may need someone to carry messages between the house and your cousin’s wagon. Are you willing to stay for a time, if you are needed?”

  “I will stay,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “Jan Martova is my cousin. And he calls the American his friend. I will help however I can.”

  Sandemon watched him for another minute, then gave a small nod and shut the door.

  With heavy steps, he left the kitchen and started upstairs. Every beat of his heart, as he climbed the stairs, seemed to echo with dread. He would give anything to avoid being the bearer of this message—and at such a time, when the Seanchai was at last finding joy and contentment with his new family.

  How could he bear to face him with the shattering news that yet another woe was about to descend on Nelson Hall? More anguishing still was the possibility that this latest tragedy might have been prevented, had he himself not waited so late to speak the truth.

  For two days after the arrival of the Gypsy wagon, Morgan swung between fear and raw fury. It occurred to him more than once that it was doubtless a good thing Tierney had been isolated in the Gypsy wagon; there was no telling what he might have done to the boy if he could have gotten his hands on him.

  He had considered every possible form of discipline for Tierney’s irresponsible behavior and its dire consequences. He disregarded entirely the fact that he had no actual authority to punish the boy. As long as the foolish gorsoon was living under his roof, he would abide by his rules! There would be a hard price to pay, once he was fully recovered.

  If he recovered…

  Not for the first time, Morgan questioned his judgment in having opened his doors to Tierney Burke. The boy had proved nothing but trouble from the very start. A harrowing rescue from a gaol cell. Sneaking alcohol on the very premises from a deceitful footman. Midnight carousings with diseased Gypsies. And now—now, the fruits of his illicit behavior brought to rest on Nelson Hall.

  At times he wished he had simply refused Michael’s request to give refuge to his son. In his eagerness to help a friend, he had not weighed the consequences. Why hadn’t he at least stopped to consider the deadly smoke that could rise from the fire of such a rebellious spirit? Wasn’t his own past proof enough of sin’s far-reaching effects?

  There was a dark side to Tierney’s nature, a darkness that too often overshadowed the finer things in him. Caprice too easily turned to waywardness, mischief to malice. The lad had intelligence, boldness, and idealism. But his intelligence often took the form of cunning; his boldness, rebellion; and his idealism was easily misplaced. More than once, Morgan had sensed the struggle of that duality in Tierney, and understood it all too well. For he, too, was a man whose spirit had often provided a battleground for light and darkness—and many was the time darkness had prevailed.

  Yet, God must have thought him worth some effort, for He continued to enable him and sustain him.

  That being the case, wasn’t it more than likely the Almighty also believed Tierney Burke worth the effort?

  Sandemon would say the boy was worth fighting for, worth a struggle, simply because he was a child of God. And although Morgan believed that, he often found it more difficult than his West Indies companion to act in accordance with his beliefs.

  There had been no word from the wagon since early afternoon, indicative, he supposed, of no change in the lad’s condition. The little Gypsy boy—Nanosh, he called himself—had stayed on at Nelson Hall, sleeping in the smokehouse when he wasn’t serving as messenger.

  Morgan hoped it wasn’t a mistake to let him stay. There was no denying the need for a safe intermediary, and the child had sworn he’d been nowhere near Tierney the night he fell ill. Then, too, having him nearby might help to restrain the wrath of Jan Martova’s elder brother, the Gypsy leader.

  Morgan had not forgotten the dark insolence and volcanic fury of Greco Martova. Who could say what the man might do, should others in the Gypsy camp fall victim to the cholera? In all likelihood, the belligerent Rom would blame Tierney, when it was just as probable that Tierney had himself been infected by one of the Gypsies. Still, it would not hurt to have the boy on the premises, in the event of trouble from the camp.

  Besides, the child had been a great help in acting as courier: shouting messages across the stream and leaving food and other supplies where Jan Martova could retrieve them.

  Although the frequent reports from the quarantined wagon indicated that Tierney’s condition was critical, no physician had yet been found to attend him. A number of surgeons had themselves been stricken with the cholera during the height of the epidemic, leaving those who survived excessively cautious.

  Morgan suspected that Tierney’s connection with the Gypsies only made it more difficult to find a willing physician. Dr. Dunne, the one surgeon who might have come, was in London and not expected to return for another week. Until then, at least, Tierney’s fate seemed to rest in the hands of his Gypsy comrade, Jan Martova.

  Morgan could not imagine that a Romany would know anything of the healing arts, except perhaps for a few worthless charms and spells. He had voiced this concern to Sandemon, who surprised him by disagreeing. The Gypsies, he told Morgan, were in fact highly skilled in the use of herb medicines and other healing agents. Although he admitted to not being comfortable with many of their other customs, he seemed to think that Tierney could do worse than to have a Romany looking after him.

  Even so, Sandemon, by nature a tolerant man, had never denied his mistrust of the Gypsies. At any mention of the Romany, the dark eyes, usually so steady and gentle, suddenly turned shuttered and remote. More than once Morgan thought he had detected a hint of fear. He suspected that Sandemon’s tragic experience with the occult in the islands might be responsible for his wariness—understandable, surely.

  But even more evident than his aversion to the Gypsies was the air of dejection that seemed to hang over the West Indies black man of late. Sensing the heaviness of the other’s heart, Morgan wondered if it might not be due to a self-imposed burden of guilt.

  More than once Sandemon had asked Morgan’s forgiveness for his failure to reveal Tierney’s deception, as well as Artegal’s part in it. Morgan had tried to reassure him, even admitting that in similar circumstances he might have done the same.

  Apparently, he had been less than convincing. Not surprising, given the fact that, to some extent, he did resent his companion’s silence. In a way, he did feel betrayed.

  Tierney’s underhandedness had been a great disappointment, but the realist in Morgan admitted that his own youthful exploits had been far more radical. As for Artegal, while the footman’s utter lack of loyalty was infuriating, it had come as no surprise. In truth, Morgan had almost been glad for a reason to discharge the man, even though his absence placed a temporary hardship on the rest of the staff.

  But the fact that Sandemon had not come to him in the very beginning continued to gnaw at him like an angry worm. He expected he would get over it, and had in fact made considerable effort in the meantime to disguise his feelings—but the resentment was there, all the same, like a stubborn wound that would not heal. And Sandemon was far too perceptive not to be aware of it. No doubt that awareness accounted for his despondency and the regret Morgan sensed when their eyes chanced to meet.

  At present, however, Morgan found it difficult to attend to anyone’s feelings but his own. He seemed caught in a tangle of emot
ions: fear, as intense as any he had ever experienced; frustration—with Tierney and with himself—for not keeping a closer eye on the boy; disappointment with Sandemon for not exposing the situation when he’d had a chance; and a personal sense of failure for falling short in his responsibility to Michael and his son.

  But it was the fear—the relentless, choking, debilitating fear—that he found most difficult to deal with. Not for the world would he have the others see that he often teetered on the edge of panic, that he was constantly apprehensive—no doubt irrationally so—that the dread cholera would somehow make its way into the house, to strike Finola…or baby Gabriel…or Annie…or his entire family.

  At times the fear became so overwhelming he nearly strangled on his efforts to banish it before Finola or Annie chanced to notice. The slightest sign of weakness on his part would only alarm them all the more, and he would not have it so. It seemed they had both come to regard him in terms of strength and reliability, and, although he expected it was vanity on his part, he found himself loath to disappoint them.

  He drew a long breath, put aside The Nation, and took one more long look out the window, to the dark field where he knew the Gypsy wagon to be parked.

  Finally, deciding he should try to rest, he wheeled himself over to the bed. He braced the wheelchair with the brake Sandemon had improvised and rested one arm on the bedside railing. Reaching up, he caught hold of a triangular-shaped handle attached to a chain suspended from the ceiling—also Sandemon’s contrivance. He hoisted himself upright until he could pitch forward, across the bed. Then, still using the chain as support, he managed to twist himself onto his back, finally hooking the chain over the bedpost.

  For a moment he lay, staring up at the ceiling, his heart pounding from the exertion. This bedtime routine had taken a great deal of practice, but once mastered, he continued to relish the small independence it afforded him. To be able to get in and out of bed unassisted would no doubt seem a small thing to those with legs that worked; to Morgan, it was a significant achievement—and one for which, once more, he had the ever-ingenious Sandemon to thank.