by BJ Hoff
On the heels of this thought came a fierce longing for Catherine Fitzgerald. Nora herself had never laid out a body. Catherine had tended to the pitiful wee babe who had been stillborn, between Tahg and Daniel John. When Owen died, Catherine laid him out, and she had been there again for Ellie. But now Catherine was gone, and this time Nora was on her own. She would not ask Daniel John to help; she simply couldn’t. The boy was still only thirteen, not yet a man grown. And this was his grandfather, after all—he should not have to do what it was her place to do.
What she would do, however, was to send him for Thomas Fitzgerald. Thomas had promised that when the time came he would make a coffin for Old Dan. It would be a simple one, of course, for they had only some scrap wood and part of an old table she had saved with this day in mind. But at least the old man would not be dropped into the ground from one of those awful hinged “trap coffins” used by the death-cart drivers. Dan Kavanagh had been a man of great pride and dignity before the Hunger had stripped most of it away, and Nora was immensely grateful to Thomas for offering to spare her father-in-law the final humiliation of a pauper’s grave.
There would be no wake, of course, and this distressed her. The old dear should have had a proper mourning. For years Dan Kavanagh had been treated to the respect and confidence of the entire village. Why, he was one of the very oldest residents, he was. In the old days, he would have been a tribal chieftain. His ancestors dated back to the time of Cromwell’s invasion, when the young Eoin Caomhanach—John Kavanagh—had fled across the island to Connacht rather than risk exile to Barbados.
Still, there would be no wake. The few villagers who might yet possess the strength to make their way to the cottage had all they could do to see to their own families. Besides, with the fever now on the rage throughout the district, few were willing to risk public gatherings, even to show respect for the dead.
There was nothing to do but lay out the old man in private and see to it that he at least had a proper burial. Thank God for friends like Thomas, she thought with a deep sigh. She would send Daniel John for him right away.
Morgan dumped an armload of wood next to the fireplace, then went to the table to drain the last of his tea. Replacing his empty cup, he picked up the envelope containing the letters and, after giving it a long look, tucked it securely inside the pouch tied at his waist.
This morning he would deliver Michael’s letter to Nora. It must be done now, before his foolish feelings allowed him to delay any longer. He had spent most of the night at odds with himself, sleeping hardly at all as he mulled over and over again what lay ahead. By dawn he had almost managed to convince himself to simply keep quiet about the letter. He would take Nora and the others across, to the States, and once they arrived he would—
He would do what? The lack of an answer to that question ultimately forced him to face the utter absurdity of his plan. Unless he were willing to stay in America and build a life together with Nora—and why would he even imagine she would have him?—then there was no conceivable reason to go with her.
He squatted down to punch up the fire, putting aside his foolish thoughts. Thomas was going, and Michael was waiting; Nora would be perfectly fine. The best thing for her—indeed the only thing, if she was to find the happiness she so deserved—was for her to marry Michael Burke. He was a grand lad, a veritable rock of a man: sober, hardworking, ambitious, a man of unimpeachable integrity. And hadn’t he already committed himself to Nora’s happiness? He would give her a new life, a good life in America. In addition, he could provide Daniel John opportunities the likes of which the boy would never see here in Ireland.
He would take the letter to Nora this morning. Then the only thing remaining would be to convince her to go.
He would never see her again, never again feel his heart melt from the warmth of her huge gray eyes or hear her soft, uncertain laugh or touch the silk of her raven hair…Daniel John would be lost to him as well…He would not see him grow to manhood, would not be allowed to feed his hunger for learning, share his dreams, encourage his music. So much would be lost to him, so much…
But so much would be gained by Nora, he reminded himself, straightening. And that would somehow have to make his own loss bearable. Besides, who could say he would not see her again? He could always pay a visit to the States.
But by then she would be another man’s wife.
He uttered a sharp sound of disgust at himself. Had she not been another man’s wife for years? It was time for him to stop playing the fool for the woman and get a grip on himself.
Squaring his shoulders, he crossed to the table and sliced off a crust of bread, chewing it without really tasting it. Little Tom came trudging out from his bed just then, and, as always, ran to Morgan, climbing him as he would a tree.
Morgan scooped the little fellow the rest of the way up, hoisting him onto his shoulder. He was scarcely out of didies, this one, but already the stunned, morose look of the Hunger was on him. His enormous green eyes—as green as Morgan’s own—held, instead of a childish glint of fun, the faintly suspicious, watchful stare of a stray pup trying to gauge an unpredictable master’s intentions.
Yet this wee wane was healthier by far than most of the other children in the village. Pity those little ones, Morgan thought grimly, who had no outlaw uncle to fill their bellies.
“Your sisters are still asleep?” Morgan asked the tyke in the Irish. As he most often did with his own family, he spoke the ancient language, determined that the children should grow up entirely at ease with the original tongue of their people. Morgan loved the language, and because he knew himself to be one of the last remaining Gaelic poets and writers, he was determined to do his part in keeping this much of their heritage alive. As long as their language survived, perhaps there was hope that all things Irish would not perish under Britain’s colonization.
The little boy nodded and put his arms around Morgan’s neck in a tight hug.
“Say the words, Tom,” Morgan demanded.
“They are sleeping, Uncle Morgan,” the little boy replied in the Irish.
“Ah, then to you is appointed the privilege of waking them,” Morgan said, grinning at his nephew as he swung him down to his feet. “You have my permission to tug their ears, if that’s what it takes. Just a tiny tug, though; you must not hurt them. Girls are very tender, don’t forget.” Swatting the little boy lightly on his bottom, he stood and watched him go trundling off to the back of the cottage, where his sisters slept.
“And what is he about so early?” Thomas asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he entered the room.
“I thought it might be well to wake the lasses. There will be much to do over these next days, and they could be of help to Nora as well.”
“Johanna, perhaps,” Thomas agreed solemnly, tucking his shirttail inside his breeches. “Katie is that weak, though. She seems to tire with the least effort.”
Fear lurked in his brother’s eyes, and Morgan didn’t wonder at it. He, too, had seen the frailty of his eldest niece. Katie had a blotched, feverish look about her. The girl had never been a sturdy child, and lately she appeared even more wan, almost wraithlike. Morgan suspected the lass had long been plagued with a heart malady; she seemed to gasp for her breath with the slightest exertion and never appeared to feel entirely well.
“Little Tom can help,” Morgan said reassuringly. “He’s growing fast, that one.”
Thomas’s expression cleared somewhat. “Aye, he’ll be a brawny lad. He’s the stoutest of the three. Catherine used to say the boy was—”
He stopped at the sound of a rap on the door, immediately followed by Daniel John’s voice. “Thomas?” Pushing the door open a bit, the boy stuck his head inside.
Thomas motioned him in. “What are you doing out so early in the day, lad?”
Entering, Daniel John looked from Morgan to Thomas. “Grandfar,” he said quietly. “He…he is gone. Mother said I should ask if you would come.”
“Of course
, lad,” Thomas answered without hesitation. “Of course, I will come. Let me just finish dressing and wake the girls so they can see to Little Tom.”
Morgan went to the boy and clasped his shoulder. “When, lad?”
“An hour ago, no more.”
“I will come with Thomas,” Morgan said, “if you want me to, that is.”
Daniel John nodded soberly. “Please.”
“When does your mother want the burial, do you know?”
“This afternoon. Since there can’t be a wake, she thought it best for Tahg if we had the burial right away. That is,” the boy added, “if Thomas can get the…the coffin ready soon enough.”
Morgan nodded, squeezing Daniel John’s shoulder. “We will help him. Your mother is right—it will be best this way.” He paused, aware of something more than grief reflected in the lad’s eyes. “You’re troubled about the lack of a wake, is that it?”
The boy nodded. “I know it can’t be helped. But I wish there could be…something for him. Something special, you know.” For an instant his eyes brightened. “Morgan, do you think—” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.
“What, lad?” Morgan prompted, turning the boy toward him.
Daniel John looked up at him uncertainly. “I know that you and Grandfar were not friends,” he said, his voice faltering for an instant, “but…I thought if you could write something…a poem that would be just for him…it might somehow make the burial more special.”
It pained Morgan that the boy would be so reluctant to ask. “I had great respect for your granddaddy, Daniel John,” he said quietly.
“As it happens, I would consider it an honor to write a lament for Dan Kavanagh.”
Daniel John smiled, his gratitude boyishly transparent. “I do thank you, Morgan. I know Mother will be pleased as well.”
The thought of Nora reminded Morgan of the letter he had yet to deliver. Old Dan’s death had created still another delay. For just an instant he was relieved, then felt ashamed of his selfishness. At this point, every delay only served to tighten the net of peril around Nora and his own family.
This evening, then. This evening, after the burial, he must give her the letter. He simply did not dare to wait any longer.
17
A Most Unlikely Hero
And to him, who as hero and martyr hath striven,
Will the Crown, and the Throne,
and the Palm-branch be given.
LADY WILDE (1820-1896)
At three-thirty that same afternoon, Evan Whittaker arose from another intense hour on his knees before the Lord, and began to pace. Cracking his knuckles, chewing his lip, he walked the floor from one end of the room to the other, trying desperately to decide what he should do—what he could do.
Evan had always considered himself a tolerant person. He had adopted his father’s philosophy that even the best of men had their flaws and the worst of men could be expected to have at least one redeeming feature, if not more. Consequently, he thought he was reasonably objective and forbearing with his fellowman. That had been his father’s way, and over the years he had conscientiously striven to make it his own.
Of course, Father had never met George Cotter, and by now Evan heartily wished he could say the same. After spending the better part of a week in the scurrilous agent’s company, Evan was forced to admit that thus far he had been unable to find a single redeeming feature in the man. Bearing with the agent’s “flaws” was turning out to be a monumental challenge.
Cotter seemed determined to force this eviction business, despite every attempt Evan made to delay things. Until less than an hour ago, he thought he had managed to stall the agent from carrying out Sir Roger’s original demand to implement mass eviction. Insisting they wait until their employer had an opportunity to reconsider his instructions, Evan had almost managed to convince himself that once Sir Roger learned the dire nature of his tenants’ plight, he would indeed grant them at least a measure of mercy.
This afternoon, however, Cotter belligerently announced that, one, he had his orders; and, two, Evan was “only a secret’ry and not the one to be telling him his job.” Thus, he would proceed to carry out Sir Roger’s original instructions that very afternoon—and he would start with the family of that “heathen Fitzgerald.” If the outlaw was lodging with his brother, as was rumored in the village, he would soon find himself without a hiding place.
Evan was aware that Thomas Fitzgerald had only recently buried his wife, and that he and his three children were just barely surviving in some godforsaken hillside cabin. Moved by feelings of pity he chose not to analyze, he met the agent’s brash announcement with as much cunning as he could muster, attempting to gain a temporary grace period for the ill-fortuned family. Only by convincing Cotter that Thomas Fitzgerald offered the best chance of apprehending his outlaw brother was Evan finally able to delay the Fitzgeralds’ eviction another day.
Cotter seemed to take a great deal of delight in Evan’s discomfiture, fixing him with a glare of contempt and a threat: “This being your idea and all, Whittaker, you can handle the Fitzgeralds yourself; I have a number of others to attend to today and tomorrow. Why, you may turn out to be the very man who brings down our infamous Red Wolf,” he added with an ugly laugh. “Oh, and speaking of that good-for-nothing marauder,” he went on, “I’ve asked the magistrate to see to a warrant for Morgan Fitzgerald’s arrest as soon as possible. I’m having some Wanted posters prepared, offering a three-month rent extension to anybody who gives information leading to his capture.”
Angered by the man’s insolence, Evan had ventured to remind Cotter of the limits of his power. “Th-that is presumptuous and n-not at all within your authority!”
“Ah, but I am entirely within my authority!” Cotter shot back. “Didn’t you bring me Gilpin’s instructions yourself? ‘Get this Fitzgerald outlaw locked up,’” he said, quoting Sir Roger’s letter, “‘and use whatever means necessary to do so.’” He paused, shooting Evan a look of smug triumph.
Evan attempted one last argument, but Cotter merely scowled and wagged a meaty finger in front of his face. “You just handle the brother! I’m way behind schedule now in carrying out my duties, thanks to you and your simpering, and I’ll not delay any longer!”
Thus Evan prepared to leave for Thomas Fitzgerald’s cabin, ostensibly to question the man about his brother before serving an eviction notice on him. What Cotter did not know was that Evan also intended to warn Fitzgerald that his notorious brother was about to become a hunted criminal.
Pacing the floor, Evan admitted to himself that, while his sympathy for Thomas Fitzgerald might be understandable—the poor man was newly widowed and making every effort to save his small family—his concern for the man’s fugitive brother was something else. Morgan Fitzgerald was, by all accounts, an outlaw. He flagrantly defied the authorities, flaunting his lawlessness by wandering in and out of the village whenever he chose. Still, Evan felt some sort of incomprehensible bond to the man, a strong enough affinity that he was intent on warning him of Cotter’s vengeful plan to do him in.
Outlaw or not, the Red Wolf had undeniably managed to save a number of lives, and had done so without wreaking any known physical harm on those in authority. A few discreet conversations with some of the villagers had revealed not only an overwhelming sense of gratitude, but no small amount of admiration for the Irish raider. Apparently he had become a kind of folk hero to much of Mayo’s populace—understandable, Evan thought, considering the way the outlaw and his men continued to risk their own skins in an effort to save the people from annihilation.
Evan could not deny that he found the tales surrounding this local legend intriguing. The Red Wolf was no ordinary, brutish scoundrel. The mixture of adulation and intimidation he seemed to inspire argued that he was anything but ordinary and certainly far from brutish.
In addition, Evan grew increasingly convinced that it was not Roger Gilpin’s orders that had brought him here, to Killala, but rather the
leading of the Lord. He was here for an entirely different purpose than the unpleasant tasks Sir Roger had assigned to him. As he prayed he sensed a whisper in his spirit: he was to be, in some inexplicable manner, responsible for Morgan Fitzgerald, perhaps for others in the village also.
He stopped pacing to adjust his flawless cravat and smooth his waistcoat. Suddenly, he felt somewhat foolish, wondering if he could possibly be allowing his penchant for melodrama, a suppressed longing for adventure, to cloud his normally sound judgment. After all, Morgan Fitzgerald was an outlaw, an Irish outlaw who was likely to be a vulgar, swaggering sort and not at all kindly disposed toward anyone reckless enough to present him with a warning about his freedom.
Especially if the bearer of such bad tidings happened to be an Englishman.
Still, there was that inner sense of responsibility for the man—indeed, for this entire village—which continued to pervade his being every time he prayed. It had to mean something.
Fogging his eyeglasses with his breath, Evan cleaned the lenses with an immaculate handkerchief, then carefully settled them over the bridge of his nose. His headache was returning with a vengeance, and he longed to simply collapse on the bed and forget about the Red Wolf, George Cotter, and Killala. Instead, he sighed and collected his legal case and gloves from the scarred, wobbly desk, then opened the bedroom door and left the room.
Evan was halfway down the long, dim hallway when his attention was caught by raised voices coming from downstairs, at the front of the house. He recognized Cotter’s surly tone, but there were others—two, he thought, both gruff and coarse—which he assumed belonged to the agent’s roughnecks. Evan was not one to eavesdrop, but he could not help but overhear Cotter’s words.