by BJ Hoff
His heart pounding, Morgan looked to Cummins. The gaoler sat, hunched over like a lump on the sagging mattress. He wore the dark, angry face of one who has had the rug yanked out from under him.
“A pardon, is it?” Morgan parroted, turning back to Joseph Mahon.
“Aye, lad,” said the priest, quickly adding, “a conditional pardon.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Morgan, then repeated the words softly.
“I don’t believe it. How could this be, Joseph?”
“It is true, Morgan,” the priest assured him. “You are saved. By God’s grace, you will live.”
For one appalling instant, Morgan felt he would disgrace himself by bursting into tears of stunned relief. Recovering, he looked at the papers in Joseph’s hand.
“Is that—”
The priest nodded. “This is your pardon, Morgan. And a letter.”
“A letter? A letter from whom?”
Morgan reached for the papers, but Joseph put up a restraining hand. “Wait, lad. Sit down, now, for we must talk.”
Morgan managed a jerky nod. “How, Joseph? How could such a thing happen?”
The priest gave him a long look, then took his arm and motioned him toward the bed. Cummins immediately jumped to his feet and went to stand on the opposite side of the cell, as if Morgan’s nearness might contaminate him.
“It came about,” said the priest, waiting for Morgan to sit down, “through your grandfather.”
While Morgan sat staring at him with burning eyes, struggling to shake off the buzzing in his head, Joseph Mahon turned to Cummins. “I will talk with him alone now.”
The sullen line of the gaoler’s mouth pulled down even more. “I’m to see the pardon delivered,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “and its terms accepted before the prisoner is released.”
Mahon narrowed his eyes. “The pardon will be delivered, and will tell you when the prisoner can be released! Will you insult your own priest by doubting his honor, Francis Cummins?”
The gaoler grumbled but finally turned and let himself out the door.
The priest sat down beside Morgan. “I know you are surprised, Morgan. I will explain what I can.”
Morgan’s own hand was shaking as he rubbed one side of his beard. He looked at the priest.
“Surprised?” Morgan repeated blankly. “Oh, I am not surprised, Joseph. I am dumbfounded!”
Avoiding Morgan’s eyes, Joseph sat staring down at the floor.
Morgan noted that the priest’s hands were still trembling. Weakness, he realized. It isn’t dread over approaching doom after all, but illness and exhaustion that has made him quake so.
“Much of what you will want to know, Morgan, is in this letter,” said Joseph, handing both the envelope and the scrolled sheet of paper to Morgan without looking at him. “There are some things I cannot tell you, not without violating your father’s last confession.”
Morgan looked down at the papers in Joseph’s hand, then took them. “My father’s—” Morgan stopped, groping to make some sense of the priest’s words. “What is all this you are telling me, Joseph? About my father—and a grandfather? I have no grandfather, at least none I ever knew.”
He paused, and Joseph Mahon turned and met his eyes, nodding. “Aye, lad, I know that. You thought you had no real family, other than your father and Thomas.”
“That’s the truth. But how is it that you know?”
“I have just returned from Dublin, Morgan. That’s why I have not come to the gaol for some days now.”
“Dublin? What is in Dublin?”
“Your grandfather. Your mother’s father.”
“My—Joseph, what is this about?” Morgan put a heavy hand to Joseph’s arm, but, feeling the thin, fragile bones beneath the sleeve of the priest’s cassock, he immediately gentled his touch.
Mahon looked away. “Do you remember your mother at all, Morgan?”
“No. I never knew her.”
Still staring at the floor, Joseph asked quietly, “Did you know that she was half English?”
“Aye, I knew that, well enough,” Morgan muttered.
The priest turned to look at him, his eyes widening with surprise. “Aidan told you, then—about your mother?”
Morgan shook his head. “Thomas. Thomas told me. Our da spilled it to him one night when he was on the bottle,” he said tightly, remembering how his young heart had sickened at the thought of British blood in his veins.
“How much did Thomas know?”
“How much?” Morgan looked at him, then shrugged. “That was most of it. Our mother was the daughter of an English politician and a Dublin woman who left the church to marry.”
“That was all? Did you never wonder what happened to your mother?”
“She died,” Morgan said quietly, avoiding the priest’s probing gaze. “When I was still a babe. I never knew her at all. She died, and his grief for her set our father on the road. He never got over her death, you know. Her dying killed him as well.”
“It was hard for you lads, you and Thomas,” said Joseph softly, as if remembering. “Aidan was a…a difficult man. A broken man. You must have wondered about your mother, what she was like?”
“Aye, we did,” Morgan admitted. “Da would not speak of her, told us nothing of their life together, and so I made up a picture of her in my mind when I was small. The picture became so real that she almost seemed to live, at least at night, in my dreams. Even now,” he said with a faint smile, “I can see the face I gave to her. It was a lovely face—”
Catching the maudlin note in his voice, he broke off and got to his feet. “Ah, well, what boy does not want a lovely mother? Joseph, I will ask you again: How is it that you know these things, and what is all this leading up to?”
“Aidan told both you and Thomas that your mother’s people were dead as well as herself, did he not?”
Morgan nodded. “He did.”
The priest sighed, his eyes roaming over the dark, barren cell. “I suppose he felt it best, safer for you boys.” He regarded Morgan with a thoughtful gaze for a moment. “But it was a lie. Your grandfather still lives, Morgan. And it is to him you owe your freedom.”
For a fleeting instant, Joseph caught a rare glimpse of vulnerability in Morgan, and it pierced his heart all through.
He had known this immense, strapping young man since he was a lad—long enough to know he was not the callous outlaw his reputation suggested. The Morgan Fitzgerald Joseph knew might very well possess the ferocity of a lion and the cunning of the wolf after which he was called. But he was also a man with an infinitely tender heart that belied his strength, a heart easily pierced and supremely capable of deep, intense pain.
Joseph remembered the boy Morgan had been, with his wild copper curls and his too-long legs and his habit of hurling endless unanswerable questions during the catechism classes. Brilliant and eclectic, he had been a rebel even then, a rebel with a hunger for knowledge and a fierce intolerance of easy answers. The lad had often reminded Joseph of a young animal, stalking the most elusive prey known to man—Truth.
“Sit down, Morgan,” he said. “Sit down here beside me.”
Morgan did as he was told, but the look he gave Joseph was guarded and not altogether friendly.
“The letter you hold is from your maternal grandfather. He has written to you with an explanation of the terms of your pardon, which he secured on your behalf. I will tell you the little I can without violating the confessional, but the rest you must learn for yourself, inside that letter.”
Morgan studied the envelope in his hand for an instant. “How did you know where to find him?”
“Oh, finding him was no problem,” Joseph said. “He is a well-known, powerful man—a member of the aristocracy. He sat in Parliament for years, owns vast estates both in England and in Ireland, and has great influence. No, it wasn’t difficult at all to find him,” he repeated. “He’s an old man now, of course, retired because of age and poor h
ealth. But your friend, Smith O’Brien, helped me gain an audience with him. He knew a man who knew another man, don’t you see, and the next thing that happened, I found myself in your grandfather’s library.”
Joseph leaned toward Morgan. “And what a library it is, Morgan! You would lie down and die of ecstasy just to see it, and that’s the truth!”
“Joseph, I care nothing about my—about this man’s library! Just tell me whatever it is you think I should know and be done with it. If it’s true that I am about to be freed from this place, the sooner the better for me!”
Joseph nodded. He thought he understood Morgan’s confusion. To spend years with no family at all and then one day to learn of a grandfather who is no more than a stranger—an English stranger—would be a hard thing. A hard thing, indeed.
“Your father’s family was ancient Gaelic—among the very oldest of Irish stock. Not wealthy at all, but learned people, most of them teachers and priests. Aidan was educated, first in France and later in Dublin at great financial sacrifice. To his family, knowledge was all, nearly as important as life itself.”
“Aye, the old man often rambled on about the sanctity of education when he was drunk,” Morgan commented brusquely.
Nodding, Joseph went on. “Your mother’s family—at least on her father’s side—was English, only a step or two removed from nobility. Wealthy, influential—”
“—and thoroughly Protestant,” Morgan finished dryly.
“That’s the truth. Your grandmother left the church in a great rush to marry her English lover, and it was immediately hushed up that their spotless Saxon bloodline had been some tainted with a touch of the Roman Irish.
“Your father was a poor student when he met and fell in love with your mother. By that time her family was so entrenched in their wealthy English Protestantism that the news of their only daughter’s love for a starving Roman Catholic brought as much horror as if she had asked their leave to wed a leper.
“Your father’s family was no more pleased. They cherished their Irishness and their Catholicism every bit as much as the girl’s family did their Anglican ways. Both families threatened the young lovers with expulsion if they did not part.
“Well, the long and short of it,” Joseph continued, feeling a renewed wave of sadness for the young couple who wanted only to be left alone with their love for each other, “was that your mother and father would be married, and so they defied their families—and their religions—and ran off to some godforsaken village in County Kerry to be married by a civil official.
“Over the years their poverty forced them to move from town to town. Aidan kept a school wherever he was needed, or else worked at odd jobs to keep food in their mouths.
“When Thomas was born, Aidan’s father—his mother had died—relented and asked them to come home with their babe. Things were better for them for a time, but when the old man died, nothing was left to them except a house on which they could not pay the rent.
“Your mother was carrying you by then, and after you were born, she sickened for some weeks, then died. Aidan tried to keep you boys with him, but he had no money and was drinking something fierce all the time. So he went to your mother’s family and offered the two of you—you and Thomas—to them.”
As Joseph watched, a stricken look came over Morgan’s face. “He gave us away? Is that the truth?”
“It wasn’t like that! He was wild with grief, desperate to save you and your brother from starving. The family agreed to take you both, and gave Aidan some money to go away. He had to sign papers giving up all claim to you, had to promise he would never attempt to see you again. At the last minute, he couldn’t do it. The papers were signed, the money in his pocket, but he reneged on the agreement and ran away, taking both you and Thomas with him.
“Apparently they tried for months to locate the three of you—even offered a reward. But Aidan went on the road like a common outlaw, hiding in the woods, stopping off in remote villages, until the family finally lost his scent. After that…well, as you know, he did the best he could. But by then he was a beaten man.
“The rest of it…no longer matters. There are private, personal things a father would not want his sons to know, only his priest.”
Morgan was silent for a long time. He sat slumped over on the bed, his broad shoulders sagging, his rugged face pensive. Joseph reached once to touch him, thought better of it, and dropped his hand away.
“So that is where the money for my education came from,” Morgan said softly. “He stole it from them.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. “How did my grandfather manage a pardon for me? And why?” He turned to look at Joseph. “And these conditions you mentioned—what are they?”
“Your grandfather has the power to obtain most anything he pleases,” Joseph replied. “As to why, you are his blood—his only grandson, Morgan—and he is sorry for what he did to your parents. Truly sorry.”
“Of course, he is,” Morgan sneered. “You still haven’t told me what the conditions are.”
“Morgan, he is an old, sick man. Probably he has little time left on this earth. It is altogether likely his remorse is genuine. I believe it is,” Joseph said firmly. “As for the conditions, they are more than fair. He asks only that you refrain from further ‘illegal activities.’ And he wants to see you. He wants you to come to Dublin once you’re released.”
“He wants to see me?” Morgan uttered a short, ugly laugh. “When hell is an iceberg!”
Again Joseph reached to clasp Fitzgerald’s shoulder. “Morgan—”
Morgan shook him off with a violent shrug. He shot to his feet and went to stand in the center of the shadowed cell. “If seeing him is a part of the pardon, tell him I’ll whistle as I swing!”
He tossed the envelope and the pardon to the floor.
“Don’t be a fool!” Ignoring the pain in his back, Joseph got to his feet and hurried to rescue the papers.
Facing Morgan, he pressed the envelope and the pardon into his hand. “I understand your bitterness, lad, and I don’t blame you. But it will gain you nothing to go on nursing your poison. That paper is your freedom! Do not let your anger get in the way of your good sense!”
His face livid, Morgan waved the papers in the air. “Why, after all these years, Joseph? Answer me that! Why should I go toadying to a man who as good as murdered my parents? His own daughter, for the love of heaven! Why should I do anything for a man like that?”
Joseph looked at him, choosing his words carefully. “Because he is soon to die and wants to see his only grandson while there is still time.”
At Morgan’s grunt of disgust, Joseph shook his head and put up a hand to quiet him. “And because you will die if you do not go, if you refuse to let him help you. You should do this thing out of mercy for him, and for the sake of your own life most of all. I cannot think you would need more reason than that.”
The younger man’s back stiffened. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin. Standing there, so straight and towering, he looked for all the world like one of the ancient warlords.
Oh, God, soften his pride, the priest prayed silently. Quench his anger! Do not let him be such a fool as to deny the freedom he holds within his hand even now…
When Morgan turned back to him, Joseph was amazed to see the lad’s eyes glazed with unshed tears. So, then, a struggle was going on.
Indeed, Joseph wondered, had there ever been a time when a battle was not going on inside that searching, tormented spirit?
Savior…tender Shepherd of our souls, reach out to Your prodigal son and draw him back into your loving arms. Give him, at last, the peace that has eluded him all his life…
Moments passed, and the silence in the room hung heavy and thick with dread.
Finally Morgan turned, his face set in an unreadable mask. “I suppose,” he said in a strangled voice, “I do not want to hang, after all. I will accept the pardon. I will go to Dublin.”
Their eyes locked and held. “God be p
raised,” murmured Joseph. “God be praised.”
An hour later, Morgan walked out the back door of the Castlebar gaol into a clear, star-studded night.
He stopped just outside the door. There, a few feet away, stood Pilgrim, tethered to a fence rail.
As soon as Pilgrim saw Morgan, he went berserk, pawing the ground and squealing with excitement.
Stunned, Morgan bolted toward the horse. He crooned to the big stallion in the Irish, stroking his sides, patting his noble head.
At last he swung around to Joseph, just coming out the door. “How did you manage this?” he asked, a smile breaking across his face. “Where was he?”
With one arm tucked behind his back, the priest started toward him. “Cassidy hid him in the woods, took care of him. I found out where he was only last night.”
Then, fixing a stern frown on Morgan, he withdrew what he had been holding behind his back.
Morgan’s harp. His broken harp.
“What is the meaning of this?” The priest’s voice was sharp.
Morgan shrugged.
“Can it be fixed?” Joseph asked, handing it to Morgan.
Hesitating, Morgan glanced at the strings hanging limply from the broken block of willow. Finally, he reached for it, nodding. “Aye, it just needs to be glued and restrung.”
The priest studied him for a long moment. “The same is true of yourself, I’m thinking.”
Morgan looked at him.
“God is calling you back, Morgan Fitzgerald,” Joseph said, his tone softening. “How long will you turn deaf ears to His voice?”
Morgan stared at the diminutive, frail priest with real affection. “I have much to thank you for, Joseph Mahon. My freedom, my life—even my horse, it seems. How do I tell you what is in my heart?”
“You have God to thank,” the priest replied. “I was only His hands and feet. It’s Him you should be telling what is in your heart.”
Morgan inclined his head, smiling ruefully at the priest. “As you say, Joseph. Still, I owe you much.”
“Then repay me by grieving for your sins and turning back to your Savior. I could hope for no greater payment.”