by BJ Hoff
He peered into her face. “Yes,” he said finally. “All right, then. I don’t want to tire you. But will you just answer me one thing, Mother?”
“Of course, son. If I can.”
“Do you—do you think perhaps Morgan might be right? He seems so determined that we leave Ireland. Do you agree with him, that emigration is our only hope of survival? Are things truly that desperate, Mother?”
Unable for the moment to meet his searching eyes, Nora looked down at the floor. She wasn’t at all certain exactly what she believed. At least for now, she seemed incapable of getting beyond the degrading suspicion that Morgan merely wanted to unburden himself of them in the easiest way possible. Why couldn’t he simply have realized from the beginning how vastly unsuited he was for the role of benefactor? It would have been so much better for them all.
She could not stop her anger from spilling over. “Of course not!” she snapped out. “He’s only making things sound worse to frighten us into doing what he has decided we should do!”
Daniel John stood staring at her with an expression that was both puzzled and hurt. “I…I don’t think Morgan would do that, Mother. He’s not like that, not a bit.”
Suddenly irritated with the boy’s adoration for the man—which Morgan clearly did not deserve—Nora proceeded to tell her son exactly what she thought to be the truth behind his hero’s professed concern for their welfare.
14
Choices and Wishes
Day and night we are wrapped in a desperate strife,
Not for national glory, but personal life.
JOHN DE JEAN FRAZER (1809-1852)
Early the next morning, Morgan stopped at Nora’s cottage with an axe and a cart, explaining that he was on his way to fell a tree and asking if Daniel John wished to come along.
The two walked and climbed for nearly an hour before stopping halfway up a steep, dense hillside. They stood appraising a medium-sized elm tree and a smaller beech for firewood.
Although it was a cold, damp morning with mist bleeding down the hill, the sky was clear; indeed, it looked as if the sun might actually be about to shine upon Killala for the first time in weeks. Looking down on the village from this far up, its streets veiled by the shimmering mist, Daniel could hardly believe it was teeming with death and disease. The bodies heaped along the road weren’t visible from up here, nor were the beggars, those few still able to stumble through the town. But here and there a ragged tunnel of smoke from a torched cottage rose to meet the mist in a grim reminder that the Reaper of Death was still on the prowl in Killala.
And, as always, silence reigned—the terrible, ominous silence, somehow more agonizing than actual cries of human misery. Even here, far above the town, the unnatural silence of the famine seemed to hover. Other than the occasional snap of a twig underfoot or the brushing of branches in the light morning wind, the same awful stillness that permeated the entire village shrouded the hill.
Morgan finally broke the silence. “The beech will do best,” he said decisively, slipping out of the cloak he had retrieved only that morning. “We can be done with it faster, and it will burn just as long.”
Daniel nodded shortly, not looking at him. Feeling ill at ease in Morgan’s company was a new experience for him, and a distressing one. The harsh words spoken in haste the evening before seemed to have raised a wall between them. He had spent a long, restless night trying to sort out an entire parade of troubled feelings, not the least of which was humiliation.
Their argument over Cotter’s job offer had provoked the first sharp words Morgan had ever uttered to him, and the scene had left Daniel feeling ignorant. He resented being scolded like a wee wane. Even if he had been foolish in going to the agent’s house, he would have expected Morgan to understand the desperation that drove him there, rather than reprimanding him for it.
As for Cotter—certainly Daniel had heard the tales about the land agent. But what Morgan—and his mother as well—seemed bent on ignoring was the fact that Daniel was no longer a child. If he had not thought himself up to handling a weak, dull-witted man like Cotter, he wouldn’t have agreed to accept the job in the first place.
Morgan’s unexpected rebuke had been bad enough, but even more disturbing had been the abrupt, uncompromising manner in which he had forced upon them the subject of emigration. Obviously, he had upset Mother a great deal; the bitter, scathing things she said after Morgan left the cottage had been painful and impossible to believe.
Her accusation that Morgan wanted only to be rid of them had gone straight to Daniel’s heart, piercing like a bandit’s knife. When he attempted to protest on Morgan’s behalf, she had ignored him. “Morgan is a man after living for himself—and himself alone!” she’d snapped. “And for his precious Ireland, of course! He cares for nothing else and never will. Why, he’s even managed to coax Thomas and the children to go along with this daft scheme! Sure, and won’t he be as free as a sea bird, once he gets the lot of us onto a ship?”
Despite his own conflicting emotions, Daniel still thought his mother’s allegations unfair. Both she and Grandfar had always accused Morgan of being selfish and irresponsible, indifferent to the feelings of others. But Daniel had never seen him in that light. Admittedly, Morgan was a solitary man—perhaps even a bit peculiar, as some in the village insinuated. He was lonely, often melancholy, at times even aloof. But never uncaring—especially with Mother. He had seen the way Morgan sometimes looked at her when he thought nobody was watching, as if she were a rare and precious jewel, a treasure to cherish. Daniel could not put a name to the expression that came over Morgan’s face, but there was no mistaking the endless depth of caring there.
And yet, if Morgan truly cared, would he be so determined to send them away? To emigrate might mean they would never see one another again, after all. Mother said Morgan had no intention whatsoever of leaving Ireland, not now, not ever. If he had any real affection for them, would he be quite so eager to set them on their way to America?
America. The word had once been magic to Daniel. Often he had dreamed of visiting the liberty-loving young country. Like Morgan, he doubted that any true Irish heart could help but be stirred by the tale of America’s struggle for independence from the British.
But how could Morgan think Daniel would want to stay there? Didn’t he understand that he wasn’t the only one who loved Ireland? Wasn’t this his country as well as Morgan’s? Killala, the mountains—the entire island—this was home. Everything he’d ever known and loved was here. Did Morgan think he could simply turn his back on it, leave and forget it altogether?
“Daniel John? Are you going to help me?”
Morgan’s voice yanked him out of his troubled thoughts. He whipped around and, without thinking, blurted out, “Morgan—I don’t want to go! I don’t want to leave Ireland!”
Clearly taken aback, Morgan stared at him a moment before answering. “Of course you don’t want to leave, lad,” he finally said, his voice quiet. “You think I do not know that?”
“Then why did you even bring it up? You saw how weak Mother is! All you did was upset her!” Daniel’s earlier hurt and confusion parted to make way for a growing wave of doubt. “Is it true, then, what Mother thinks—that you simply want to be rid of us?”
Morgan stood leaning on the axe, his eyes hooded. “Your mother said that, did she?”
Miserable, already wishing he had held his silence, Daniel turned away without answering.
Behind him, Morgan’s voice was soft and oddly uncertain. “And you, Daniel John? Is that what you think?”
Daniel John swallowed, feeling torn and bewildered and even a little frightened. “I don’t know,” he muttered, still keeping his back to Morgan. “I don’t suppose I know what I think anymore.”
And how could he? Morgan thought with despair. He is but thirteen years old. A boy, not a man. A boy who has lost his father, his little sister—and is now losing his grandfather and older brother as well. And as if that were not enou
gh to crush the spirit out of him, here am I, suggesting that he forsake his home and his country in the bargain. Of course he does not know what to think, except perhaps that his life has become a tale of madness, a cruel and heartless jest.
“Mother was right, you know.” Daniel John finally turned to face him when he spoke. “Even if we were of a mind to leave, it would be impossible. Tahg cannot walk—he scarcely even speaks anymore. And Grandfar—”
Morgan nodded. “Yes, lad, I know,” he said, trying to be gentle. “Your granddaddy is dying. And I am sorry, Daniel John, deeply sorry.” He paused. “But can you not understand, lad, that it is only because I don’t want to see you and your mother die as well that I’m trying to make you face reality—face it and do something about it?”
“You know Mother will never be able to bring herself to leave!” the boy argued, his voice breaking for an instant in his frustration. “Not only because of Grandfar and Tahg.” He paused, as if debating as to whether he had the right to say what came next. “Mother…Mother would be afraid, Morgan. Why, she’d be terrified, don’t you see? She’s never been farther than Ballina in her life! Her entire world is here, in Killala.”
Again Morgan nodded, unable to dispute the lad’s insight about his mother. Yes, of course, Nora would be frightened. Hadn’t he known all along that fear might prove to be the one obstacle he could not overcome? Everything else was within the realm of possibility: money for passage, a ship, even the hope of a livelihood once they arrived. But what to do about Nora’s fear?
Wasn’t that the reason he had counted on Michael’s willingness to help? His hope was that having somebody to depend on, somebody familiar, once they reached the States would make all the difference for Nora.
Ah, Michael, Michael, why haven’t you answered me, man? Have I hoped for too much, after all?
“Morgan?”
The boy seemed to be looking everywhere else but at him. “If…if you were to go, Mother might not be so frightened. It would make all the difference if you were with us. I don’t believe she considers me any protection at all—she still thinks of me as a child, you know.”
Stricken, Morgan groped for an answer; it was a question he had not anticipated. Not that he hadn’t already thought of the possibility. In the event that Michael did not answer his letter, or if he answered but was unwilling to help, he had considered accompanying Nora and the others across, then returning once they were settled.
But the timing could not be worse. The new Confederation was planning a rising—a plan doomed to failure before it began. How else could it end but in defeat? Their army would be made up mostly of hungry men and starving boys, with any number of wild-eyed fanatics thrown in who had no real conception at all as to what they were fighting for. An army of starving peasants and visionaries was hardly a match for the mighty British Empire.
Despite his conviction that defeat was the only possible outcome for such an undertaking, however, Morgan could not bring himself to turn his back on Smith O’Brien. His friendship with the leader of the Young Ireland movement—and hence the leader, albeit a reluctant one, of the planned rising—made it impossible for Morgan to walk away. Besides—as Smith O’Brien had pointed out to those members like Morgan who tended to be less radical—a few cool heads might help to temper the heat of the rebellion’s real fire, the impassioned militant, John Mitchel. This strong-willed son of a Unitarian minister could not be a more dramatic contrast to O’Brien, a reserved, Protestant country gentleman; yet the two had somehow managed to engulf themselves and the entire movement in a gathering storm that could explode into open rebellion at any time.
Because of his friendship with O’Brien, Morgan had promised his pen—and his men—to the Young Ireland movement, and hence the rising. He would not renege. He was committed.
But was he not also committed to the boy who stood across from him, staring at him with entreating eyes? And to the lad’s mother?
Nora. Dear God, don’t make me choose between her and Ireland again. I made my choice once, and I have lived with it. But, please, God, not again…not again…
Raking a hand through his hair, he looked away, turning his gaze toward the mountains. “Daniel John, please try to understand. I am deeply involved in some things right now that I must see through to the end. I have committed myself to a plan, and to some people, and to leave Ireland at this time would be akin to betrayal.”
Unexpectedly, the boy nodded and said, “You’re talking about a rising.”
Morgan shot him a surprised look. “What do you know of a rising?”
“I’ve heard Grandfar talking,” Daniel John said with a shrug. “Him and the other men in the village. And at meeting some weeks ago we were warned about such a possibility. The speaker said we should have no part in it.” He stopped, managing a small, bitter smile. “As if anyone in the village has the strength left to take up arms.”
He lifted his eyes to Morgan’s, his expression sad but knowing. “I’m sorry, Morgan,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I understand why you can’t go.”
Morgan took a step toward him with the intention of explaining himself still further, but Daniel John shook his head. “No, really, it’s all right,” he said in a choked voice. “I do understand, at least I think I do, how it is with you…how it has always been. It’s as if Ireland has absorbed your very spirit, made you a part of her.”
Morgan had never loved the lad quite so much as he did at that moment. He thought his heart would surely explode as he laid his hands lightly on the boy’s shoulders, saying, “Aye, it is as you say. But do you also understand, lad, that though it is a different kind of love, it is no greater than my feelings for you and your mother?”
Daniel John gave a short, stiff nod, averting his eyes. “Aye, I do know that, Morgan. I have always known.”
The ache in Morgan’s heart swelled. “Then know this as well, lad: I would never, ever, wish you or your mother separated from me. It crushes me to even think of it. But what I do wish is for you to live, Daniel John—to live and have a chance for a good life, a better life than this suffering island can ever offer you.”
Daniel John looked up at him, and Morgan saw with dismay that the boy’s eyes were filled with tears. Impulsively, he caught him in a brief embrace, then held him away. “You are growing up quickly, lad,” he said, still holding him loosely by the shoulders. “And you will grow to be a fine man—a great man, I am thinking.”
The boy flushed, but Morgan went on. “You have a noble, heroic heart, Daniel John. You will do your mother proud.” He stopped, searching for the words to express what he so desperately wanted to say. “There is something I want to tell you, lad, and no matter what may happen in the days and years to come, I pray you will always remember it.” He tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulders, regarding him with pride and approval. “If I had ever had a son, Daniel John, I would have been pleased had he been a lad like you, exactly like you. Many is the time I have wished you mine.”
For a silent moment they stood so, each searching the gaze of the other. Suddenly, Daniel John threw his arms about Morgan’s neck and clung to him. “Go with us, Morgan!” he choked out, the words muffled against Morgan’s shoulder. “Please! Go with us!”
Morgan held him tightly, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. Obviously, none of this was going to be as simple as he had hoped.
PART TWO
SONG OF SILENCE
The Waiting
The Lord himself has scattered them; he no longer watches
over them. The priests are shown no honor, the elders no
favor. Our eyes failed, looking in vain for help; from our
towers we watched for a nation that could not save us.
LAMENTATIONS 4:16-17 (NIV)
15
Night Watches
For where is Faith, or Purity, or Heaven in us now?
In power alone the times believe—to gold alone they bow.
RIC
HARD D’ALTON WILLIAMS (1822-1862)
Cotter sat alone in the large, drafty front room, nursing his whiskey along with his rage.
He had spent most of the day fuming about the Kavanagh boy, plotting his revenge on the thieving little rat. He was vaguely aware that night had fallen. The darkness around him was relieved only by the low fire across the room, which had almost burned itself out. A candle had been flickering earlier, but when the draft from the ill-fitting windows snuffed it out, he hadn’t bothered to light it again.
He was completely alone in the house, except for Whittaker, who had secreted himself in his room upstairs immediately after supper. Cook had returned to her cottage in the village after the evening meal; and since the latest in a succession of housekeepers had quit only last week, there were no other domestics presently on the grounds.
From time to time Cotter shot a furious glare at the ceiling, angrily willing the milksop Englishman in the room above to feel the heat of his wrath. For the most part, however, he merely sat, sprawled drunkenly in his chair, drinking and cursing. Sometimes aloud, more often to himself, he cursed Daniel Kavanagh, his family, and the useless inhabitants of the village.
As for the boy, that impudent gorsoon would pay, he would. He could not imagine what had possessed the young pup, pretending to be so eager for a job, then deliberately defying him. Well, he would rue his insolence, and soon. Tomorrow the foolhardy young buck would find out the hard way that he could not afford to flout Georges Cotter’s authority.
The agent tossed down the rest of his whiskey. Aye, tomorrow young Kavanagh would learn to his misfortune the consequences of rebuffing those in authority. Indeed, many of the disrespectful savages in this squalid village would have themselves a taste of their agent’s authority tomorrow.