Song of the Silent Harp

by BJ Hoff

  Fitzgerald lifted a hand to those on deck, then stepped onto the broad wooden gangplank. Impulsively, Evan caught his arm, stopping him. “I wish I could help you!” he choked out, meaning it with all his being.

  Fitzgerald turned, raking Evan’s face with a searching look. “Do you mean that, mo chara…my friend?” he asked quietly. “Because you can help me.”

  “Of course, I m-mean it! You’ve only to tell me how.”

  “If you really want to help me, man, then get on board that ship with my family! It breaks my heart every time I think of the fear they must be feeling, will be feeling throughout the days and weeks ahead. Thomas and Nora—they know nothing of cities, of strangers…of the world. They are innocents.” He paused, then added grimly, “And both of us know, do we not, what evil the world is capable of wreaking upon the innocent?”

  Evan stared at the man, seized by the burning, desperate appeal in his eyes.

  Is this it, then, Lord? Is this what You want me to do?

  Almost at once, filling his heart, illuminating his thoughts, the answer came. “All right,” he said quietly, turning to stare at the ship. “I will go.”

  “Do you mean it?” Fitzgerald pressed Evan’s hand with a dangerously tight grip. “You will go with them? Look after them?”

  “As if they were m-my own,” Evan replied softly, knowing in his heart that, in a way he would never understand, they had indeed become his own.

  Stepping up onto the deck, Fitzgerald continued to grip Evan’s arm. “You are a rare man, Evan Whittaker, a truly good and noble man.” He paused, giving a small nod. “And a brave one as well.”

  Evan uttered a short, dry laugh. “I am anything but b-brave, Fitzgerald. Most of my life, at least, I have been the m-milksop Cotter believes me to be.” Evan pulled in a long sigh. “No,” he said, shaking his head, feeling inexplicably sad, “I am not b-brave.”

  “No coward would do what you have done this night, Whittaker, certainly not for a family of strangers. Only a man with a heroic heart.”

  “You are wrong about that, my friend,” Evan said softly. “Only a m-man with a changed heart, a captured heart.”

  Fitzgerald stared at him quizzically. “I do not believe your heart has ever required changing, Evan Whittaker. I believe it has always been good and brave.”

  “My heart is the heart of a c-coward!” Evan bit out, making no attempt to mask his self-contempt. “Until this past week, the only courage or daring I’ve ever known, I managed to experience from reading adventure novels! No,” he protested, unwilling that Fitzgerald should see him for anything other than what he was, “only the yoke of Christ gives my heart any goodness or worth whatsoever.”

  Fitzgerald’s eyes narrowed skeptically, and Evan hurried to explain. “Christ said to shoulder His yoke, to take His b-burden and learn from Him. But when I first accepted that burden and said yes to His yoke, I did not dream I was agreeing to help bear the burden of the entire world—a burden that includes the suffering of all mankind, throughout the ages.”

  He paused, gratified by Fitzgerald’s intent expression. Growing more and more aware of the Lord’s loving desire to communicate with this hurting, complex man, Evan stopped to wait on his Savior’s leading.

  When it came, even he was surprised. “I think, Morgan Fitzgerald, that you have tried in your own way to d-do exactly that…to take on the burden of your entire country, your people, and help them bear their suffering. But in doing so, you have neglected—even rejected—the very p-power that would enable you to withstand such an infinite, insufferable burden.”

  He was listening. He was hearing. At least for this brief moment, the Lord finally had Morgan Fitzgerald’s attention.

  Evan put a hand to the Irishman’s brawny arm, felt the muscles tense beneath his touch. “When I was just a boy, my father told me, ‘Trust God, and be brave.’ I always thought I trusted God, but I never had it in me to be brave.” He paused. “Now, I think I understand. When I finally trusted God fully, to lead me as He wished, the bravery followed.”

  Evan looked intently into Fitzgerald’s eyes. “The two are connected, don’t you see? In trusting God, I ultimately found the courage to do His will. And you, Morgan Fitzgerald—” He took a deep breath, then rushed to his conclusion. “Perhaps in being courageous, you will ultimately find your way to trusting God.”

  Evan paused, amazed at his ability to speak to this Irish giant so directly. “My friend, you are a very b-big man, a strong, powerful man. But even you are not man enough to bear the pain of a nation, to carry the burden of an entire people, unless you in turn allow Jesus Christ to hold your heart and carry you.”

  The silence that hung between them was crowned with Fitzgerald’s unvoiced questions and Evan’s unanswered prayers. To Evan’s surprise, the other man did not appear offended; on the contrary, the big Irishman was watching him with a look of keen interest and something else—something Evan thought might have been regret.

  “Fitzgerald…if I go with your family as you have asked…if I d-do that, will you promise to do something for me?”

  The Irishman’s eyes grew even narrower, and Evan hurried to assure him. “Actually, it’s not for me. It’s for you. But it will give me a certain peace if you agree.”

  Fitzgerald’s nod was grudging, his blanket-cloak falling back from his shoulders as he crossed his massive arms on his chest.

  “All I ask,” Evan said quietly, “is that you take the time to think about what I’ve said…about your burdened heart, and what Christ can do with it.”

  “He owned my heart once, when I was a lad,” Fitzgerald said tightly. “These days He has no use for it. It is far too worn and tarnished.”

  “God is not put off by tarnished hearts, my friend. The only kind of heart He cannot use is one of stone that can no longer be broken.” Evan swallowed down his compassion for the look of utter pain that now passed over the Irishman’s face. “Fitzgerald, I do not know very much about you—not very much at all. But this much I do know—your heart has most assuredly not turned to stone.”

  He paused. He could see the other man struggling to conceal whatever tide of emotion was assailing him, but he made the decision to plunge ahead and finish what he had begun. “A man like you, empowered by a God like ours, would be a formidable instrument of change. For your people, for your nation—perhaps even for other nations. I believe with all my heart that God intends to shake you. I don’t pretend for a moment to know how, but I believe He means to have your attention…and your heart…and that one way or another, He will. Be warned, Morgan Fitzgerald, for the Ancient of Days and the Shepherd of your soul is in pursuit of you…and there is no hiding from Him.”

  26

  One Last Goodbye

  But alas for his country!—her pride is gone by,

  And that spirit is broken which never would bend.

  O’er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

  For ’tis treason to love her, and death to defend.

  THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852)

  Morgan sent his men off the ship as soon as he went on board. “I want you to split up,” he said. “Tell Ward and Blake to ride to Cotter’s place and wait for me there. I’ll be along shortly.” When Cassidy would have interrupted, he waved him off. “You knew we would settle with Cotter. That is for later. For now, the rest of you go back up the road and stand guard while you wait for me. Gleeson and the others could always change their minds and turn back, you know.”

  The emigrants were still waiting on the steerage deck when Morgan went aboard. He found Nora crouched in a dim corner, huddled over Tahg, who lay quietly where Cassidy had placed him; both little girls and wee Tom sat one on either side of her. Daniel John, his knees pulled up to his chin, was perched close by, leaning against a stack of boxes as he watched two rough-looking sailors arguing in front of a rusted porthole. A few feet away, at the railing, stood Thomas and Whittaker, gazing out at the pier.

  Morgan intended to have a look at
their quarters below, before leaving, but for now it was more important that he see Nora alone. Watching her, crouched there in the shadows with her ailing son, he hesitated, then touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Nora?”

  She looked up, and he caught her hands, raising her to her feet. “I want to talk with your mother,” he told Daniel John. “Stay here with Tahg until we return.”

  Guiding her amidships, he sought an isolated corner and led her to it. “We’ve only a moment,” he said. “I should be getting off soon, and I still want to see your quarters before you sail.”

  There was just enough reflection from the ship’s lanterns that he could see her face. Her eyes were enormous, glistening in the shadows as she stared up at him.

  Morgan was all too aware of her fear. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his mouth and pressed his lips to it. “It will be all right, ma girsha,” he said, lowering her hand but holding on to it. “Truly it will. I know this is a hard thing, but it is the right thing, for all of you. I do believe that with all my heart.”

  Looking down at their clasped hands, Nora said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, “Sure, it might not be quite so hard a thing if you were going with us, Morgan.”

  He winced. Releasing her hand, he tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. The anguish in her eyes made him want to weep.

  “Morgan, please. It’s not too late.”

  Gently, he pressed a finger to her lips to silence her, sadly shaking his head. “Hush, macushla. We will not spend these last few moments arguing with each other. There has already been enough of that.”

  He had not expected her to cry. When he saw the tears spilling over from her eyes, he caught her to him and held her. “Nora…ah, lass, don’t, please don’t. You will unman me…you are tearing me to pieces.”

  She stunned him entirely by flinging her arms about his neck, crying, “Morgan, go with us! Please—go with us!”

  His heart aching, he eased her away from him just enough to frame her face between his hands, to lose himself in her eyes one last time. “A part of me does go with you, will always be with you. Ah, lass, I could never forget you. Don’t you know that by now? But won’t you at least try to understand, for my sake? If ever you loved me, even a little, please try to understand why I must stay.”

  Weeping openly now, Nora clung to him. “I have always loved you, Morgan! Always! Even with Owen, there was a part of me that still belonged to you!”

  As soon as she uttered the words, she put a fist to her mouth as if to stop them, too late. Seeing her dismay, Morgan tried to soothe her, but instead only seemed to make things worse. Now she sobbed even more furiously. “God forgive me! I should never have said such a thing to you.”

  She was destroying him. With a soft moan, Morgan buried his face in her hair, fighting back his own scalding tears. “I am a great fool, Nora, but loving you as you deserved to be loved would have taken so much more than I had to give. Loving you, I would have lived for you, rather than for what I have always known my destiny to be. Forgive me, sweetheart,” he whispered into the damp warmth of her hair. “Forgive this fool.”

  Blinded by his own unshed tears, he gave in to his heart, surrendering the last remaining part of the love he had tried all these years to withhold from her. He kissed her, despising himself for all the joy he had lost, all the years he had wasted, yet all the while knowing she had been better off without him.

  She amazed him by kissing him back, fiercely, desperately. He felt his heart fall away, completely shattered. Dragging his mouth from hers, he gripped her shoulders, pleading with his eyes. He dared not hold her a moment more or he would never leave the ship. “We must get back,” he murmured with regret, setting her gently away from him.

  Unable to face the desolation in her eyes, he looked away for an instant. “Your passages are paid and your belongings have been loaded, so you are ready.” Groping for something to ease the pain of the moment, he faced her again. “Did I tell you, our friend Whittaker has decided to go with you?”

  “Whittaker?” she said, wiping at her eyes with both hands. “Whittaker is going to America?”

  Morgan forced a smile. “Aye, that he is. So you will have the benefit of his considerable wits at your disposal for whatever you may need. He is already half in love with you, you see, so whatever you want, sure, and you’ve only to ask.”

  When his teasing failed to bring the hoped-for smile, Morgan lifted his hand to brush away a strand of hair clinging to her temple, then bent to kiss her lightly on the cheek. “Go with God, Nora a gra,” he said, strangling on the words. “And know that the best part of my heart goes with you.”

  “Touching, Fitzgerald. Touching, indeed. In truth, your heart will be the only part of you going anywhere at all—now or ever.”

  Nora screamed and Morgan, stunned, pulled her with him as he whipped around in the direction of the voice.

  Smiling an ugly, vengeful smile, George Cotter hauled himself through the open doorway of a nearby hatch, the bailiff on his heels. Each was holding a gun.

  Daniel heard his mother scream and scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding like a wild thing as he tore around the corner.

  He saw them at once, standing toward the middle of the ship—his mother and Morgan, held at gunpoint by two men. The gunmen’s backs were toward him, but it took only an instant to recognize Cotter and Harry Macken, the bailiff.

  Whittaker and Thomas ran up alongside him, but Daniel could not take his eyes from the scene amidships.

  “Get back, boy!” Whittaker ordered in a harsh whisper. “You must not let them see you!”

  Daniel stared at the Englishman with incredulity, his pulse thundering in his ears. “How did they get aboard? Where are Morgan’s men?

  Whittaker shook his head in frustration. “The men are already gone—I saw them leave.” He paused. “As for how those two got aboard, I doubt a bailiff would have much difficulty talking his way onto a ship docked in a harbor under his jurisdiction.”

  “We must do something! They will kill them both! What can we do?”

  The three of them looked on in horror as Morgan, facing them, pushed Daniel’s mother behind his own large body and then stood, one hand lifted as if in warning, the other at his waist, close to his pistol.

  Thomas put a restraining hand on Daniel’s arm. “They won’t hurt Nora, lad—it’s Morgan they—”

  He jumped, as did Daniel and Whittaker when Cotter shot his gun into the air. Morgan threw up both hands, as if in surrender.

  Daniel could just make out the taut mask of rage contorting Morgan’s face as he stood, hands raised, legs spread, facing Cotter and Macken.

  Alarmed, he saw his mother step forward, moving up to Morgan’s side.

  Thomas tugged at his arm, whispering urgently, “Come, lad! Go back to your brother and stay there! If they see you, it will only make things worse!”

  Daniel, only vaguely aware of Thomas’s plea, was intent on figuring a way to help Morgan and his mother. At that moment, two sailors rounded the corner near the hatch where Cotter and the bailiff were standing. Daniel’s hopes rose, but only for a moment. The crewmen stopped short as Macken turned his gun on them and motioned them toward the hatch, where they quickly disappeared.

  As soon as the sailors backed down the hatch, Cotter again demanded they produce Daniel John. Lowering his gun, he leveled it directly at Morgan’s heart. “You will turn over the boy, Fitzgerald, or I will kill you—right after I shoot the mother, that is.” He glanced at Nora with a malevolent smile that made Morgan ache to smash his face in.

  “No!” Nora cried, clutching Morgan’s arm, staring at him in terror. “Morgan—” She broke off and turned back to Cotter. “My son isn’t here!” she cried. “He’s still back in the village—”

  Morgan cringed. She was rambling, and he feared she would try something foolish. His mind raced furiously as he gripped her arm.

  “You will watch her die, Fitzgerald,” snarled
Cotter. “Is that what you want?”

  Morgan’s brain boiled in rage and uncertainty. Never had he felt such hatred. Were it not for Nora, he would take his chances and go for both of them, never mind the guns.

  Suddenly Nora twisted free of his grasp. “No!” she screamed wildly, flying at Cotter. “You’ll not have my son!”

  Morgan gaped in horror, then snaked out his arm to stop her. Too late. He lunged, charging forward. Now he had her, yanked her back, shoved her hard behind him.

  Suddenly a wave of shouts came rolling toward them. His head shot up to see Daniel John and Thomas barreling up the deck, followed by Whittaker, all three charging madly into their midst.

  Cotter whipped around, his gun flailing. Seeing him, Thomas flung one long arm out, knocking Daniel John to the right, toward the railing and out of the way.

  At the same time, Whittaker rushed toward Macken. The bailiff aimed his gun at the Englishman, fired, and missed.

  Seeing his chance, Morgan shoved Nora toward the railing and Daniel John. Pulling his pistol as he spun, he hurled himself at Cotter.

  Too late, he saw the agent raise the gun and aim it toward Thomas.

  “No, Thomas, stop!” Morgan shouted, throwing himself at Cotter. Cotter fired once, then again as Morgan tackled him.

  Thomas had began to run the instant Daniel John broke loose. He had ever been slow, but now he prayed wings for his heels as he went roaring up the deck, shouting like a madman in hopes of diverting the armed men from Nora and Morgan, slowing only enough to fling Daniel John out of the way.

  His mind registered the sight of Morgan grabbing Nora, pushing her away, toward the railing. For an instant Thomas thought he did fly as he flung himself toward Cotter.

  Then a hot, jagged pain pierced his chest, stopping him in mid-flight. Amazed, saddened, he felt himself drop from the sky.