by BJ Hoff
Evan looked away. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right,” he said softly. “And Fitzgerald cared greatly for your mother and you, as well.”
He had cared enough to risk his life, indeed to give up the freedom he prized, even more than life.
Dear Lord, have mercy on that valiant man…he may have done some wrong things, Lord, but his heart struggles to do right, it truly does…have mercy on him, Lord…have mercy on his tortured soul…
Seemingly lost in his own thoughts, Daniel lay down. Soon his eyes closed, and his breathing grew deep and rhythmic with sleep. Evan, however, remained wide awake. The muddled Dr. Leary had indicated he might be “somewhat uncomfortable” for a day or so; obviously, the man had been right.
He did hope the rheumy-eyed surgeon wasn’t representative of the rest of the ship’s crew or its facilities. Fortunately, the captain seemed efficient enough, if uncompromisingly cold. Evan wondered about the stiff-spined Captain Schell. He was a disturbing sort of man, defying every preconceived notion Evan had ever held about brawny, adventuresome sea captains. The novels he read most often portrayed ship commanders as large and loud—brash, beefy characters who barked out their orders in a decided brogue and were rarely if ever clean-shaven.
The enigmatic Captain Schell, however, was neither brawny nor brash, and his beardless face appeared to have been waxed, so smooth and tight was the skin. There was just the slightest hint of an accent in the man’s precise speech—Germanic, Evan thought—but it only served to strengthen the overall impression of quality education and unquestionable authority. The only flaw in Schell’s otherwise marble-smooth skin was an ugly red slash of a scar carved almost the entire length of the left side of his face, from temple to jawbone.
The scar drew immediate attention, but not so much as the strange pale blue eyes that bored through round-rimmed spectacles. Those eyes seemed to mock the object of their attention one moment, only to freeze into a glacial stare the next.
Still, the man had surprised him twice before they ever set sail—first by remaining adamant in his refusal to delay weighing anchor when the authorities would have detained the ship, and again in his ready willingness to provide a burial at sea for the Kavanagh lad and Thomas Fitzgerald.
Neatly uniformed and precise in behavior, the captain seemed a stark contrast to the ship he commanded. Evan had read about the superiority of American vessels over British ships. That information, plus the knowledge that Fitzgerald himself had arranged for these passages, had led him to believe that conditions would be, if not luxurious, at least clean and comfortable.
Accommodations on the Green Flag were neither. Had Fitzgerald observed firsthand the immature crew—most appeared to be mere youngsters, a fact that Evan found unnerving—and the crowded, squalid conditions in steerage, he would undoubtedly have removed his family from the ship with all haste.
He supposed he might be judging the ship too quickly. He really hadn’t seen much of it, after all, having spent the last twenty-four hours in this abominable, rancid bunk. And things always looked bleak when lying flat on one’s back. At any rate, he couldn’t afford to allow conditions around him to affect him too greatly. He sighed. With this miserable gunshot wound in his arm, it was going to be difficult enough to keep his word to Fitzgerald about looking after his loved ones; fretting over the ship’s accommodations would only make things more difficult.
Besides, no matter how unappealing their circumstances aboard the Green Flag, they could not help but be vastly superior to what Fitzgerald must be facing just now.
The unsettling image of the great Gael caged in a remote Mayo prison cell was enough to drive Evan off his bunk. Staggering from the hot pain in his shoulder, he sank to unsteady knees and began to pray.
For the first time in his life, Morgan was confined to a place where he could not see the sky, could not open the door and walk out a free man. God knew he had earned himself a cell—more than once, if truth be told. The real wonder was that his lawless and careless ways had only now caught up to him.
The gaol in Castlebar was a miserable hole, a dark, dank room reeking of vermin and unwashed bodies and years of mold. A filthy blanket tossed over a lumpy mattress of straw served as a bed, a bucket as a privy. There was no window, no chair, no water pitcher. The only sound was an occasional scurrying of a rat making its way from one corner to the other.
Morgan could not stand upright, nor could he take more than four broad steps from wall to wall. Had there been any furnishings he would have tripped over them, for the darkness was almost totally unrelieved, save for the palest wash of light from a candle outside in the corridor.
At the moment he sat on the edge of the mattress, his elbows propped on his knees, his head supported by his hands. He was neither fully awake nor quite asleep; his bad tooth throbbed just enough to keep him from getting any rest. It occurred to him for an instant that there was a dubious irony in a man plagued by a toothache when about to be hanged, and he smiled grimly to himself in the darkness.
He heard the jingle of keys and looked up with no real interest as the gaoler opened the door to allow Joseph Mahon entrance.
“I’ll be just outside, Father,” said Cummins, the gaoler, waiting for the priest to enter the cell. “You’ve only to call if you need me. Have a care with that one—he’s big and mean clear through.”
Mahon came the rest of the way in, his arms filled with some packages and Morgan’s harp.
“Morgan,” he said with a nod, coming to stand near the bed. “How are you, lad? Here, I’ve brought you clean clothes. And some of your things from your saddlebags. They said you could have them.”
In the shadows, Morgan noted that the priest was as lean as sorrow, his long, narrow face drawn and hollowed out, his silver hair thinned to a web across his skull. The Hunger exempted no man, not even a man of God.
Morgan thanked him for his things, laying them at the head of the bed.
“So, Morgan, what is this they are saying you have done? ’Tis a real fix you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”
Morgan patted the mattress beside him, and the other man sat down. “Aye, I’m in trouble for sure, if they’ve sent the priest,” he said. “With things that bad, it’s not likely I’ll have time enough for the books, Joseph.”
“You needn’t play the googeen with me, Morgan,” the priest said quietly. “We have known each other too long for that.”
Morgan turned his gaze to the floor, disconcerted by the man’s undisguised sympathy.
“I came to see if there is anything you need,” said Mahon. “And to tell you how sorry I am about Thomas. Your brother was a good man, a truly good man.”
“What have they done with him, do you know?” Morgan asked, cracking the knuckles of both hands.
“They allowed me to go aboard and administer the last rites. He was then to be buried at sea.” Mahon paused. “Along with the Kavanagh lad—young Tahg.”
Morgan lifted his head to face the priest. “Tahg?”
Mahon nodded. “He died before they sailed.”
Morgan stared at him for a moment, then again cupped his head between his hands, digging at his beard with his fingers. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God, how much more?”
“You at least have the peace of knowing Thomas died in a state of grace,” said the priest.
“Thomas lived in a state of grace,” Morgan bit out.
“Aye, more than most,” agreed Mahon.
“And just see his profit from it.”
“We do not live a godly life for profit, lad, but to the glory of our Lord. Your brother would have been one of the first to testify to that.”
Morgan said nothing, involuntarily drawing away when the priest reached to touch his arm.
“Morgan, you are a tormented man. Let me help you.”
“Help me?” Morgan jerked to his feet. “What, then? Shall I confess to you? Is that what you’d have me do?”
“Ach, if only you would.”
> “You know I have never believed in that way.”
“Then confess to your Savior, Morgan. Sure, and you still believe in Him, I would hope.”
“Are you saying I don’t have to go through you, then, Joseph? Strange words for a priest.”
“Do not mock me, Morgan. I only came to help, and to tell you of your brother.”
Morgan unclenched his hands, splayed them on his knees. “Aye, I do know that,” he said with a sigh. “And it was kindness itself for you to come, Joseph. You are a good man. You have done much for my family and for the village.”
“Morgan, ’tis no secret to you and to my people that I myself have questioned certain tenets of the church from time to time. I’ve never been the one to say that every word handed down from Rome is divinely given.”
“That’s so. I think you must be as much a renegade of the cloth as I am of the law, Joseph,” Morgan said, managing a thin smile.
In truth, he greatly admired the slight, aging priest. The man had poured himself out for the villagers year after year, spent himself completely, never complaining, with not a thing to show for it other than the stoop of age and an occasional kiss on the hand.
“Well, then, reject the Church if you must, but for the sake of your soul, lad, do not reject our Lord. He does know what He is about, even if we cannot see it.”
Unwilling to subject himself to a theological discussion, Morgan ignored the priest’s caution. “Did you see the others when you went aboard, Joseph? Thomas’s children…Nora?”
Mahon shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me below decks. I was allowed only a moment with Thomas, they were that eager to set sail.” He stopped and clasped his hands together in his lap. “Morgan—for what it may be worth, I understand what you did last night. Cotter would have killed you if you had not got to him first. You and perhaps several others as well.”
Morgan shook his head. “Have no illusions about what I did, Joseph. I went mad, and that’s the truth. I would have murdered George Cotter even if he hadn’t shot my brother; more than likely I would have killed him even if he had no gun. And no doubt I would have finished off poor old Macken as well, had they not pulled me off him when they did.” Rubbing his jaw against the pain of the aching tooth, he went on. “No, the truth is that something inside me tore loose, changed me into more beast than man. But don’t ask me to repent of killing the agent. God Himself could not convince me that George Cotter deserved to live.”
Wringing his hands, Mahon studied him. “That is not for us to decide, Morgan. We cannot know why God chooses to give life to some or withdraw it from others. But one thing I do know: There is an entire well of hatred and bitterness in you, lad, that must be emptied if you are ever to find your way back to the Lord.” He drew a shaky breath. “Morgan…you know they will hang you.”
Morgan looked at him. “Aye, they will.”
Mahon seemed flustered by his directness. “You must not die with all this hatred on your soul, Morgan, and with such…lawlessness, such sin. Please, at least let me pray with you.”
Morgan saw in the priest’s face what he had seen in few others: a pure, selfless compassion and concern for another human being. It should have moved him, but in truth it only made him sad. “Don’t waste your efforts on me, Joseph,” he said, turning his back to the other man. “There are too many others in the village who need you. Save what strength you have for them. I deserve the hanging they are going to do, and we both know there is no stopping it.”
Behind him, Mahon’s quiet words sounded unexpectedly stern. “Do not let your brother’s death be in vain, Morgan! Even worse, do not let our Savior’s death be in vain.”
Morgan felt a muscle near his right eye twitch. When he turned, the priest had risen to his feet and stood watching him.
“Say what you mean, Joseph.”
“Thomas loved you to the point of despair, Morgan,” the other man said firmly. “He agonized over you—over your soul. The man literally stormed the gates of heaven for your return to God’s arms, time after time, year after year, never once conceding that his efforts might be in vain. And at the end—” Mahon stopped, but his gaze never wavered. “At the end he died in order that you might live. Sure, I do believe that you owe Thomas’s noble memory at least a prayer in your own behalf.”
Angry at the man’s intrusion into his grief, Morgan scowled, opening his mouth to shoot back a caustic reply.
But the priest ignored him. “God in heaven, lad, do you not see it, even now? Your brother’s unselfish death, our Savior’s sacrifice on the cross—both were for you. Thomas died to spare your flesh, but our Lord died to spare your soul. Morgan, Morgan,” the priest said, shaking his head sadly, “you belonged to Him once. Why have you turned from Him all these years? Let Thomas’s final gift to you be your way back to the Savior!”
Steeling himself against the storm of emotion battering at his heart, more mindful than ever of the ache throbbing against his jaw, Morgan again turned his back on the other man. “I am not up for this, Joseph,” he said unsteadily. “I know what you are trying to do, and I know you mean well. But I ask you to leave me. Please.”
There was silence for a moment, then the sound of Mahon’s weary footsteps scraping the stone floor as he came to stand beside him. “I will go, then, Morgan. But I want you to know that I will do whatever I can to change some minds. I will go this very day to speak with the authorities.”
In reply, Morgan gave only the ghost of a knowing smile. Finally, the priest gave his arm a light squeeze, hesitating another moment before calling the gaoler.
“I will come if you need me, Morgan. Night or day, I will come. You’ve only to call.”
Morgan nodded shortly, waiting until the priest was gone before crossing the room and sinking down onto the mattress. Idly, he began to finger through the things Mahon had brought: some worn books, a stack of poems and articles for The Nation, a clean shirt and pants. At last his hand went to the harp. He lifted it, placed it on his lap, and sat staring at it for a long time.
Finally, his face twisted with pain and rage, he began to yank at the strings, pulling them free one at a time until all dangled brokenly.
Then he stood, and with an agonized cry ripping up from the very center of his soul, gave the useless instrument a fierce toss, hurling it against the stone wall of the cell.
It fell to the floor with a voiceless thud.
28
Changes and Challenges
O wise men, riddle me this:
What if the dream come true?
What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn
Shall dwell in the house that I shaped in my heart….
PADRAIC PEARSE (1879–1916)
New York City
Michael Burke stood staring at his reflection in the bedroom mirror, a practice to which he was not ordinarily given. Lately, however, he had become increasingly concerned about his appearance.
At the oddest times and in the most unlikely places he would catch himself trying to measure just how much he had changed in seventeen years. It embarrassed him, caused him no end of impatience with himself, to realize that this recent preoccupation with his looks had been brought on entirely by the unsettling question of how he might appear to Nora after so long a time.
This morning he felt neither pleased nor displeased by the image staring back at him, only anxious. Walking a beat, chasing the pigs from city streets, and running at least one gang member to the ground every day kept him fit and lean enough. And there was more than one advantage in not being a drinker; his middle was as trim as it had been the day he sailed out of Killala Bay.
A few lines in the face could not be denied, mostly about the mouth, which, according to Eileen, had always been a bit grim at best. Ah, well, at least his hair was still thick and dark, though lately some silver had begun to peep through here and there.
He leaned a bit closer to the mirror in order to inspect his face more thoroughly. After Eileen’s death
, he had considered growing a beard, or at least a mustache. Now he decided it would be best to remain cleanshaven—at least until Nora had had a chance to get used to him again.
If she came.
Unwilling for the moment to dwell on whether she would or would not make the journey to America, he began to comb his hair. The room reflected in the mirror caught his attention—a small room, too small, and too drab entirely. Somehow Eileen had managed to fill it with color and freshness, but her cheerful influence had long since faded. He had changed nothing since her death, yet the room did not appear the same at all. The ruffled curtains and pillows she had made, the coverlet she had quilted, the rough pine she had faithfully waxed—it was all the same, yet altogether different. The iron bedstead needed polishing, the vanity was scratched and dull, and the curtains hung as limp as a cow’s tail on a hot summer’s day.
He frowned at himself and the bedroom in the mirror. It was a faded, dull room, in sore need of a woman.
And that’s what I’ve become, he thought. A faded, dull man in sore need of a woman.
He pulled back from the mirror and went to stand by the window. If Nora were coming, she might well be on her way, even now. According to the messenger who had come for his return letter to Morgan, the ship was to sail from Killala some time near the end of March. That being the case, they could arrive in New York as early as the end of April or the first part of May. It would take at least five weeks, perhaps longer, depending on the type of ship and the weather. Some of the packets were said to be crossing in as little as thirty days. His own voyage had lasted for nearly six weeks; his seasickness, however, had made it seem far longer. It had been a miserable time, despite his youthful excitement at the adventure that lay before him.
Unless Nora had changed greatly, he doubted she would be excited. Frightened, perhaps, and even resentful at having to leave her own Ireland for a strange land, but not excited. Nora had never been one for adventure or change, had ever held back when it came to daring the unknown.