Song of the Silent Harp

by BJ Hoff

  Today her stomach had stopped its pitching, but she still felt lifeless, enervated and lay in the same benumbed stupor. Only in the vaguest sense was she aware of her surroundings. Her bunk mate, the young woman who had glared at her so fiercely their first day at sea, now lay flat on her back, moaning and weeping in despair between bouts of retching. Katie Frances was curled in a tight ball at the bottom of the bunk, wheezing with every breath she took, while the silent Johanna looked nearly as dazed as Nora felt.

  All around them rose the mingled sounds of suffering. Those with the strength to cry out filled the air with a mixed chorus of prayers and curses, pleas for mercy and screams of agony. Babes wailed, grown men raged, and women keened.

  Throughout the day, Daniel John had appeared often, at times coaxing her to eat or take water. When she refused, he would go away, only to return later—mostly, she supposed, to satisfy himself that she still lived. Evan Whittaker had come around once or twice, staying only long enough to ask if there was anything he could do for her, shuffling back to his bunk when she quietly assured him she needed nothing.

  By evening of the third day, she still had not made the slightest effort to move further from the bunk than the privy, had not bathed or combed her hair or taken food. Part of her nagged that she had no right to continue in this fashion, that it was thoughtless and selfish to ignore her own family and the orphaned Fitzgerald children; another part dully responded that it no longer mattered.

  A terrible, vile stench surrounded her, and she made the effort to pull herself up on the bunk to look around, throwing a hand to her head when it began to spin. Knowing she was weak to the point of collapse, she caught two or three deep breaths, then waited until the danger of fainting had passed.

  Finally she was able to haul herself the rest of the way up. Dragging her legs over the side of the berth, she glanced around at her surroundings, appalled at what she saw and smelled.

  Alice, her bunk mate, and the two little girls at the foot of the berth were asleep, all three lying in their own messes from being ill. Nora’s stomach pitched, and she fought against being sick. She put a hand to her sticky, brittle hair, then to her face, grimacing when she saw the dirt and oil that smudged her palm.

  Her throat was sore and painfully dry. Mostly, she felt disheveled and disoriented—and disgusted with herself and the putrid conditions around them. Instinctively, she attempted to smooth her bodice, staying her hand when she touched the envelope close to her heart.

  Retrieving Michael’s letter from inside her dress, she glanced around, hesitating. She supposed she should make an effort to clean up their berth, but she wasn’t at all sure she had the strength. Besides, she had put off reading the letter long enough; the berth could wait.

  Her head ached with a dull, nagging throb, and her hands trembled as she opened the envelope, pulled the letter free, and began to read:

  Dear Nora Ellen…I hope you will remember your long-ago friend, who still remembers you with much affection….

  Evan Whittaker had been brooding for most of the evening. He knew what he wanted to say to Nora Kavanagh, had prayed over it as much as he was able, given his light-headed state. As yet, he had been unable to muster the courage to approach her with his suggestion.

  There was always the chance she would take him the wrong way, become offended or even angry. His intention—his only intention—was to help, if he could. He could not deny his growing admiration and somewhat unsettling concern for the grieving young widow. She was lovely, after all—even in her frailty and her unhappiness, she was like a rare, delicate wildflower, exquisite and fragile and elusive.

  Obviously, she should not be alone. She needed someone to look after her. He had promised Morgan Fitzgerald to care for her and the others as if they were his own. And he would keep that promise if at all possible. Admittedly, it would be no sacrifice on his part to look after Nora Kavanagh; she was the kind of woman who somehow called forth one’s manly, protective instincts. In her own unique way, she was really quite wonderful.

  In thirty-six years, Evan had never loved a woman, had never had a romance. Always too shy to initiate a relationship—and too set in his ways to respond in the unlikely event that a woman should take the initiative with him—he had resigned himself to living his life alone. It was not such a bad life, really: he had his work, his church, his books. He managed. Now that he would be starting a new life in a new country, however, he thought it might be wise to give some consideration to starting over in other ways as well. Where was it written, after all, that he need remain a bachelor for the rest of his years?

  Suddenly realizing the direction his thoughts had taken, he blinked, then pressed a hand to his mouth in dismay. It might not be written, but he had always assumed as much, and now was certainly no time to be thinking about changing his spots. What he must do, above all else, was to make every effort to fulfill his vow to Fitzgerald. He would do his best to look after Nora Kavanagh, ease the journey, help with the children. To anticipate anything more was absurd.

  Still, if she came to depend on him, trust him…who could say? Perhaps later…

  Nora still sat on the side of the berth, her feet planted heavily on the floor. Stunned, frozen in place by what she had just read, she stared into the shadows.

  Her mind could not take it in. Added to everything else, this was simply too much. An offer of marriage from a man she had not seen for more than seventeen years? How else could she respond but with shock and bitterness—a bitterness directed not at Michael Burke, but at Morgan Fitzgerald.

  Morgan. She had seen his clever, conniving hand in it at once. It was all too clear what he had done. Hadn’t he admitted, just before leaving Thomas’s cabin, that he, too, had received a letter from Michael? He had played the innocent, like the consummate rogue he was, telling her as little as possible, all the while knowing exactly what he’d been up to. Obviously, he had taken it upon himself, in his proprietary, arrogant way, to try to order her life for her. Why would he do such a thing? Sure, and he must have realized it would humiliate her.

  Anger and the pain of betrayal nearly doubled Nora over. She hugged her arms to her breast as if to hold herself together. Choking on unshed tears of fury and humiliation, she drew deep, shuddering breaths to control her trembling.

  She had believed he truly cared for her. At the last, she had cherished his outburst of emotion, had clung to it. Had it all been a lie, then, just another attempt to pacify poor little Nora, to keep her from going to pieces on him and making things more difficult?

  No. No, she did not, could not, believe that. His heart had been in his eyes, his true heart revealed at last. What she had seen in his face had been real, at least at that moment.

  It was obvious what had driven him to do such a daft thing. As always, he simply believed her to be too weak, too helpless to manage on her own. The man had ever believed she needed a keeper; since childhood, he had treated her like a wee, frail thing to be pampered and patronized.

  For an instant—only an instant—the thought skirted her mind that perhaps, out of the depths of his caring, he had simply taken it upon himself to ensure her safety and well-being, that he had not meant to be so heavy-handed. But just as quickly came a fresh wave of shame at the position in which he had placed her, whatever his motives might have been.

  Merciful Lord, what had he told Michael? That they were destitute, starving, in dire need of charity?

  Just as we are…

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the painful truth, willing herself not to weep. She hated being dependent on others, had always despised the shame of it, yet had been forced to endure all too much of it in her life, from her childhood on.

  Nora opened her eyes. What if she were wrong? What if Michael meant all he said, that his son was in sore need of mothering, that he himself was in need of a partner to share his life? What if he did remember her with affection, after all, and did truly want her as his wife?

  Don’t be a foo
l! Nora’s mind argued. Morgan’s stamp is all over this thing! Why would any decent man with a brain in his head go offering to wed a used-up woman he hasn’t seen or heard from in years?

  Besides, whatever was behind it, did they really think she would consent to marry a man she no longer knew, a man she didn’t love? She had rejected Michael once; had he and Morgan forgotten that? If she had not loved him enough to marry him then, when they were close and knew each other well, what in heaven’s name led them to believe she would marry him now, and the two of them strangers?

  She sat up a little straighter, trying to ignore the throbbing at the base of her skull. Glancing down at the pages of the letter strewn across her side of the berth, she grabbed them up in one angry sweep, intending to shred them to pieces.

  Startled, Nora jumped as Evan Whittaker moved out of the shadows. Still clutching the letter in one hand, she nodded to him.

  “I hope I didn’t startle you, Mrs. K-Kavanagh,” he said uncertainly, stopping a few feet away from the berth. “It’s…good to see you sitting up at last. I hope you’re feeling b-better?”

  “Aye, a bit, thank you. But how are you, Mr. Whittaker? Is your arm giving you much pain?”

  “Some. But nothing I c-can’t tolerate.” With his good hand, Whittaker moved a small stool closer to the bunk. “May I?” he said, waiting for her nod of assent before he sat down.

  To Nora, the Englishman looked ghastly pale, ill, and more than a little shaky. Pain had lined his smooth forehead and carved deep brackets on either side of his mouth, adding years to his once almost boyish countenance.

  “Am I disturbing you?” he asked abruptly, half rising from the stool as his gaze went to the letter in her hand.

  “No—no, not a bit,” she assured him.

  “Yes, well…” He relaxed only a little. Then, clearing his throat, he leaned forward. “I, ah, was wondering if we might…talk? There’s something…I’d like to, ah, d-discuss with you. If it’s no b-bother, that is.”

  Nora shook her head, sensing the man’s difficulty. Obviously, he was struggling to find words for whatever he intended to say. “It’s no bother at all, Mr. Whittaker.”

  “Yes, well…you see, k-keeping in mind that you’ve been through a great deal…you’ve had a terrible time of things, after all…and it does seem to me that it must be rather frightening for a woman, crossing the ocean more or less alone. Oh, you have your son, of course, I don’t m-mean to denigrate Daniel. He’s such a fine boy, so c-collected and mature for his age. Still, it has to be most difficult…”

  He stopped, his expression frozen in dismay. “Oh, dear, I’m saying this b-badly…I knew I would…”

  Having no idea how to help him, Nora offered a weak smile.

  Whittaker rose suddenly, reaching out to a nearby beam to steady himself. “I would like,” he said, his voice gaining a bit of strength, “to offer my p-protection to you, Mrs. K-Kavanagh. For the duration of our journey…and for as long as you might desire, afterward.”

  Nora’s mouth went slack as she stared at the man. “I’m sorry?”

  “Please, Mrs. K-Kavanagh understand that in no way do I mean to be forward!” he blurted out. “I wouldn’t want you to think—”

  Whittaker stopped and swallowed with difficulty. Even in the dull glow from the lantern, Nora could see him flush and was torn between conflicting emotions of sympathy and annoyance. Even to a mild-mannered man such as this, she appeared helpless and weak, in need of an overseer!

  As he stood there, looking none too steady on his feet, he clenched and unclenched the fingers of one hand. “I only meant to say, Mrs. K-Kavanagh, that it would be my pleasure to act as your…ah…protector…for the duration of our voyage…and for as long as necessary after we reach New York. After that…well, ah, I’d b-be most flattered if you would consider me as a…a friend, at least.”

  The poor man looked about to faint. Nora was at a loss. Half fearful that he might topple over at any moment, half angry that yet another man perceived her as helpless, she forced a note of steady calm into her voice. “I—truly, I don’t know what to say, Mr. Whittaker. I’m very grateful to you, of course…but you’ve already done so much for me and my family—”

  “Oh, please,” Whittaker interrupted, pulling a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiping it over his brow with a trembling hand, “you need say n-nothing! Nothing at all. I only wanted to m-make you aware of the fact that…that I respect you greatly, and care deeply about your welfare. And that of your son, of course,” he added quickly. “D-Daniel and I have been getting to know each other quite well, and he’s a wonderful b-boy. Wonderful…”

  His words trailed off, unfinished. Nora felt an unjustified stirring of anger. She was being entirely unfair. This good, shy man was willingly making himself miserable on her account, pledging his protection to a virtual stranger, to a woman who must look no better than a deranged harridan at the moment. And, clearly, the very act of making himself understood was a torment, timid soul that he seemed to be.

  Indeed, she liked Evan Whittaker and owed him much; that his intentions were the best, she had no doubt. But he, too, had seen something in her, some flaw in her character, that marked her as inadequate. God in heaven, what was there in her demeanor that made her appear simple-minded and incompetent to these men?

  She sat up a bit straighter, having to grope at the limp mattress when she was hit by a new surge of dizziness. Seeing her sway, Whittaker put a hand to her shoulder. “I’ve upset you! I’m so sorry—”

  “No, no, it’s not that!” Nora protested, forcing herself to sit upright, unassisted. “I’m still…a bit weak, is all. No, I’m—my goodness, Mr. Whittaker, I’m not perturbed with you at all, simply overwhelmed—by your kindness.”

  He stooped slightly to peer into her face. “Please d-don’t feel you need to say anything more, Mrs. K-Kavanagh. You’re really quite weak, and I didn’t intend to cause you additional d-distress. I—just b-bear in mind that I will count it a privilege to d-do whatever I can to make this journey easier for you. Now then,” he said with more firmness, “I’m going to leave you alone so you can rest.”

  He turned to go, then stopped. “You will let me know if there’s anything I can d-do?”

  Nora nodded and managed another faint smile. “Of course. And—I do thank you, Mr. Whittaker.”

  Still somewhat dazed, she watched him stumble off to the men’s quarters. Truly, she did not know what to make of the man.

  At the moment, she wasn’t sure she cared. She had had her fill, and then some, of coming across as incompetent to the men with whom she came in contact. From now on, she would do whatever she must to avoid even a hint of weakness, any sign of dependency. She was a woman grown, after all, with a son and three orphaned children who had nobody else in the world.

  Deliberately, and with a strange new sense of purpose, she took the pages of Michael Burke’s letter and, one by one, tore them into pieces. As she watched them flutter to the floor, she knew an instant of panic.

  Perhaps she should have at least saved his address…what if—Shaking off the thought, she closed her eyes.

  Dear Lord, I am sick to death of being a weak, clinging woman. I ask You now to do whatever You must to make me strong…strong in Your power, strong enough, Lord, so that others will no longer feel such a need to take care of me, indeed strong enough that I might begin to look after others for a change. Oh, I’m that frightened, Lord. Sure, and You know I am terrified of what may lie ahead for all of us. But in the future, Blessed Savior, couldn’t we just let my terrors be our secret—Yours and mine? Please, Lord?

  Nora opened her eyes and, for the first time in her life, stretched her hands up, toward heaven. Crying out in a harsh, desperate whisper of a plea, she begged, “God, change me! Oh, my Lord—change me!

  31

  The Most Fearful Dread of All

  The fell Spectre advanc’d—who the horrors shall tell

  Of his galloping stride, as he sounded
the knell.

  AUTHOR UNKNOWN (1858)

  They had been at sea nearly a week when Evan took a turn for the worse. His fever soared, and his wound began to fester and burn as if somebody held a fiery brand to his skin. Still, there were others in sadder condition, and it was their need, not his own, that sent him stumbling to the surgeon’s quarters late at night.

  He found Dr. Leary sprawled in his bunk, his eyes glazed. He looked about to pass out.

  “I’m sorry,” Evan said stiffly, not meaning it. “I know it’s late, but you’re d-desperately needed in steerage. We have people down there in their extremities.”

  The surgeon lolled where he was, peering at Evan with eyes that would not quite focus.

  Dr. Leary’s quarters were cramped and reeked of whiskey and mold. Evan was struck by a bout of weakness and, head pounding, his wound on fire, he groped for the open door to keep from falling.

  “There’s something terribly wrong b-below,” he said thickly. “Not seasickness. M-much worse. Please—you must come! People are dying!” The surgeon had not been seen in steerage since the day after they sailed, and Evan found it almost impossible to keep from screaming at the drunken man to do his job.

  “The Irish are always dying,” muttered Leary drunkenly. “Why should I be the one to circumvent their destiny?”

  A terrible fury rose in Evan as he stood studying the dissipated wreck of a man across the room. Was this all the help they could expect, this drunken failure who could scarcely speak? God help them all, they would perish!

  “You are Irish yourself, man!”

  The surgeon grunted. “Don’t be reminding me.”

  “Dr. Leary,” Evan tried again, the words sticking to his palate, “we have two c-corpses in steerage, and from the looks of things this night, we will have m-many more before sunrise. If you do not c-come with me and come now, I promise you I will return with a number of the largest, b-brawniest men on board and we will drag you below! Good heavens, man, you’re a physician!”