by BJ Hoff
Horrified, Nora could hear Morgan’s words to the bug-eyed Cotter as he demanded, “Call them off! Get your riffraff out of that house, or I’ll snap your cowardly spine, I swear I will!”
The agent’s red face looked like a melon about to burst. He continued to rage and squeal as Morgan dangled him in front of the people.
At that moment the constable who had started for Michael Gaffney’s place came racing across the road, his pistol drawn. He fired once into the air, then again. “Put him down, Fitzgerald! Release him at once or you’re a dead man!”
Morgan swiveled to look, dragging Cotter around with him. As he pivoted, he set the agent rudely on his feet, but continued to grasp him firmly under the arms. Pushing Cotter in front of him as he went, he edged his way toward the policeman. “A grand idea, Constable! Go ahead, shoot! Shoot this devil and bless us all!”
A roar went up from the crowd, and several of the men now began to converge on the policeman. The man stood gaping for another instant, then lowered his gun and backed away.
Nora saw the other constable and Cotter’s two bodyguards edge up behind Morgan’s back. “Morgan! Look out—behind you!”
Morgan whipped around, dragging the agent as if the man were weightless. “Get back!” he warned, his face hard and determined. “His death will be on your heads, lads.”
They halted, but didn’t retreat, and Morgan shouted again, “I mean it! Just give me an excuse, why don’t you? Wouldn’t I just love to snap his fat neck!”
Nora shivered in the hush that had fallen over the crowd as Morgan dared his attackers with a grim smile. Didn’t the lunatic realize he was endangering not only himself, but all of them? Cotter would turn out the entire village for his madness!
“Well? Get on with it, then—him or me?”
The constables lowered their weapons, and the bodyguards took a few reluctant steps backward.
“I’ll have the pistols on the ground, lads,” Morgan demanded.
The policemen exchanged uncomfortable glances, but dropped their guns as he instructed.
A growl of rage exploded from Cotter. Morgan yanked him back against his chest, hard enough that Nora heard the man’s bones snap as he cried out in pain. She cringed again, anger at Morgan and his mindless temper surging through her. The man he was threatening held the life of every person here in his very hands.
“Now, then, Mister Cotter—your honor, sir,” Morgan sneered, his mouth close to the agent’s temple as he slurred his words in an exaggerated brogue, “you’ll be after ending this little incident right away. Just send your boys along like good lads, and I’ll turn you loose as well. We’ll be having no more of this eviction talk today, if you please.” His eyes went to the destructives. “But first, boyos, let’s be putting the Missus Quigley’s furniture back inside her house where it belongs.”
“No!” Cotter twisted and squirmed, struggling in vain to free himself from Morgan’s iron grip. “Stay where you are! Do you hear? Stay where you are!”
Nora’s hand flew to her mouth as Morgan’s grasp on the man tightened. Cotter shrieked, but Morgan merely pressed his mouth even closer to Cotter’s ear and grated, “I think you’d best heed what I say, man, and heed it well. I have some lads of my own, you see, who are far more fierce than these miserable spalpeens of yours.” One brawny arm locked under Cotter’s chin. “Now here’s the way it will be, unless you do as you’re told: Some night very soon my men and I will come calling. We’ll come while you sleep, and you’ll not even know we’re about.” His voice hardened. “Until we’ve spread-eagled you in the yard and set you ablaze, that is.”
The agent had stopped his squirming—indeed, he seemed to have stopped breathing. “Aye,” Morgan finished smoothly, “you’ll be ashes among the cow dung before anyone even suspects what has happened.”
Cotter’s eyes looked about to pop as Morgan tightened his hold on his throat. The agent frantically began to nod his agreement.
“Ah, so we understand each other then, your honor?”
Again Cotter wagged his head vigorously, tears tracking down his fat cheeks.
“Well, that’s grand, then,” Morgan said cheerfully, inclining his head toward O’Malley. “Bring me one of those pistols, Sean, why don’t you? And perhaps you might want to hold on to the other one yourself.”
The lithe, square-shouldered O’Malley didn’t hesitate. He passed one pistol to Morgan, then leveled the other gun on the agent.
“All right, now,” Morgan said evenly, releasing Cotter’s throat to palm the gun. “We’ll just be waiting until your lads put Missus Quigley’s house back in order.”
Morgan continued to hold Cotter firmly until all Aine’s belongings had been returned to her cottage. Finally, he gave the agent a rough shove, pushing him toward his horse and training the pistol on him.
All eyes followed Cotter and the officials as they jumped on their mounts and started to ride away, their henchmen running behind them. Unexpectedly Cotter jerked his stallion around to face Morgan. “Know this, Fitzgerald,” he grated out, his face flushed with hatred and humiliation, “this day you have signed your death ticket!”
An impudent grin spread over Morgan’s face as he lifted his chin and cocked his head, but his eyes glittered as hard as ice chips. “That being the case, your honor, sir, you might do well to remember that your ticket is attached to my own.”
The agent swore, then yanked his horse around and took off at a frenzied gallop. Behind him, the crowd of watchers broke into a militant cheer.
Nora stiffened, feeling her face grow hot as Morgan caught her eye and began walking toward her. She could sense the interested stares of her neighbors and wanted desperately to run.
“You saved my back, lass,” he said quietly in the Irish. “I thank you for the warning.”
Nora stared resolutely down at the frozen mire, not answering. Acutely aware of his eyes on her, she finally dragged her gaze up to meet his, encountering a faint glint of amusement that made her blood boil. His eyes went over her, traveling past Old Dan’s worn, shapeless coat and her sodden brown skirt, down to her feet, lost in the old man’s heavy boots.
His eyes met hers again and held. He said nothing; his smile said it all. It suddenly occurred to Nora how desperately woebegone she must appear to him, standing there like a drowned ragamuffin in the old man’s clothes. Well, and what did she care how she looked to Morgan Fitzgerald?
Irked by his insolence, Nora snapped at him. “You do know he’s right, don’t you? Not only has your madness signed your ticket to the gallows, but you’ve most likely sealed the fate of the entire village!”
His arrogant smile fled as he stood studying her face. When he finally spoke, his tone was guarded. “The fate of the village and all Ireland was sealed long before this day. If you did not know that before, then at least face the truth now.”
“Just what is the truth?” she whispered savagely. “What, Morgan Fitzgerald, did you mean when you warned the agent about ‘your lads,’ as you called them? What is it you’re hiding, with your wandering about and your gifting us with provisions from the Lord knows where and—”
Suddenly Nora stopped, shaking her head wearily. She dared not finish the question or play out her accusations to the end. There were some things, she realized with self-disgust, that were better left unknown.
When she looked up at Morgan again his eyes were hard, and for a moment Nora thought he was simply going to turn and walk away. Instead, he shoved the pistol into his belt, took her firmly by the arm, and started walking, pulling her along beside him. “Come along, Nora Ellen, I will see you home before you catch your death.”
Mortified by his insufferable air of proprietorship, Nora tried to twist her arm free. Ignoring her, he merely tightened his hold and stepped up his pace.
Nora deliberately lowered her voice to avoid calling further attention to herself. “You haven’t changed at all, Morgan Fitzgerald,” she spit out bitterly, stumbling along beside him. “Y
ou still have more gall than sense.”
He glanced down at her, not breaking his stride in the least as he gave her a measuring look. “And you, Nora lass, have not changed all that much yourself,” he countered with just the faintest hint of a smile. “Yours is still a terrible beauty when you’re vexed with me. Now, tell me, what were you doing out in this miserable weather to begin with?”
Nora flushed at his words. “I was looking for Daniel John.”
She explained then about the stolen cow, being careful to conceal her feelings of desperation. “I told him to give it up, but he insisted on going out again this morning. The cow is gone for good. I know it, and I think he knows it as well.”
“He feels as if he has to do something,” Morgan replied softly. “With both Tahg and his granddaddy ill now, I imagine the lad is doing his best to take his place as the man of the house.”
Startled at his perception—for she had already recognized her son’s efforts to do just that—Nora glanced up at him. “Aye, I’m sure that’s how it is with him.” It made her heart ache to see her youngest trying so hard to become a man overnight. Fortunately for them all, the boy had always seemed far older than his years. True, he was a dreamer, but despite his fanciful imagination, he was a lad who could be counted on when he was needed.
“How is the old man?”
“Growing weaker by the day. He was still abed when I left the house.” Nora’s voice betrayed her worry. “I can’t remember him ever lying in so late before.” She paused, struck by a thought which she expressed, mostly to herself. “It seems that nothing is the same these days. Everything is changing. Even people.”
Morgan looked at her, nodding slowly. “There are even more changes coming, you know. You’d do well to be prepared for them.”
They had reached the front yard of the cottage. Morgan stopped and turned to face her, catching her hand in his. “Nora—I’m going to be gone for a few days, but before I leave I want to know that you’ve food enough to last until I get back. Especially now, with the cow gone, can you manage?
Trying to ignore the sharp stab of disappointment she felt upon learning that he was leaving again, Nora nodded, avoiding his eyes.
With his free hand he caught her chin and tilted it up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I must know the truth, Nora,” he said urgently. “I’ll bring some more provisions with me when I come back, but I need to be sure you’ll be all right until then. Don’t lie to me, lass—your pride will not keep your family alive.”
Stung by his words, Nora stiffened. She would not become dependent on him. She had no idea what he was up to, with this sudden concern for their well-being, but she must not allow herself to grow used to his presence in her life again. Morgan was quicksilver—unstable, unreliable, unpredictable. As for her pride, he was being entirely unfair. What he took to be pride was simply self-respect, and she thought he should have understood her need to retain what she could of it.
“Nora?” His eyes narrowed, challenging her.
“I—yes. We’ll be fine.”
Still he searched her eyes, as if he were trying to read her heart.
“Your concern is misplaced, Morgan,” she said evenly. “Thomas and his children are your family. If you’re determined to look after anyone, then see to them.”
He let his hand fall away from her chin. “Thomas is a man grown,” he said, drawing back slightly. “He takes responsibility for his own family.”
“Well, it’s not for you to take responsibility for mine.” Her words sounded sharper than she’d intended. Still, she meant them. “We—will be all right,” she said, gentling her tone a bit. “Truly, we will.”
Morgan’s eyes softened, a look Nora did not want to remember. “And that is all I’m wanting, Nora—for you and yours to be safe and well. Can you not accept that much from me, at least—that I still care for you?”
She could not look at him. She wouldn’t. She would not look at him or listen to him or believe in him or feel anything at all for him. Not ever.
Mustering as impersonal a tone as she could manage, Nora fixed her gaze on a spot just past his shoulder. “Thank you…for what you did for Aine today, Morgan. It was very brave. I really must go inside now and see to Tahg and the old man.”
She sensed that he was about to say more—something nasty, by the looks of his frown—but he held his tongue. His expression cleared as he gave a short nod and said agreeably, “Aye, and even more do you need to be getting out of those wet things.”
She started to turn, but he reached out and put a hand to her arm. “Nora—”
She turned back to him.
“Tell Daniel John that I’ll be back in a few days. Tell him I said goodbye.”
She nodded, and started for the cottage. Already she dreaded the look she would see in her son’s eyes when he learned that Morgan was leaving again. But then he might just as well get used to doing without the man. Perhaps Morgan meant what he said, this time, about coming back in a few days, but that was only for now. The day would come—and soon, more than likely—when he would go wandering off again, not to be seen for months or even years. Morgan would never be—could never be—anything else but what he was. She must not allow Daniel John to believe, even for a moment, that the man would ever change.
And she must not allow herself to believe it either.
8
Winter Memories
All through the night did I hear the banshee keening:
Somewhere you are dying and nothing can I do:
My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;
Bitter is your trouble—and I am far from you.
DORA SIGERSON SHORTER (1866-1917)
New York City
The snow that had begun at dawn increased with a vengeance throughout the day. Several inches already blanketed the city, and still it slashed relentlessly against the kitchen window facing the street.
Home from his watch and relaxing with his tea, Michael Burke propped his elbows on the table and stared down onto the street below. In the quickly gathering dusk, the snow wove a blowing veil about the gaslights, allowing the mean, cluttered streets to masquerade as a quaint, even charming winter scene. A flow of pedestrians hurrying home from work pushed urgently along, holding their caps as their coattails and scarves whipped sharply in the wind. Much of the garbage that bordered them on either side was disguised, distorted by flickering shadows from the snow swirling about the lamplight.
Michael checked his pocket watch; Tierney should be along soon from his after-school job at the hotel. Wiping a hand over the back of his neck, he yawned and glanced again at the newspaper on the table in front of him. He suspected much of his gloomy mood could be attributed to the Tribune’s front-page report of the troubles in Ireland. These days the papers were filled with accounts of the Great Famine, as they were calling it; indeed, it was a rare edition that carried no news of the mounting disaster across the sea.
Compassion for Ireland’s plight seemed nationwide. Young as she was, America was a land with an enormous heart, a generous heart. Oh, there was no denying Tierney’s frequent complaints about New York’s resistance to the Irish. The hostilities were real enough, even among the Irish themselves. The Protestants continued to view their Catholic countrymen with contempt, just as they had back in Ireland, thinking them ignorant, superstitious peasants who were incapable of bettering their lot in life even if they had a mind to do so. Such disaffection for the “papists,” some years past, had led to a number of Protestant Irish-Americans identifying themselves as “Scotch-Irish” to dissociate themselves from their Roman countrymen.
On the other side, the Catholic immigrants had transferred their native resentment of the normally wealthier and better-educated Protestants to the same class here in the States. Distrust and bitterness fed the old antagonism, creating new rifts between the two groups. In addition, new barriers rose between the Irish and other emigrants, especially the Germans. The German Catholics,
for example, found the Irish too grim and defeatist for their own energetic, practical religious beliefs, while the Irish thought the Germans somewhat naive and pompous.
Despite their differences, however, Americans simply were not a people who could ignore the large-scale suffering of an entire country, especially a country that had apparently been abandoned by her own “Mother England.” Already meetings were being held—not only here in New York, but throughout the country—to respond to Ireland’s needs.
Railways offered to carry free all shipments marked Ireland, and public carriers delivered at no cost all boxes going toward Irish aid. Relief committees throughout the nation hastened to put thousands of dollars and shiploads of food at the disposal of the Society of Friends—the Quakers—who were energetically organizing the United States’ aid to Ireland.
Here in New York, Tammany Hall collected thousands of dollars, as did both Catholic and Protestant churches nationwide. “Donation parties” were held by all denominations, along with concerts and teas. Young ladies in private schools volunteered to make useful articles that could be sold for the benefit of Ireland. Jewish synagogues sent their weekly collections. A group of Choctaw Indians worked to collect an offering of $170, and in villages and towns all over America, women and children pooled their pennies and sent them to Ireland.
Such a flood of enthusiasm had swept the land that not enough ships could be found to transport the bounty. Aye, it was a grand thing that was happening, but it rankled Michael that it should require a disaster of such tragic proportions to unite his countrymen. Especially those who claimed to be Christians.