Song of the Silent Harp

by BJ Hoff

  Mastery was the thing, he concluded with a self-satisfied smirk. Mastery, not mercy. The English dandy upstairs liked to run on about mercy. Well, Whittaker would also be learning soon enough that mercy had no place in this hellhole. Power was the thing that got the job done—British power. The power of the British landlord.

  He laughed aloud. To these ignorant Irish peasants, what other power was there?

  Upstairs, on his knees, his head resting on clasped hands atop the bed, his brow beaded with perspiration, Evan Whittaker pleaded with his Lord.

  He pleaded for control over the hot anger coursing through him, an anger fueled by disgust and targeted at Cotter, yet somehow directed at his own homeland at the same time. He found it incomprehensible that one people could devastate another in such a way, with such blatant inhumanity and indifference. The question that had confronted him, nagged at him all day, was how a nation like England, perceived as a nation of greatness and nobility by other lands throughout the world, could simply turn its back on a starving country—a country from which they had drawn huge quantities of grain, produce, cattle, and manufactured goods for years. The accusation that they were allowing the Irish to starve to death was no longer a point of debate; a number of Protestant churchmen throughout both countries had begun to add their outraged protests to those of the Catholic clergy, confirming what had been, up until a few months past, merely rumor and insinuation. Facts were facts, and Evan no longer attempted to deny the truth. But what dumbfounded him most was the arrogant detachment, the glib ease with which they had condemned this suffering island.

  Why?

  The question had been on his lips for hours, and he still had no answer. But it seemed to him that at the heart of England’s unmerciful treatment of the Irish, there had to be something larger than neglect, more significant than bigotry. Or did he only cling to that assumption because he could not bring himself to accept the fact that his own country had condemned an entire people out of greed? Greed and apathy.

  And so as he prayed for an ebbing of his anger, as he pleaded for mercy and divine intervention in the lives of the suffering Irish, he prayed for God’s mercy upon his own land as well, for England and her hardened heart.

  So intent was Evan upon his supplications that the noise below scarcely penetrated his awareness. When it came again, he raised his head to listen.

  He heard the sound of breaking glass, then a low, guttural roar, followed by an instant of silence. Evan held his breath, waiting. After another moment came a high-pitched shriek, then an explosion of laughter.

  The sound of madness.

  Evan shuddered, swallowed against his fear, then squeezed his eyes shut. Clasping his hands even more tightly, he bowed his head and returned to the Quiet, to the secure shelter of his Hiding Place.

  The letter from Michael came that night.

  Morgan was sitting at the kitchen table, fiddling with a piece of writing by a young medical student in Dublin, a member of the Young Ireland movement named Richard D’Alton Williams. Williams wrote for The Nation under the nom-de-plume, “Shamrock.” He was a talented lad who on more than one occasion had asked Morgan to critique his poems. Tonight, however, he was finding it difficult to concentrate on Williams’ work, in spite of its usual excellence.

  It was late, past midnight. The children had been in bed for hours. Thomas, his shaggy hair falling over his forehead, sat nodding and dozing by the fire. Earlier he had been reading from the Scriptures. His large hands still held his Bible securely in his lap.

  Pushing his pen and paper aside, Morgan rose to go and wake his brother lest he topple from the chair. He was halfway across the room when someone pounded on the door. Morgan jumped, and Thomas awakened with a startled grunt.

  As soon as Morgan opened the door and saw the young, sober-faced Colin Ward, he knew that at long last he had his reply from Michael.

  A diminutive, wiry lad, Ward wore an eye patch to cover his missing left eye, lost in a brawl on the Dublin docks. At the moment he appeared half-frozen and nearly exhausted. Morgan urged him inside, but the youth refused to sit down and rest.

  “No, thank you, sir. I’ll take but a moment to warm myself, and then I must be off to Castlebar. I have one more delivery yet tonight.”

  Reaching into a pouch on a rope tied about his waist, he pulled out a large, thick envelope and handed it to Morgan. “Here you are, sir. All the way from New York City—and safe and dry at that, though it has passed through many hands, I should imagine.”

  His heart pounding, Morgan reached for the envelope with one hand while squeezing Ward’s shoulder with the other. “I cannot thank you enough, lad. I had almost given this up.”

  Morgan glanced at the hefty envelope, pulling in a sharp breath of anticipation when he saw that it was addressed in Michael’s hand. So impatient was he to open the letter he had to make an effort not to be rude to Ward. But he need not have worried, for the lad seemed as eager to be gone as Morgan was to read his letter. After a brief introduction to Thomas and a few observations about O’Connell’s failing health and Smith O’Brien’s troubles, Ward started to leave. Morgan saw him out, then turned to Thomas.

  “So it has come,” his brother said, watching Morgan with the first spark of interest he had exhibited since Catherine’s death.

  Morgan nodded. He had told Thomas of the letter to Michael, omitting his proposal regarding Nora. So far as his brother was aware, Morgan had simply contacted his old friend to ask assistance for his family in matters of lodging and employment.

  “Go on, then,” Thomas said, returning to his chair. “I am as anxious as you to hear his reply.”

  Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Morgan opened the outside envelope, his hands trembling when he realized it contained two separate letters, each in its own sealed envelope. One was addressed to him, the other to Nora.

  Putting aside for now the torrent of emotions surging up inside his chest, he ripped open the letter addressed to him. He read in silence for a moment, his eyes scanning the words quickly but thoroughly.

  As he had hoped—hoped and half-feared, he admitted to himself—Michael declared himself willing to do what he could to help Nora and her family, as well as Thomas and his children. Though it was not an overly long letter, it was warm and plainly sincere. The decision, Michael said, had not been his alone, but had been made only after much prayer and lengthy discussion with his son, Tierney.

  We are agreed that Nora should come to us, along with those family members who manage to survive the terrible events you have described. And so I have written a separate letter to Nora, as you so insightfully suggested, to make an honorable proposal of marriage, explaining that I greatly need the companionship of a wife, and that Tierney even more needs the mothering influence and nurture she could provide.

  I have tried my best, Morgan, to be entirely sincere and convincing. In truth, I do fervently pray that Nora will come. I am not exaggerating when I say that Tierney and I need her, but in all honesty I might never have come to this realization if you had not written when you did. While I have attempted to build a good life for the both of us, I fear it is often a somewhat lonely life; I know the boy, to say nothing of myself, would benefit greatly from Nora’s presence.

  Not only was he in full agreement with Morgan’s suggestions, Michael went on to say, but he was enclosing some money inside Nora’s letter, “just in case additional funds might be needed once her passage is paid.”

  Bless the man, he had even gone so far as to inquire into employment opportunities for Thomas before writing, saying he thought he might have “something lined up for him by the time they arrive.”

  As Morgan neared the end of the letter, he was feeling a bit better about things—at least until he came to Michael’s closing remarks, which seemed to leap up off the page as if to challenge him.

  It’s entirely true, of course, that when we were young, I was that mad for Nora. Yet, although I did ask her to accompany me to America as my
wife, I was never fool enough to hope she could care for me in any way other than as a friend. We both know that she never saw me apart from your shadow, and I was never so blind as to be unaware of your love for her as well. That being the case, I must ask you, man: Are you absolutely certain this is how you want things to be?

  Ah, no, Michael, this is not the way I want things to be! Were I a different man and this a different time, I would make Nora mine in a shake, if she would have me.

  Dragging his gaze back to the letter, Morgan continued to read.

  Please know, Morgan, that by raising this question I am in no way attempting to renege on anything, but am only trying to be absolutely certain you realize what you are doing. If you are indeed convinced, then know this: If we do this thing, if Nora agrees to come to me and be my wife, then it will be for the duration.

  What I mean to say is that, if you bid her goodbye once, you will be saying goodbye forever. For I will commit my heart to her—and what is left of my life—in an attempt to give her whatever happiness is within my power to give. Do not think that if you should have a change of heart at some time in the future I will simply step aside to make way for you, for indeed I will not.

  Morgan gave a small, grim smile, for he could not help but remember Michael’s tenacity, once he made a decision.

  So consider your feelings well, old friend, for there will be no going back. That done, if your decision still stands, then do your utmost to convince Nora to come to me, and to come quickly. Do not let her delay and die in Ireland. Convince her to come now, before it is too late. And I thank you, Morgan, for your trust, for I know in my heart that by doing this you are giving up the only thing you have ever truly loved besides that wretched, dying island….

  For a long moment, Morgan continued to stare at the pages in his hand, though he knew Thomas was growing impatient. He felt a cold, desolate hole begin to open somewhere deep inside him, and for a moment the image of Nora’s wounded, fearful eyes froze in his mind with a pain he thought could not be borne.

  At last he lifted his eyes from the letter to meet Thomas’s questioning gaze. “You are going,” he said quietly. “It is all arranged. Your fares are more than paid for, and Michael has even explored some job possibilities for you. And it would seem—” He faltered, then managed to go on with forced cheerfulness. “It would seem that he intends to ask Nora to marry him when she arrives. Perhaps that is the very thing that will finally convince her to go.”

  Thomas’s eyes on Morgan were grave and searching as he slowly got to his feet. “I’m thinking it should not be Michael Burke asking Nora to be his wife. You have loved that lass since you were a boy.”

  Shaking his head, Morgan made no attempt to answer. Instead, he deliberately changed the subject. “You can be ready soon, you said.”

  After another long look, Thomas nodded. “Aye, there’s little enough to pack.” He paused, again searching Morgan’s face. “It’s grateful I am to you, brother, for making this possible. You have kept us alive for weeks now, and it would seem that once more you are saving me and my children. I owe you much. But won’t you at least give thought to going with us? I know—”

  Morgan interrupted as if he had not heard. “I will count on you, Thomas, to be a help to Nora—assuming I can convince her to go.”

  “She is still resisting, then?”

  Morgan uttered a short, dry laugh. “Adamantly. I am hoping Michael’s letter will help to bring her around.”

  “You said the other night when we first talked that things were set, with the ship.”

  “Aye. It should be in the bay anytime now. Possibly as soon as the end of this week.”

  Thomas said nothing more for a moment, but Morgan could see that he was troubled. “What is it, then? You’re not having a change of heart?”

  Thomas shook his head. “No, none of that. But I cannot help thinking of that coffin ship that sailed from the bay last year,” he said, raking a hand down one side of his beard-stubbled face. “I’m not worried for myself, you understand. It’s the children.”

  The Elizabeth and Sarah to which Thomas referred had sailed from the bay the past summer only to lose forty-two of her passengers to death during the voyage. Morgan had learned from one of the Young Ireland men in Quebec that the ship had actually broken down and had to be towed the rest of the way into the St. Lawrence.

  “That ship was greatly overloaded with passengers and understocked with provisions,” Morgan reminded Thomas. “You will be going on a much finer ship—an American vessel. They’re far better constructed and more ably commanded, in addition to being much faster than the British vessels. My men arranged this especially for my family, Thomas; they promised to do their best to secure a safe, fast ship. I understand your concern, but—”

  Thomas put up a hand to stop him. “I’d not be much of a father if I did not fear for my children’s safety. But risking their lives on a voyage across the Atlantic still appears to be a far safer venture than keeping them here to die in Killala.”

  Morgan was relieved at his brother’s good sense. If only he could convince Nora to see things the same way. “I will go to Nora first thing tomorrow morning,” he said, carefully folding the pages of Michael’s letter and tucking it back inside the envelope. “You will get the children ready as quickly as possible?”

  “Aye, they will think it’s a great adventure, no doubt.” Thomas’s expression darkened. “Perhaps it will even help to ease their grieving for their mother.”

  With a distracted nod, Morgan lay the envelope on the table. He was weary, almost aching with fatigue and a somber sense of impending loss. Yet he knew he would manage little sleep this night.

  “You should get some rest, brother,” Thomas said, his own eyes red-rimmed and heavy. “It is late.”

  “You go on. I want to work a bit longer on Williams’ poem.”

  After Thomas left the room, Morgan continued to stare at the envelope on the table for a long time. Finally, he sighed, and cupping the candle’s flame with the palm of his hand, snuffed it out.

  Still he could not bring himself to move, but merely stood like a cold marble statue in the darkness of his brother’s cabin.

  The breaking of his heart was now complete.

  16

  So Many Partings

  Famine and plague, what havoc have ye made?

  And was it thus that stalwart men should die?

  JEREMIAH O’RYAN (1770-1855)

  Old Dan drew his last breath early the next morning.

  An icy rain had returned during the night, and even now, long past dawn, its gray chill seemed to drape the entire cottage in gloom. Sensing that the old man’s death was imminent, Nora had sat by his bed most of the night. When at last she heard the death rattles in his throat, she rose and went to call Daniel John in from the kitchen.

  “You will want to say your goodbyes to your grandfather now, son,” she told him gently. “He will soon be gone.”

  With anguish in his eyes, the boy parted the curtain and entered the alcove. Nora followed, waiting at the foot of the bed as Daniel John slipped in between Tahg and the old man. Tahg was awake—one of his increasingly rare lucid times—and lay watching as his brother took their grandfather by the hand.

  “Can he hear me, do you think?” Daniel John asked, not taking his gaze from the unconscious old man.

  “Only God knows,” Nora answered. Tortured by her son’s grief, she put a hand to her throat, swollen painfully with unshed tears.

  In the silent shadows of the alcove, Tahg suddenly reached out a thin, white hand to his brother, who turned to look at him. “I’m sure he hears,” Tahg said in a strained whisper. “Tell him for me, too, Danny. I can’t—” He broke off when a fit of coughing stole his breath.

  Daniel John’s eyes filled as he stared at his older brother for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and turned back to Old Dan, then began speaking in the Irish.

  The ache in Nora’s heart grew fierce as she listen
ed to her son’s last farewell to his grandfather. He thanked him for the countless sacrifices he had made for the family, acknowledging the noble menory, the legacy of love and goodness and integrity Old Dan would be leaving behind.

  “I will do my best…to be true to your name, Grandfar…to bring honor to you. I will remember for all my life that the name of Daniel Kavanagh is one to wear with pride.”

  Nora sobbed aloud as the boy bent to kiss the old man’s sunken cheek. She had said her own goodbyes earlier that morning, but God help her, it was still hard to let him go. Dan Kavanagh had been the only father she had ever known, and in truth he had treated her as his own flesh and blood. She could not imagine this cottage, which he had built with his own two hands—or, for that matter, life itself—without him.

  For the next hour, the three of them kept their vigil, praying together, then mourning together when it was finally over. Both boys cried, and Nora felt it was a tribute to their da that they were able to do so. Owen had raised both his sons to be strong in heart and tender in spirit. He had been a fine father, Owen had, as fine a father as a husband, and she missed him deeply, especially at times like these.

  Before she realized what she was doing, she found herself wishing that Morgan would come. Just as quickly, she despised herself for her own weakness, for she knew it was his strength for which she longed, not merely his presence.

  She was so tired, so utterly exhausted. The very thought of having to deal with yet another death overwhelmed her to the point of desperation. But deal with it she must, and right away, especially with Tahg so ill; he must not have to lie there, in a bed alongside his dead grandfather, for any length of time. Obviously, she could not send for Morgan. After their words two nights past, she was certain he was as bent on avoiding her as she him. He had been noticeably ill at ease the day before, when he’d stopped by the cottage for Daniel John. No, Morgan would not be coming round again soon—if ever.