Song of the Silent Harp

by BJ Hoff

  “Morgan…Morgan,” he said softly, his eyes beseeching, “your words stir a man’s heart as no drumbeat ever will. They pierce the human spirit as no sword ever could! You speak with the voice of Ireland’s heart, the voice of truth and hope and the promise of freedom. Morgan…son of my son…please, forgive this old fool! Allow me to at least be your friend, if not your family.”

  Morgan’s hands tightened still more on the chair arms. His gaze locked with the old man’s, and what he saw there shook him to his very soul.

  He might have been gazing into his own face, fifty years from now, with all the grief and shattered dreams of one who has never known the enduring love of a family. In Richard Nelson’s stricken eyes, he saw his own lonely heart.

  On the heels of that revelation came the thought, not without its own touch of irony, that twice now his neck had been saved—and both times by an Englishman!

  And last came the reminder that he himself had been forgiven, and his offenses had no doubt grieved the Lord more than those of the old man seated across from him.

  Who, then, was he to withhold forgiveness from Richard Nelson?

  “Many in the movement are counting on me to speak out on behalf of the rising,” he said hesitantly.

  The old man nodded. “Smith O’Brien being one of them.”

  “He is a good friend. I respect him.”

  “But he has been drawn into something he can no longer control.”

  When Morgan remained silent, Nelson pressed, “Do you deny it?”

  Reluctantly, Morgan shook his head. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he is counting on my help.”

  The old man studied him for a long moment. “Do you believe in this rising? Do you believe it’s best for your people?”

  Morgan met his eyes. “No,” he said, again shaking his head. “I believe it could finish them.”

  “Then why not do what you can for all Ireland, rather than for only a few? That is the opportunity I am trying to afford you, son.”

  Morgan looked down at his hands, then at the old man’s face. And he knew what he must do. What God would have him do.

  “Aye…Grandfather,” he said quietly, testing the name on his lips and finding it far easier to say than he would have guessed. “Aye, I will stay with you a while, and we will talk of Ireland.”

  42

  Survivors in a Strange Land

  Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no More,

  Banshee of the world!—no more! Thy sorrows are the

  world’s, thou art no more alone; Thy wrongs, the world’s.

  JOHN TODHUNTER (1839–191S)

  Hundreds of emigrant vessels put into New York City every year, sometimes as many as thirty or forty a day, bringing hundreds of thousands of steerage passengers from their respective countries—the majority of them from Ireland and Germany. Thousands died before they reached New York, but new babies were born every day aboard ship.

  Some of the vessels brought opium into the city, along with whiskey and prostitutes. Others carried typhus, smallpox, and cholera. Hundreds of cases of disease managed to slip by the cursory quarantine examinations, escaping into the city to contaminate entire neighborhoods.

  New York had become a refuge for the homeless, the destitute, the suffering. In return for her open door, she inherited disease, labor dilemmas, and some of the worst slums in the world. Within the city, among her tenements and revival brownstones, inside the mansions along Fifth Avenue and the shanties on Vinegar Hill, resentment and rebellion had begun to breed.

  But to the immigrant in search of hope and a new life, the city still loomed as the Promised Land, the Golden Shore, the American Dream.

  Aboard the Green Flag this Saturday morning, hearts had begun to stir and hopes had begun to rise.

  They would soon be in New York City.

  The directive came down from the mate on the foredeck to begin the final scrubdown. With it came the shocking order that all mattresses, pillows, and bed covers were to be tossed overboard with the refuse and leftover food.

  Finally, they were given the heartening news that their captain had arranged for them to be met by reputable guides who would lead them to clean, respectable, and affordable lodgings. They were sternly warned to take no heed of other individuals who might try to lure them away from the ship, for these despicable characters preyed on helpless foreigners, robbing them of their valuables and taking advantage of their women.

  This information brought exclamations of “Thanks be to God!” and whispers of horror at what might have become of them had it not been for the captain’s foresight. The voyage had been a dreadful experience, but perhaps they had judged Captain Schell a bit too harshly. He had been looking out for their welfare, after all.

  The order to throw their mattresses and bed covers overboard, however, was met with a great general outcry. To many of the destitute in steerage, their bedding represented the sum total of their personal belongings, virtually all they had to bring with them into the new world other than the rags on their back. But when the mate warned that to disobey could mean weeks spent in quarantine, they rushed to do as they were told.

  Soon, the sea around them was mucked with mattress ticking, blankets, and baskets of rotten food. At the last, and against the heartrending pleas of their loved ones, the bodies of three recent typhus victims were thrown callously into the sea, along with the other castoffs.

  Nora and the children worked in a frenzy alongside the others, scrubbing the walls and floor with sand, then sluicing them down, even drying the timbers with hot coals the crew provided from the galley. Within a few hours, the former hellhole had taken on a tidy, almost comfortable appearance. Certainly any inspector appraising the Green Flag’s steerage would now have only marks of approval for what he saw.

  Once they were done with the cleaning, Nora scrutinized first the children, then herself, with a choked exclamation of despair. They looked like filthy squatters!

  Appalled at her own condition—her dress was in tatters, her hands grimy, and she smelled of seawater and sweat—she was equally dismayed at the appearance of the children.

  “We cannot go ashore looking like tinkers!” she declared. “We will use a bit of the water to wash ourselves before changing into fresh clothes.”

  “Don’t fret so, Mother,” Daniel John told her, already stripping Little Tom out of his raggedy shirt. “Your friend, Sergeant Burke, will understand. He made the voyage himself, remember?”

  Physical pain shot through Nora at his words, immediately followed by an even stronger surge of guilt. From the beginning, she had told no one, not even her son, of Michael Burke’s questionable proposal of marriage. As far as the others knew, he was simply an old friend standing by in New York to help them get settled.

  Nor did they know she had selfishly torn up his letter and address. All of them—Daniel John, the children, even Whittaker—had hopes that there would be at least one friendly face waiting for them in this city of strangers. Why, only the day before, Daniel John had repeated to her a conversation he’d had with Whittaker about this very thing, explaining how they had prayed that God would put some “people in the city” for them!

  What if Michael Burke’s proposal had been God’s way of doing just that—and she had gone and ruined things for them all?

  Now they were entirely on their own. Ashamed and dismayed, she realized she would have to tell them the truth, and soon.

  But not now. There was no time. For now, the truth would have to wait.

  The most recent announcement from the mate on the foredeck brought shouts of joy and relieved weeping below.

  “Steerage passengers are now allowed above decks!” he proclaimed through a megaphone. “The captain hopes you will enjoy your first sight of America! You should be able to see Staten Island within an hour or so, perhaps sooner.”

  The ladder almost collapsed with the rolling weight of groping hands and shoving bodies as those who had survived the nig
htmare of steerage clambered up to the hatch in pursuit of freedom.

  William Leary had carried the letter in his shirt pocket ever since he’d written it, along with the key to the cabins, waiting for the right time and a trustworthy messenger. In the pocket of his seaman’s jacket he fingered the pistol.

  When he saw the Kavanagh boy help the Englishman through the hatch, he cornered them, hauling them both to one side.

  The boy, in a fever to get to the rail, shot Leary an impatient glare.

  “Here, now, listen to me!” the surgeon muttered, glancing furtively around to see that no one nearby was paying any heed to them. “I have only a moment, and there’s something I need to ask of you!”

  Pretending to make a cursory examination of the Englishman’s surgery, he spoke in a harsh, frenzied whisper. “Take this letter to a policeman as soon as you get off the ship!” he urged. “It is vital! Promise me you will give it to nobody else—only a policeman!”

  The Englishman and the boy looked at each other, obviously bewildered.

  “Promise me!”

  “Yes…all right!” the Englishman agreed, regarding Leary with a measuring stare as the surgeon pressed the letter into his hand. “B-But what—”

  “No time for questions! Just guard the letter!” Leary paused, adding, “All you need know is that it will help to put Abidas Schell where he belongs—and perhaps save a number of future victims at the same time!”

  Turning abruptly to the boy, he snapped, “Are you a lad to be trusted?”

  The youth shot him an indignant look, followed by a grudging nod.

  “Take these keys, then,” Leary told him, pressing them into the boy’s hand. “They open the first two cabins. A pilot will be coming aboard to guide the ship into South Street, to tie up. You must unlock the doors and take the children who are inside the cabins to the pilot. Only to the pilot, mind—not the medical officer! Do you understand me, lad?”

  The boy stared at the keys in his hand as if they would set his palm ablaze. “Children? What children?”

  “Little girls!” The words ripped from Leary like a wailing on the wind. “Little girls who have been sold for evil use! You must get them out of those cabins while the pilot is still on board! Can you do this, lad?”

  The boy’s head came up slowly, and Leary saw understanding begin to dawn in his eyes. “Aye,” he said, his voice hard. “I will do it, you can be sure.”

  “One thing more,” Leary said, his words spilling out in a ragged stream. “Whatever you do, be sure you do not go with the captain’s ‘representative’! Plead illness—” He returned his gaze to the Englishman. “Say you think you have the typhus, say whatever you must. Just don’t let yourselves be taken!”

  Leaning toward them, he hurried on. “Even quarantine is to be preferred over the place where he would take you. You think you have known hell aboard this ship, but you have known no hell at all until you’ve seen Five Points!”

  Several members of the crew were beginning to close in around them now, herding the immigrants already on deck out of the way to make room for others pouring through the hatch.

  The blood pounding wildly in his ears, Leary locked gazes with the Englishman. “Once you are free of this ship, tell others the truth about what you have been through. It is happening on other vessels as well, a growing number of them. People should know.”

  Feeling the man’s hand on his arm, Leary glanced down.

  “How did this happen?” Whittaker rasped. “Morgan Fitzgerald would never have booked passage for his family on a coffin ship like this had he known!”

  “I have no knowledge of any Fitzgerald!” Leary said, his eyes sweeping the crowd pressing in on them. “It’s all done through brokers. Sometimes I act as a go-between for Schell, when the brokers are booking for Irish immigrants.”

  The contempt blazing out from the Englishman’s eyes seared Leary’s skin. “In other words, you sell your own countrymen to the devil! Why? What could possibly make it worth your while to betray your own people—and with most of them already half dead at that?”

  Leary averted his gaze from the disgust that filled Whittaker’s countenance. “There is no more time,” he said gruffly. “Just guard the letter and the keys if you want to save some lives.”

  Before the Englishman could hurl any further questions at him, the surgeon turned and began to push his way through the mass of confused immigrants that now filled the main deck. Consumed by his need for the bottle as much as his resolve to be done with his final voyage aboard the Green Flag, he pushed a number of bewildered passengers aside and stumbled almost blindly toward his cabin.

  In New York that Saturday morning, Michael Burke was lying in his hospital bed, talking somewhat glumly with his son, Tierney, when Sara Farmington and her father walked in.

  Stunned but pleased, he managed a stammering introduction to Tierney, who immediately gave up his chair to Miss Farmington. Stuck for words, Michael could only stare at his unexpected visitors with amazement, especially when they explained the reason for their visit and what they planned to do after they left.

  “If it was the Green Flag that the Yorkshire passed just two days ago, Sergeant Burke,” Sara Farmington was saying, “the ship should be coming into the harbor at any hour now. It would be a great help if we at least knew what your friend Nora looks like. We need you to describe her for us as best as you can remember.”

  Michael was surprised at how vivid his memories had remained. Describing Nora to the Farmingtons was no trouble at all—he could see her in his mind almost as clearly as he had the day he had kissed her goodbye and sailed for America.

  “She’s just a wee thing, a slip of a lass,” he told them. “Back then she had hair the color of a raven’s wings and the loveliest gray eyes—huge eyes, like a little girl’s—but sad. Nora always had such sorrowful eyes…” He spoke softly, his words drifting off to join his memories.

  Preoccupied with her own troubled thoughts, Sara said little to her father as they drove away from the hospital.

  Sergeant Burke had appeared so weak this morning, he almost seemed to be losing ground instead of getting better. Stopping in the hallway on the way out of his room, Sara had voiced her concern to the ward nurse—Harrison—but received nothing more than an impatient mumble about a “punctured lung taking time to heal.”

  Sara wasn’t so sure the sergeant’s condition was entirely due to his injury. She thought she’d sensed an uncommon moroseness about the policeman, a dulling of the spirit that wasn’t at all like him.

  Ninny! Listen to yourself; you’d think you knew the man well! He’s little more than a stranger to you!

  Still, his frustration at being incapacitated might be slowing down his recovery. More than likely, the sergeant was used to being in control and was finding it difficult to deal with his present helplessness.

  She could not shake the memory of the look that had settled over his face as he described his Nora.

  How she wished for the day when a man would speak of her in the same lovely way! And with such a look in his eyes!

  She sighed deeply. That man would not be Sergeant Burke. He was still in love with his Nora, no matter how many years lay between them.

  Abruptly, she turned to look at her father, only to find him studying her with a troubled gaze. “Did you see his face when he spoke of her, Father? We must help him! We must help Sergeant Burke find his Nora with the raven hair and sorrowful eyes.”

  Taking her hand, her father squeezed it gently. “And we shall, dear,” he said, still searching her face. “We shall. We’ll stop at the Hall of Justice on the way and enlist the help of some of Sergeant Burke’s fellow officers.” He paused. “Sara—are you all right, my dear?”

  Sara met his gaze with a level one of her own. “Yes, Father, I’m quite all right. I’m simply feeling anxious about a friend. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Her father put an arm around her shoulders. “Yes, my dear. I understand very we
ll. And I’m extremely proud of you.”

  A thought kept nagging at Michael, worrying him, refusing to let go.

  “Tierney?” He turned to look at his son, again seated on the chair next to his bed.

  “Aye, Da?” The boy leaned forward.

  Studying Tierney’s lean, intent face, Michael silently questioned his judgment, yet felt the urgency inside him peak. “You used to haunt the docks regularly. You know them well, do you not?”

  Frowning, Tierney nodded. “Sure, I do.”

  His decision made, Michael pushed himself up a bit. “I want you to go after the Farmingtons, go with them to the harbor. I don’t know why exactly, but I’d feel better if you went along.”

  His son stared at him for a moment, then leaped off the chair and bolted from the room.

  Long after Tierney had gone, Michael lay staring at the bleak ceiling of the ward. He should have been the one to go to the harbor, not his son. It seemed that everybody else was looking after his responsibilities these days.

  As much as the thought rankled, and as worried as he was about Nora and the others, the knowledge that Tierney was standing in for him at the harbor gave Michael a certain amount of reassurance.

  Why it should be so, he hadn’t the faintest idea.

  43

  People in the City

  I turned my back

  On the dream I had shaped,

  And to this road before me

  My face I turned.

  PADRAIC PEARSE (1879–1916)

  The uniformed officer designated to pilot the Green Flag into port stood facing the wide-eyed immigrants, giving them their first glimpse of a real American.