by BJ Hoff
“All of them?” questioned Cassidy, his heavy black brows drawn together. “The children as well?”
Morgan looked at him. “All of them,” he said. “The children especially.”
He saw the men exchange glances. As briefly as possible, he explained, giving them only a hurried sketch of the events that had taken place that day. When he had finished, Cassidy spoke without hesitation. “We will get them out, Morgan.”
The others nodded their assent, and Morgan drew a long breath. “Remember, we must not be seen. If we are taken, it will mean disaster for them all.”
“We will not be taken,” Colin Ward announced in a hard voice. Morgan knew from past experience that the young man with the black eye patch had the courage legends were made of and wits enough for two men. Just hearing Ward’s reassurance made him feel easier.
“The other horses are nearby,” said Ward, nodding toward the small mare on the lead rope. “Why don’t you send that one with us, sir? She’ll only slow you down.”
Morgan quickly released the mare, handing her off to Ward. Cassidy parted his way through the other riders, pulling his horse up sharply beside Morgan.
With a short nod, Morgan turned his horse, and together he and the burly Cassidy started down the mountain for Killala.
22
Undertones
We are fainting in our misery,
But God will hear our groan.
LADY WILDE (1820-1896)
The two rough-looking men burst into the cabin as soon as Katie cracked open the door. Flinging it aside, they shoved her backward into the kitchen with such force she cried out.
The bigger of the two, the one with the scarred skin and mean-looking eyes, glared at her. “Where is your da, girl?”
“He’s not at home right now, sir,” Katie finally managed, nearly choking on her own voice. She was trembling, not from the cold cabin, but from fear.
“Well, and where is he, then?” grated the same man.
Katie’s mind groped for just the right words, knowing that what she said and how she acted might be terribly important to her da and Daniel—indeed, to them all. “I’m…not exactly sure where he might be, sir. Just that he’s away for now. I’m sure he won’t be gone long, though.”
Both men continued to pin her in place with their cold, threatening stares, but it was the big man with the heavy shoulders and cruel eyes who questioned her. “And what of your uncle, then? Morgan Fitzgerald?”
Katie swallowed hard but forced herself to meet the man’s gaze, “My uncle Morgan, sir? Sure, and I don’t know where he is. He doesn’t live here with us, you know.”
“We hear otherwise,” pressed the second man.
His face was peppered generously with freckles, his mouth seemingly trapped in a permanent frown. Still, he acted a bit less gruff than his companion, so Katie fixed her eyes on him as she spoke. “Oh no, sir! Uncle Morgan stops for a visit now and then, he does, but he never stays for any length of time at all.”
The freckle-faced man raked a hand through his straight red hair. “Are you satisfied at last, Gleeson? Can we get on with it now?”
Ignoring him, the big man swept the cabin with his eyes. “Who else is here with you, girl?”
Katie’s heart lurched, then raced. She could not shake the image of her da and Daniel huddled in the dark pit below the cabin. “Who else, sir?”
His eyes on her were hard and impatient. “Aye,” he snarled, “who else?”
Katie was certain the trembling of her chin must be apparent to both men. “Only my younger sister and wee brother, sir. Johanna is putting Little Tom to bed. My mum is dead, you see.”
Katie held her breath. The man finally gave a short nod. “Check in the back!” he snapped. The freckle-faced man let go with a violent oath, but made his way across the room toward the rear of the cabin.
Seconds later he returned with Little Tom, clinging tightly to the hand of Johanna, who was white with fear. The big, burly man shot the same questions at Johanna as he had Katie, but the girl simply stared at him with huge, frightened eyes.
“My sister cannot hear or speak, sir,” Katie quickly explained. “She has no way of knowing what you want.”
He looked at her, then again at Johanna before turning to his partner with a scowl. “We will go now,” he said shortly, starting for the door, then stopping. “Let us hope that you are telling the truth, girl,” he said roughly. “It will go hard for your da and your entire family if you are lying.”
He watched her closely, as if he half expected her to deny everything she’d said. Her heart pounding, Katie met his eyes with as level a look as she could manage.
As soon as the two men were out the door, she rushed to throw the bolt. Turning, she sank back against the door, staring at Johanna, waiting until the fierce trembling of her legs subsided enough that she could finally cross the room and move the table away from the hidey-hole.
Evan would never have believed he could feel such monumental relief at the sight of two outlaws. When Fitzgerald and the great brawny creature called Cassidy first edged themselves through the back door of the cottage, he could have fallen at their feet in welcome.
Fitzgerald’s first move, of course, was to see to Mrs. Kavanagh. Evan found himself surprised and quite touched to see the gentleness which the Irish giant afforded the small, pale widow. It occurred to him, watching Fitzgerald’s courtly tenderness with the woman, that this big, heavy-chested Gael was at heart, if not in breeding, a consummate gentleman.
When Fitzgerald quizzed him briefly but thoroughly on his handling of Cotter’s thugs, Evan once again encountered a glint of approval in the Irishman’s gaze.
“You have my thanks, Evan Whittaker,” Fitzgerald said quietly across the boy’s bed. “You are a brave man.”
He turned his attention to Tahg. “We will make you as warm and as comfortable as humanly possible, lad,” Fitzgerald said in a gentle voice, taking the boy’s frail hand and bending over him. “This will not be an easy thing for you, Tahg. But it is necessary.”
His eyes shut, Tahg nodded. “’Tis all right, Morgan. I understand. I’m only sorry to be such a burden…making everything so difficult—”
The boy’s mother choked out a protest, but it was Fitzgerald who, bracing a huge hand on either side of the boy’s thin shoulders, silenced him. “I’ll not be listening to such foolishness from a man grown,” he said with a stern frown. “There is no burden about it. Once we get you into some warm wrappings, you will ride out of here on Pilgrim’s back, and that will be that.”
Evan would have thought Tahg Kavanagh to be beyond enthusiasm of any sort, but the boy’s eyes shot open and actually appeared to brighten. “Pilgrim? Is that your horse, Morgan? Is he a stallion?”
“He is,” replied Morgan, straightening, “and as hardheaded and cantankerous a great brute as you are likely to find trampling Irish sod. Now, then,” he said briskly, “let us get you ready for your journey.”
The boy gave a weak nod. “You are going, too, Morgan?”
Carefully freeing Tahg’s arms from the bedding, Fitzgerald looked at him. “Well, of course, I am going. Would I set you on old Pilgrim by yourself?”
Tahg shook his head. “No…I mean, you are going to America with us, are you not?”
Fitzgerald stopped his movements for only an instant, his wide mouth straining at a smile. “Not this time,” he said, quickly adding, “perhaps later.”
Tahg tried to push himself up. “But, Morgan, you must go! You dare not stay here, in Killala, after—”
Fitzgerald brought a finger to his own lips. “We will save our talking for later, lad. For now, we must hurry; there is little time.”
With obvious reluctance, the boy sank back onto his pillow, remaining silent as both Fitzgerald and Cassidy worked to wrap him, first in Morgan’s heavy frieze cloak, then in several layers of bedding. Throughout the entire process, the boy followed Fitzgerald’s movements with a mournful expression and pain-f
illed eyes.
Watching him, Evan felt certain that a part of the pain in young Tahg’s gaze was, for a change, not entirely physical.
23
As the Shadows Advance
Through the woods let us roam,
Through the wastes wild and barren;
We are strangers at home!
We are exiles in Erin!
FEARFLATHA O’GNIVE (C. 1560)
[TR. SAMUEL FERGUSON]
The road from Nora’s cottage to Thomas’s cabin at the edge of town spanned only a short distance, but tonight it seemed an endless trek. Indeed, Morgan felt as if he had been riding for hours.
His heart was stretched tight enough to crack. How long had it been since he’d last drawn an easy breath? Not since hoisting Tahg onto Pilgrim’s back, that was certain. Instinctively, he tightened his embrace around the boy, snugly wrapped in several layers of bedding. Even so, Morgan felt the lad’s trembling, heard him utter a soft moan with Pilgrim’s every step.
The rain had stopped. Other than an occasional errant cloud moving across the face of the moon, the night sky was beginning to clear. He looked ahead. Nora was riding with Cassidy, with Whittaker just behind them on the extra roan. The horses took the wet, rocky hillside at a slow walk. Even Pilgrim, ordinarily a daredevil, had tempered his impatience, as if aware of the need for caution.
Morgan had fallen a ways behind the others, but in the faint spray of moonlight he could see them clearly. Too clearly. Although relieved for Tahg’s sake that the rain had ended, he would have preferred the safety of cloud cover. Still, they should soon be well concealed by the fog drifting down from the mountains.
Despite the fact that the wind was cold and he wore no cloak, perspiration ribbed the back of his head, trickling down his back beneath his shirt. Anxiety. The thought of the ordeal ahead, and all that could go wrong gripped him with dread. And yet there was nothing he could do but go on.
And so they rode into the night, like prisoners already condemned to the gallows. Their only hope of survival lay in the hands of a God who seemed to have forgotten their very existence. A God who was absent.
Morgan’s gaze traveled down over the hill, to the ancient round tower, then back to the night sky with its faintly shadowed moon. Lately he had found himself brooding over this…absence of God. Was it a fact? And, if so, did that absence somehow signify the presence of something else? Something evil?
All through history, it seemed that a common seed of evil sprouted its corrupt fruit, the spoiled and worthless crowding out the healthy and good. Civilization was much like the potato blight, he thought: As long as the plants blossomed prettily, grew healthy and strong in the sun, they were taken for granted but not really prized for their value. It was only after the pestilence struck, blighting the leaves and seizing the roots, finally wiping out an entire country’s livelihood, that the worth of the now destroyed crop was finally realized.
With a shudder, Morgan pulled Tahg closer, as if to shelter him and will him to survive. To endure.
If only the good can ever hope to supplant the evil…if only what is innocent can ever hope to uproot the defiled, then what hope was there for this wasted island? The best of Ireland was dying or fleeing…What would be left behind to bloom in Ireland for a future day?
Oh, God…what would be left?
Daniel watched through the jagged tear in the paper-covered window. Any instant now he hoped to catch a glimpse of Morgan and the others.
Behind him, the dim room was crowded. Boxes bound with rope, one large trunk and a smaller one, three sacks of miscellaneous items—all were heaped randomly in the middle of the floor. Morgan’s men were there, three of them; the other two had slipped out of the cabin earlier to scout the village and watch for Morgan as he brought his charges across the hill.
“You’ll not see them coming until they’re at the door.” Katie had edged up beside him. “They will come down on the other side of hill, not around the front way.”
Daniel nodded, but continued to peer out into the moon-dusted darkness. “I know. It’s just that I thought they would be here by now.”
She touched his arm. “They will come soon, Daniel John. Uncle Morgan will see them safely here.”
He looked at her then, managing a smile.
“Aye, he will that. Sure, there is nowhere safer to be than under your uncle Morgan’s protection.” Still studying her flushed, thin face, he added, “You did well tonight, Katie, turning Cotter’s men away from the cabin as you did. You were brave.”
She shook her head. “I did not feel brave, I can tell you! I was frightened out of my wits! I still can scarcely believe I didn’t ruin things for us all by breaking down like a crybaby.”
“Well, you didn’t,” he said. “And besides, feeling brave isn’t the same as being brave, you know. It’s how you behave that counts the most, not how you feel—”
They both heard the sounds at the side of the cabin at the same time—the low murmur of voices, the wet slap of hoofs in the mud. Daniel caught a glimpse of his mother as she rounded the corner of the cabin, then Morgan.
“It’s them!”he cried, motioning to Katie to throw the bolt.
Morgan came in first, carrying Tahg in his arms like a baby in its wrappings. Daniel’s mother and a big, gruff-looking man with a barrel chest came next, followed by the Englishman.
Without stopping, Morgan inclined his head to Daniel, motioning him to follow as he carried Tahg directly to the back of the cabin and eased him onto the bed. Daniel started to loosen the bedding from around Tahg’s face, stopping for a quick embrace from his mother. When she began to fuss over Tahg, he moved aside to give her room.
As the blankets dropped away from Tahg’s face, Daniel choked back a gasp of dismay. His brother’s eyes were pinched shut, his lips cracked and tinged a milky shade of blue against the stark white of his skin. For a moment his heart stopped at the terrible thought that his brother was dead.
Finally Tahg began to cough. His eyes fluttered open, and Daniel caught his breath in relief. Glancing across the bed at Morgan, however, his relief immediately died. Morgan’s eyes were fixed on Tahg with a grim, watchful expression. As if sensing Daniel’s gaze, he looked up. Their eyes met, and in that instant Daniel knew with a stab of anguish that Morgan held no hope at all for Tahg’s survival.
Instinctively he took a protective stance closer to his brother. Tahg looked up, moistening his parched lips in a weak attempt to smile. “Danny…”
“Aye, Tahg, I am here,” Daniel said quickly, putting a hand to Tahg’s thin shoulder.
“Are we ready, then, Danny?”
“Ready, Tahg?”
His brother gave a small jerk of a nod. “Aye…are we ready to go to America?”
Daniel stared at his brother, his throat tightening even more. “Aye, Tahg, we are almost ready at last.”
Again the older boy nodded. “We must…we must convince Morgan to go with us, Danny…tell him…tell him he must go, too…”
It was the fever talking, Daniel knew. And yet he could not help but look across the bed to Morgan, who avoided his gaze by staring resolutely at Tahg.
“Do not wear yourself out, lad,” Morgan said, his voice gruff. “We will soon be leaving for the mountain. You must save your strength for yet another ride.”
Tahg’s eyes rolled out of focus, then closed, and Daniel knew that he had once again drifted off to the place the fever took him.
Two miles outside of town, Pat Gleeson reined in his mount so sharply the stallion reared on his haunches and pawed the sky. Snorting, the horse hit the ground hard as he came down. Beside him, Sharkey pulled up his own horse with an oath. “What do you think you’re doing, you—”
Gleeson sat his horse with his brawny arms braced straight out, his hands knotted tightly on the reins. “Where was the Englishman’s mount, do you suppose?”
Sharkey stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.
“Whittaker’s horse!” G
leeson demanded impatiently. “Where was it? And why was he so intent on hanging about the widow’s cottage—and not evicting her, eh?”
His partner twisted his face into a grimace of disbelief. “What do I know—or care—where the Englishman’s horse is? What kind of madness is on you now?”
Gleeson didn’t answer. Thinking hard, he sat staring into the night with fixed eyes and a growing certainty.
“Come on,” he said, turning his horse, “we’re going back.”
Again Sharkey swore. “What’s wrong with you, man? It’s the boy and the outlaw we want, not some slow-witted farmer or widow woman! I should think—”
“Well, don’t—you haven’t the mind for it! Now, ride! We are going back!”
Without another word, Gleeson squeezed his legs against the stallion’s sides and took off at a mad gallop.
Sharkey hurled a stream of evil epithets at him as he tore off, but after an instant spurred his mount and followed.
They had the cart nearly loaded and hitched to one of the extra horses when the sound of approaching hoofbeats came tearing out of the night. Crouched down on one knee to tighten a wheel, Morgan raised his head to listen, then lunged to his feet.
O’Dwyer and Quigley had returned from their scouting mission around the village. Waiting, Morgan wiped the oil from his hands onto his trousers.
“Is all quiet, then?” he asked the fair-haired Quigley as the men reined up in front of him.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when young Quigley blurted out, “The ship is in, sir! It’s coming into the harbor now!”
For a moment Morgan could only stare at them, his brain refusing to take in what they had said.
“An American packet, it is,” spluttered the red-faced O’Dwyer with a huge grin. “A small one, but it looks fit.”