Song of the Silent Harp

by BJ Hoff

  Morgan studied him, wondering at the kind of great soul it took to make such a man. “You mean that.”

  “Of course, I mean it! I have stormed the doors of heaven for you, Morgan Fitzgerald! Can you not at least go knocking on your own behalf?”

  Morgan managed a lame smile. “I suppose I can try, Joseph. But do not be surprised if the doors are permanently locked against me.”

  “Even if they are, lad, you hold the one key that will open them.”

  “The key, Joseph? What key would that be?”

  “Christ in your heart, Morgan.”

  “Ah, I doubt He would live in a heart like mine, Joseph. Not now, not after all I’ve done.”

  From a great distance away, as if floating down from the ancient mountains of Mayo, came the memory of the Englishman Evan Whittaker’s voice: “He means to have your attention…and your heart…and 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.”

  Morgan suddenly thought of Jonah…the cold, dark belly of the fish…his gaol cell. Had the Castlebar gaol been his fish?

  God, what was happening? He was sniveling, sniveling like a boy…

  “Will you pray with me, Morgan?”

  “Now, Joseph?”

  “Now, Morgan.”

  And so they knelt there, on the cold, wet earth in back of the Castlebar gaol.

  With the weary priest at his side, the warm, familiar breath of his horse at his back, the prodigal prayed. And listened.

  Above them in the night sky, the stars of heaven blinked in wonder.

  “Do you still believe in the Man named Jesus, Morgan…the Man who was nailed to a cross on Calvary?”

  “I do, yes,” Morgan said softly, silently voicing the precious name in his heart for the first time in what seemed an age.

  Jesus…

  “And do you still believe,” the priest went on, “it was the very Son of God whose hands and feet were nailed to that tree, Morgan?”

  “Aye, I do.” His voice grew softer still, choking on a wave of long-suppressed tears.

  “And do you know that He died for you…indeed, would have died upon His cross even if there had been no sinner in the world that day apart from you?”

  God, oh, God, that’s the truth, isn’t it? You died for me, would have died for me alone…

  Morgan Fitzgerald was weeping, his heart breaking.

  “Lord, oh, Lord Jesus, forgive this sinner…”

  Morgan, My son, I love you. You are Mine.

  “Even now, Lord? Even now?”

  I have always loved you, Morgan. Even now…now and forever.

  The priest and the prodigal wept, and heaven sang.

  36

  Whisper of Darkness

  Be Thou my wisdom, Thou my true word;

  I ever with Thee, Thou with me, Lord.

  Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight,

  Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight.

  Thou my soul’s shelter, Thou my high tower;

  Raise Thou me heavenward, power of my power.

  ANONYMOUS (EIGHTH CENTURY)

  For three days Evan Whittaker lay suspended between life and death. Unconscious, seemingly unaware of everything but pain, he seldom moved except to thrash back and forth in the throes of his suffering. He made no sound except to add his intermittent groans and cries to the cacophony of despair that rang throughout the steerage quarters day and night.

  Throughout the entire time, Nora felt that Whittaker had somehow escaped the Green Flag, had managed to slip away to a secret place, where he now awaited the Lord’s decision as to his fate.

  When, on the evening of the third day, he began to rouse, she nearly panicked. From the hour of the surgery, she had prayed for his recovery, yet dreaded his awakening. What would she say to him when and if he finally came to and found himself missing an arm?

  Even as his eyes fluttered open to fix a glazed, uncomprehending stare on her, Nora looked frantically around the men’s quarters for Daniel John. He was nowhere in sight. Only moments before, he had taken Little Tom to the back of the compartment to relieve himself, and they had not yet returned. MacCabe, the Galway farmer who was Whittaker’s bunk mate, was gone as well.

  A garbled word from Whittaker made Nora turn back to him.

  “Hurts…”

  Leaning close, Nora put a cloth to his head. “Shhh, now, Mr. Whittaker, I know it must hurt something fierce, but you are going to be all right, truly you are. You will be just fine.”

  His eyes closed for an instant, then opened again. Nora thought she saw a faint glimmer of recognition.

  “Mrs.… Kavanagh…”

  He was coming around! He would need the surgeon…somebody. “Daniel John! Oh, thank the Lord!”

  The sight of her son coming up the aisle, tugging wee Tom by the hand, made relief spill over Nora.

  “Take Little Tom to the girls, and come back. Hurry!”

  Glancing from her to Whittaker with surprise, Daniel turned before the words were out of her mouth. Pulling the little boy up into his arms, he hurried him off to Katie and Johanna.

  He was back in a moment, his eyes anxious as he came to stand next to his mother.

  As if sensing the movement, Whittaker’s eyes flickered open. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his face still bruised and scraped from the fall he’d taken at the time of his shooting.

  “What…happened?” he finally managed.

  Nora’s throat ached with despair as she reached out to smooth a strand of limp blond hair away from his forehead, gently, as she might have touched an ailing child.

  Merciful Lord, what do I say? There are no words that can make this any easier for him.

  “You…you have had surgery, Mr. Whittaker,” she choked out. “Three days past now.”

  “Surgery?” His head lolled to one side, and his eyes closed again, only for an instant. “What sort of…surgery?” When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was more focused.

  Oh, God, how do I tell him the terrible truth? I want to comfort him, but there is no comfort for such a thing as this.

  “Your arm, Mr. Whittaker…the wound was badly infected, you see. The surgeon…Dr. Leary…he—” She glanced at Daniel John for support, but the boy’s attention was fixed on Whittaker, his eyes glistening with pain and sympathy.

  Nora’s mouth went dry as she turned back to Whittaker. “The doctor said there was…no other way if you were to live. He said…it was the only thing to do.” The words stuck in her throat.

  Whittaker’s eyes met hers, and Nora suddenly felt the man absorb her horror. Slowly, he reached his right hand across his chest to touch the empty space at his left side.

  Nora could feel his shock—the sudden, awful emptiness—as if it were her own. She swallowed, held her breath, nodding at the anguished question in his eyes.

  “He had to do it, Mr. Whittaker,” she managed to say, strangling on the words. “You would have died if he had not…operated.”

  Whittaker’s hand continued to move, fumbling, passing over the blanket once, then again. All the while he continued to stare at Nora, as if expecting her at any instant to tell him he was dreaming, that his arm was right there, just as it had always been.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Whittaker,” Nora choked out. “It was the only way.”

  His eyes froze on her face, bleak and mute. Nora swallowed down the knot of despair in her throat, unable to speak. At last Whittaker squeezed his eyes tightly shut and turned his head away.

  Nora cast a pleading glance at Daniel John, and he put an arm around her waist to steady her. “We’ll take care of you, Mr. Whittaker,” he said, his voice trembling as he repeated the assurance. “We’ll take care of you. You’ll be fine in no time at all.”

  Nora wasn’t sure exactly what she had expected from the Englishman. She would not have been surprised if he had screamed or lashed out in a fit of hysterics
.

  What she had not anticipated was the stillness of the man, the lack of even the slightest display of horror or anger or outrage. He lay there on the bunk, eyes closed, quiet as a shadow. Once he opened his mouth in a soft, sobbing sound. Other than that, the only indication of his grief was a silent tear that crept from the corner of his eye, then made a slow descent down his scraped, lightly bearded cheek.

  Instinctively, Nora reached to blot it gently with her fingers. Its dampness mingled with her own tears as she lifted a hand to brush them away.

  To Daniel’s surprise, Dr. Leary came again that night to check on Whittaker.

  He had appeared each day since the surgery, briefly, but showing what appeared to be genuine interest in his patient. During each visit, Daniel had thought him to be reasonably sober.

  Until tonight. As had been the case when he’d first tended Whittaker’s wound, the surgeon showed up reeking of whiskey, obviously unsteady on his feet.

  Angry, Daniel was relieved that his mother had gone to lie down. He would not want her exposed to the surgeon’s foul mood—or his foul mouth—when he was drunk.

  Glaring at the man, he kept him under close scrutiny as Leary checked Whittaker’s bandages with clumsy hands. Once, Whittaker gasped with pain at the doctor’s careless touch, spurring Daniel to lunge forward and throw a restraining hand on Leary’s arm.

  The surgeon shot him a glazed look, then glanced angrily down at the hand clutching his arm.

  Daniel didn’t move. “Why did you come here like this?” he challenged.

  “Like what?” the surgeon snarled. “Keep your hands to yourself!”

  “You’re drunk!”

  “You’re impertinent!” Leary shot back, shaking him off.

  “What is it with you?” Daniel pressed in a low voice. “You seem a good surgeon when you’re sober enough to mind what you’re doing. Why do you do this to yourself, and to those who depend on you?”

  The surgeon straightened, brushing the back of his hand across his brow as he fixed Daniel with a sullen glare. Beneath the swaying glow from the overhead lantern, Daniel saw a subtle change in Leary’s expression. Resentment gave way to a look of weariness. The doctor’s features, indeed his entire body, seemed to slump in defeat.

  “That’s the truth,” he mumbled, averting his eyes. “I was a good surgeon once. More than good, some said.”

  “You still are,” Daniel countered awkwardly. “Or you could be if you’d only leave the whiskey alone.”

  Replacing a roll of bandages in his case, the doctor slanted a disdainful glance at Daniel. “You know nothing, boy. Nothing at all. Let it be.”

  “I know your hands were deft and steady the other night when you performed Mr. Whittaker’s surgery. Just watching you…it made me want to be the best physician I can be.”

  It was true, Daniel realized. In spite of the agony of watching Whittaker lose his arm, the terror of the entire procedure, he had been fascinated, even inspired, by the surgeon’s obvious skill. He could not comprehend how a man of Leary’s ability could descend to such an abysmal level.

  Daniel stared at him for a moment. Then, sensing the futility of trying to reason with the man in his drunken state, he asked, “Did you bring more laudanum as you said you would? He’s in fierce pain most of the time.”

  The surgeon gave him a blank look.

  “You forgot!” Daniel accused him. “He needs something for the pain!

  Leary nodded distractedly, waving him off. “I’ll bring it down later. Later tonight.”

  “No, you won’t,” Daniel grated, knowing full well the surgeon would be passed out on his bunk within the hour. “I’ll go with you and get it myself. He needs it now.”

  The doctor twisted his mouth into an obstinate pout. “You’re not allowed above decks. You’re in quarantine.”

  “You’re the surgeon!” Daniel challenged. “Sure, and you have the authority to make an exception. Besides, it will save you a trip,” he added spitefully. “You must have more important things to do.”

  Leary leveled an exasperated look on Daniel. “Oh, all right, then!” he said, snapping his medical case closed. “Come along!”

  Daniel took time to ask that Hugh MacCabe keep a close watch on Whittaker until he returned, then leaned over to reassure Whittaker himself. “I’m going with the surgeon to get something for your pain. You’ll be all right until I get back?”

  Whittaker’s attempt at a smile failed, but he managed a light squeeze on Daniel’s hand to indicate he had heard.

  Looking at him, Daniel felt a great rush of affection course through him. Who would have thought this quiet, retiring man would own such an infinitely heroic heart, such a brave, steadfast spirit?

  A renewed determination to help his English friend rose up in Daniel. Indeed, thanks to Evan Whittaker, his faith in the Spirit of God working in mankind had been restored.

  In spite of men like Dr. Leary.

  A fierce, overwhelming wave of homesickness slammed into Daniel as soon as he crawled out onto the open deck. He stood, breathing in the smell of the salt sea, letting the cold, clean air wash over him like a gift.

  Unbidden came the thought of home, the dark waters of the bay, the sagging pier, the sea-stained cottages, Killala…

  Home! So strong were the memories, so powerful the longing, he nearly went to his knees. Shaking off the yearning thoughts, he gave the surgeon a hand up. Leary swayed a bit, grabbing for the rail to steady himself.

  In an attempt to throw off his melancholy, Daniel started up a running conversation with the physician—mostly one-sided—as they headed aft.

  “How long have you been a ship’s surgeon?” he asked, lifting his face to catch the spray off the water.

  “Years” was the only reply from the doctor.

  “Why did you do it?”

  The surgeon darted a startled look at him, making Daniel wonder at the man’s jumpiness. “Why did I do what?”

  “Take on a shipboard practice instead of one in the city? Do you love the sea so much?”

  An indecipherable look crossed the doctor’s face. “No,” he bit out, “I’ve no love for the sea.”

  “Then why?”

  “Why are you so blasted curious?” Leary grumbled, making it clear further questions would not be tolerated.

  Daniel shrugged, turning his attention to the night sky, the dark, vast Atlantic surrounding them. A dizzying sense of space and freedom…precious freedom…swirled around him as they walked. He could almost ignore the stiffness in his legs from inactivity, the weakness of his body from lack of proper nourishment.

  All that mattered was being out in the open, the stench of dying and misery replaced, at least for the moment, by the clean, sharp scent of salt air, weathered canvas, and sea-aged wood. His heart swelled to hear, instead of the requiem of hopelessness that rose from steerage, the chorus of gusty ocean winds and flapping sails.

  So keen was his temporary sense of well-being he forgot the surgeon’s impatience and blurted out another question, one that had nagged at him almost from the time they had come aboard. “Why is it I never see any of the cabin passengers?”

  The doctor’s shuffling gait faltered for an instant. “And how would you be seeing anything at all when you are confined to the kennel?”

  Ignoring the man’s jibe, Daniel tried another tack. “Are they afraid to come out because of the typhus?”

  “You need not concern yourself with the cabins! We are carrying only a scant few passengers, as it happens. This is not an ordinary passenger ship, at least not this voyage.”

  “True enough,” Daniel said softly. “I had already figured out this is no ordinary ship.”

  The surgeon was not so drunk as to miss Daniel’s pointed remark. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Daniel shrugged, deliberately not answering.

  Without warning, the doctor seized his arm, stopping them both where they stood. Three sailors standing nearby, playing out a line,
glanced over at Daniel and the surgeon with no real interest.

  “Boy, you are entirely too fresh! You’d do well to forget what you may think you know and concentrate on minding your own business—which has nothing at all to do with this ship!”

  In reply to the doctor’s outburst, Daniel appraised him with a growing sense that the man harbored an entire horde of guilty secrets—secrets that somehow involved every passenger on board.

  The nagging at the back of his mind had been there almost from the beginning. There was something very wrong about the Green Flag, and he was convinced Dr. Leary was a part of it.

  On his way back from the surgeon’s quarters, laudanum in hand, Daniel gave in to his curiosity. He would have a closer look at the cabin area.

  The mention of the cabin passengers had seemed to set off an alarm in the furtive surgeon. Whatever secrets the Green Flag was hiding could be found, he was convinced, in the cabin area.

  If he were discovered, he could truthfully claim permission from the surgeon to be out of steerage. If it came down to it, he would pretend he had lost his way going back to his quarters.

  Nervously glancing behind him every few steps, he started up the deck, staying inboard and stopping to hide in the shadows when he spotted a member of the crew.

  He was only a few feet from the cabins when the sound of angry voices stopped him. Ducking down behind a stack of wooden chests, Daniel peered around the corner, watching.

  He saw a big hulk of a sailor framed in the doorway of one of the cabins. He appeared to be adjusting his clothing. Almost nose to nose with him stood Captain Schell.

  They were having a terrible row about something. A few feet away another seaman stood and watched.

  Shivering in the damp shadows, Daniel crouched down a little lower. He could still see what was taking place, could hear every word of their angry exchange. “You were warned!”

  The captain’s steel-edged voice grated with fury. He held a lantern high, trapping the sailor in its light. “You were told not to go near the cabins! What do you think you are doing?”