Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  Morgan nodded briefly, not eager to consider such an extended absence. “Just know that you will be sorely missed.” His voice sounded gruff, even to his own ears, but this was difficult, after all—so difficult!

  “Thank you, Seanchai.” Sandemon paused, again letting his dark gaze rest on both of them for an instant. “But I am grateful that now I can go with peace in my heart, knowing you will be taken care of with competence and affection.”

  Morgan glanced at Finola and saw a faint blush spread over her face. But she smiled at Sandemon, saying, “I shall do my best. But no doubt he will be beside himself with relief when you return.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Morgan said dryly. “Your face is far easier to look at than his.”

  He saw the corners of Sandemon’s mouth twitch. Though they were all obviously trying for lightness, the mood quickly turned somber once again.

  “You will take every caution with yourself,” Morgan reminded him.

  “I will, Seanchai. Of course, I will.”

  “And you’ll send us a report by the Gypsy boy at least three times a day.”

  “I will, yes.”

  “We’ll be worried for you, mind.”

  “Please pray for me and the young men.”

  “Aye. You know we will.”

  “We will all be praying, Sandemon,” Finola put in. “Morgan and I—and Sister Louisa and Annie—all of us.” Her voice no longer sounded quite so confident, and Morgan did not miss the way she was wringing her hands together at her waist.

  “I will find great strength in knowing that, Mistress Finola.”

  There was an awkward silence. Morgan’s chest felt excessively heavy, as if it might sink at any instant. He cleared his throat. “You’re certain you have everything you need? Of course, we can always get additional supplies to you—you’ve only to send word by Nanosh. Anything you need,” he emphasized, wincing at the tremor in his voice. “Anything.”

  Sandemon nodded, saying, “I will be fine. All will be well. Please try not to worry. I will take good care of the young men—and myself.”

  The black man’s calm was impressive. Yet, at the moment there was a look about him—a certain tightness to the mouth, a missing glint in the eye—that spoke, if not of actual apprehension, at least of reluctance.

  Morgan thought he might have made it through the next few moments without losing his own composure had it not been for Finola. Without warning, she stepped forward and caught both of Sandemon’s hands in hers. “We will miss you so much, dear Sandemon! You must come back to us, safe and well. And very soon!”

  She dropped his hands and moved back to stand beside the bed, but the look of startled pleasure on Sandemon’s face lingered.

  For a moment, he stood looking at the two of them. Then he crossed to the bed, his eyes locking with Morgan’s. “I will miss you, Seanchai, do you realize that? I will miss you grievously.”

  Morgan thought he would strangle. A thousand memories flashed before him, and his throat ached with the unspoken words of affection crowding his heart. All he could do was open his arms and pull the big black man into a quick embrace. “Come back as soon as you possibly can, mo chara…my friend,” he choked out, unable to go any further.

  They released each other with awkward smiles and a long last look. Then, with a quick nod to Finola, Sandemon started for the door. Abruptly, he turned back. “You will tell Miss Annie goodbye for me?”

  Morgan nodded. Then Sandemon was gone.

  Morgan stared at the closed door in silence. He felt bereft and heavy-hearted, already missing the steady presence, the indomitable strength and solid wisdom he had come to count on.

  He felt Finola slip her hand in his and gently squeeze his fingers. Looking up at her, he saw his own sense of bereavement reflected in her eyes. Somehow it helped, knowing she understood and even shared his feelings of loss.

  She stayed for nearly an hour, sitting in the chair beside the bed, allowing him to hold her hand as he told her of Sandemon’s first days at Nelson Hall, how he had arrived on the very day that Finola had first brought Annie safely to the front door, then disappeared. He told her of the difference the former West Indies slave had made in his life, the enormous debt of gratitude he felt he owed him. He told her many things about the man he now called friend, until at last he relaxed enough to doze.

  Sometime late in the night he awoke to find her gone. He imagined her slender hand still clasped in his, even lifted his own palm to his lips as if to recapture her closeness. The faint, sun-touched scent of her hair lingered near, seeming to warm the bleakness of the lonely bedroom…and his heart.

  29

  In the Vardo

  With violins wheening

  Inside that island sheiling,

  I hear lost secrets breathing

  Beyond the cairned mound

  FREDERICK ROBERT HIGGINS (1896-1941)

  At the doors of the Gypsy wagon, Sandemon deposited his crate of supplies, checking their contents one last time. He scanned the exterior of the wagon, taking in the highly polished wood and colorful shutters, the stenciled symbols and detailed carpentry.

  He hesitated, still reluctant to go inside, feeling torn between the urgency to do what needed to be done and his dread of the ugly disease that awaited him inside the wagon.

  “Lord God,” he murmured, “surround this wagon with a wall of Your power and angels to guard us. From this unsanctified place, expel the darkness and come with Your Light.…”

  With the ancient prayer of Patrick on his lips, he stood, waiting until he felt strong enough to go inside…”Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left.…“

  Finally, drawing the sign of the cross over his chest, he pulled in a deep, steadying breath, and entered.

  Inside, he found things much as he had expected: a malignant stench of human waste and gorge, wild disarray of bedding and utensils, and the anguished moaning and outcries of young, once healthy bodies trapped in the wretched torment of disease.

  He gagged, fumbling in his trousers pocket for a handkerchief, which he tied over his mouth and nose. He went first to Tierney Burke. Dropping to his knees, he saw that the cholera had advanced to the extreme stage, the deadly stage from which recovery was most rare.

  The boy was obviously delirious, his face swollen, eyes bruised and deeply sunken, his skin blue—even his hands had turned dark and pulpy, like an elderly washerwoman’s. He lay like a babe, his legs drawn up, his arms clasped tight about his abdomen.

  As he found Tierney’s pulse—dangerously faint—the boy muttered and raved unintelligible words. Standing, Sandemon then crossed to the opposite wall, where Jan Martova lay. The Gypsy boy moaned at the sight of him, a fleeting look of relief crossing his features.

  “Tierney?” he whispered hoarsely as Sandemon knelt on one knee beside him. “Is he…still…?”

  Sandemon nodded, then lowered his head to the boy’s chest to listen to his heartbeat. It was far too rapid, but not erratic.

  “I did…everything I knew to do,” the Gypsy mumbled. “I tried…but nothing helped…” Suddenly, he reached up and with unexpected strength clutched the front of Sandemon’s shirt. “You will help him? You won’t let him die—”

  He broke off, his eyes rolling back as he grabbed his stomach. With a cry of pain, he twisted onto his side, gasping for breath.

  A wave of sympathy for the boy’s distress swept over Sandemon, coupled with remorse that he might have allowed his old prejudices to keep him from coming here tonight. From the time he had first sensed the urging of the Spirit, he had found it difficult, even distasteful, to obey. He had known too much about the heathen Gypsy ways: their pagan gods, their secret ceremonies, their black magic. The Romany lived dangerously close to the dark side, uncomfortably near the caverns of his own past. They trafficked with the same powers of darkness that had almost destroyed him, indeed, had destroyed his wife
and daughter.

  Their way of life was repugnant to him. Yet, how could he not recognize their humanity? Even with their abhorrent ways, they, too, were the product of divine creation. The saving love of the Father was as available to the Gypsies as to anyone else.

  If the Lord were to pass by this night, would He ignore this Gypsy wagon, where two youths lay suffering on the floor? Would He refuse to extend His mercy, to bind their wounds, to offer healing, simply because they happened to be outside His grace?

  And could a man such as I, who has known both the depths of darkness and the miracle of God’s merciful light, refuse to stand in the gap and help them?

  A lump tightened in Sandemon’s throat. He swallowed it down, then took in a deep breath. This was the right decision—he knew it, as surely as he knew the reality of God’s intervention in his own life. The Spirit had compelled him, and he would do what had to be done.

  Still kneeling beside the agonizing Gypsy, he put a hand to the youth’s burning forehead. “Try to rest now,” he said gently. “I am here to help you and your friend.”

  Jan Martova twisted onto his back, moaning with the effort. His face was flushed with fever, his eyes glazed with pain and fear as he stared up at Sandemon. Yet when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm. “Are we going to die?”

  “We will hope not tonight,” Sandemon replied. In an attempt to encourage the blood flow, he gently removed the soiled kerchief from around the Gypsy’s neck, then unbuttoned the youth’s shirt and removed his boots.

  “Someday,” he went on, “every one of us is going to die. But we will hope and pray that your time has not yet come.”

  Sandemon worked through the night, battling not only the vicious cholera itself, but the more insidious illnesses he knew to be lurking among the human waste and noxious fumes that the disease had generated.

  He was able to at least ease Jan Martova’s discomfort with laudanum and a syrup he had concocted of potassa and mint. The boy remained feverish and in much pain, but within hours his pulse had grown stronger and more regular.

  Tierney Burke was another matter. His breathing was already severely labored, no doubt from the excess accumulation of fluids and the distress of the heart. Having seen this stage of the cholera before, Sandemon knew the boy’s body had reached that critical point where most functions had simply ceased their efforts. Every moment counted if he were to be revived.

  Grateful for the mild autumn night, he built a vigorous fire outside the wagon and boiled first a large kettle of water, then a pan of rice water, which he allowed to thicken to a syrup. Next, he heated wide bolts of flannel and took them back inside the wagon, where he sprinkled a few drops of precious camphor oil on them. Finally, with great care, he removed Tierney’s outer clothing and wrapped him snugly in the warm flannel, much as he might have swaddled an infant.

  The night they had first learned that Tierney had been stricken with the cholera, Sandemon had prepared a compound of powdered camphor and cayenne, plus a small measure of alcohol. His foresight had paid off. Now he took the bottle containing that mixture from the small wooden chest of herbs and medicines he had brought with him.

  The mixture should have had more time to steep, but he would have to hope it would do its work as it was.

  After measuring a small dose of the mixture into a cup of rice water, he undertook to make Tierney drink it. The boy fought him, as Sandemon had expected. It took almost an hour, but he managed to force a few sips of the mixture down his throat.

  When he was satisfied that he could do no more for Tierney for the time being, he turned his attention to Jan Martova. He would continue to dose him with laudanum every two to three hours. That and the potassa syrup would ease the violent purging effects of the disease. Aside from this and a little rice water, there was little else to do for the Gypsy over the next few hours.

  Except, of course, to pray. Sandemon knew he would do much praying throughout this night.

  30

  Voice of the Heart

  Together…together—

  The word makes music in the heart.

  MORGAN FITZGERALD

  Morgan’s first blast of the reality of life without Sandemon came early the next morning.

  The day had not started badly. In fact, he had managed quite well, had even felt rather pleased with himself at first. Getting up from bed on his own, he had accomplished—if somewhat clumsily—his toilette, though keenly aware of how much easier Sandemon’s discreet assistance made the process.

  Dressing himself was no problem. With Sandemon’s help, he had orchestrated a routine that time had only perfected. These days, it took him scarcely longer to outfit himself in the morning than it had before the injury. The procedure had been refined like a well-oiled wheel, to such an extent that he moved through it almost instinctively.

  Only now, as he sat in the wheelchair looking down over his bare feet, socks in hand, did he remember the missing spoke in that well-oiled wheel.

  No doubt there were those who might wonder, legitimately, why a man who could not walk insisted on wearing shoes. It had nothing to do with comfort, of course. His feet did not respond to heat or cold. Nor was it mere vanity; who cared about the feet of a paralyzed man in a wheelchair?

  It had to do, he admitted to himself, with the matter of dignity. He simply did not feel altogether dressed without his shoes. That being the case, he made it a point not to leave his bedchamber in the morning until his feet were decently shod.

  Unfortunately, he had forgotten how difficult it could be to manage shoes and socks without help.

  For a moment Morgan continued to study his feet, finding it exasperating that such an ordinary, mechanical operation should pose a problem. On his first attempt he had nearly pitched headfirst out of the wheelchair. The second try was no more successful.

  This time, he didn’t bend quite so far forward, attempting instead to lift one foot with his hands. Again he lost his balance, catching himself by splaying both hands against the side of the bed.

  With a sharp sigh of annoyance, he dangled the socks over his knees as he sat scowling down at his feet.

  His head snapped up at the soft tap on the door connecting his room with Finola’s.

  “Morgan? May I come in?”

  Without waiting, she cracked the door and stuck her head inside. “Morgan?”

  “Aye, come.” He fumbled for the lap robe, which had fallen from the back of the chair onto the floor, but he wasn’t quick enough; she was already in the room.

  She was dressed in some sort of yellow morning frock, her golden hair falling free. She looked for all the world like an early spring daffodil.

  “I thought I would look in to see if there’s anything I can do—” Her eyes went from the socks in his hand to his bare feet. She assessed the situation at once. “Let me help you.”

  “No!” The word came out far more sharply than Morgan intended, but he was mortified that she would see him in such a state.

  She stopped in the middle of the room, a hand going to her throat as she gave him a questioning look.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be short,” Morgan said, adding self-disgust to embarrassment. “I…ah…had forgotten what a challenge it can be, putting on my shoes,” he said, forcing a laugh.

  She glanced at his feet. “Please let me help you,” she said again.

  “I would really prefer you didn’t,” he said, careful to keep his tone light. “It’s a bit humiliating, don’t you see?”

  She looked at him. “Would you do it for me?” she asked unexpectedly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If I were in your place, Morgan,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, “would you help me put on my shoes?”

  Something in the simple, straightforward question hit him like a blow. He glanced down at his hands, saw that he had rolled the socks together into a tight ball. “Aye,” he finally answered, “I expect I would.”

  “And would you find
it demeaning, to help me so? Or would you do it gladly?”

  “Gladly, of course! It’s just that—”

  “Well, then,” she said evenly, coming to kneel in front of him. “I haven’t had a great deal of experience with men’s socks, of course, but I believe I can manage.”

  Feeling foolish entirely, Morgan opened his hand. She glanced up at him, and there was the hint of a smile in her eyes as she took one of the socks and carefully put it on his foot.

  “The other one?” she said, looking up at him.

  He handed her the other sock, watching as she smoothed it up over his foot. Her hands looked surprisingly strong and sure as she proceeded next to slip his shoe onto his right foot. For an instant he could have sworn he felt her touch, but that was nonsense, obviously; his feet were as useless as his legs.

  For a fleeting instant, Morgan’s imagination called up a sensation of what her touch might be like, if he did have feeling in his feet and legs.

  The effect was startling. He shut his eyes for a moment against the bittersweet joy of imagining her touch, took a deep breath, and fought for control.

  When he opened his eyes again, her slender fingers still rested on his foot, smoothing the fabric around his ankle.

  He found it impossible to take his eyes from her hands, could not help but wonder that she managed to turn such a small ordinary act into a work of grace.

  Impulsively, he reached out to touch the golden crown of her head. Her hair was like warm satin, as he had known it would be.

  She seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat, then went on lacing his shoes.

  “There,” she said quietly when finished, sounding as if she had accomplished something of real consequence. Looking up, she smiled shyly into his eyes.

  Reluctantly, Morgan dropped his hand away from her hair. “Thank you,” he choked out, wanting more than anything in the world at that moment to gather her close and hold her. But the awareness that such an overture might repulse her or even frighten her was like a knife through his heart, and more than enough to restrain him.