Heart of the Lonely Exile

by BJ Hoff

  Helping her with her wrap, he went on talking, rambling in his relief. “I thought you’d be b-back long before now.”

  Only when he had hung up her coat and turned her around to face him did he realize how utterly exhausted and wan she looked.

  “Nora?”

  “I’m sorry to worry you,” she said, her voice low. “I didn’t think to be so late.”

  Something in the thinness of her voice, the way she continued to avoid his gaze, sent a warning racing through Evan.

  Trying to ignore his growing sense of dread, he took her hand. “You must b-be exhausted. Would you r-rather not talk tonight, dear?”

  “Oh…no, I—” Finally she raised her gaze to his. The well of anguish in her magnificent gray eyes made Evan sway on his feet.

  Had his worst fears been realized, after all? Had she decided for Michael Burke instead of him? Was he to lose her, even before she was really his?

  “Nora, what…what is it?” His voice shook as he forced out the words, bracing himself for whatever he was about to hear.

  Nora searched his face with pain-filled eyes. Unexpectedly, she collapsed against him, sobbing. “Oh, Evan!” she choked out. “’Tis the most terrible thing!”

  Helpless, Evan tightened his arm around her. With growing horror, he held her as she told him of the tragedy that had befallen Morgan Fitzgerald.

  Tortured by her despair and the memory of the giant, heroic Gael they had left behind in Ireland, Evan’s heart bowed beneath the burden of Nora’s anguish…and his own.

  34

  The World and Nelson Hall

  I have not gathered gold;

  The fame that I won perished;

  In love I found but sorrow,

  That withered my life.

  Of wealth or of glory

  I shall leave nothing behind me

  (I think it, O God, enough!)

  But my name in the heart of a child.

  PADRAIC PEARSE (1879–1916)

  Dublin

  Within three weeks of Sandemon’s arrival at Nelson Hall, Morgan had begun to feel as if he were living in two worlds.

  Outside the estate, the world at large was convulsed with unprecedented turmoil and upheaval. A workers’ revolution in France had exploded, proclaiming a republic and sending the French king scurrying into exile in England. Like a forest fire, the revolt in France sparked outbursts of revolution throughout all Europe. The flames of rebellion spread to Germany, Austria, and Italy, creating a climate of chaos and insurrection across the Continent.

  The news of widespread revolution fired Irish blood with new fervor and talk of rebellion. Assuming a good harvest this year, the end to famine was in sight, excited nationalists insisted; was the time not right to plan their rising? Those who cautioned that it would take years of good harvests to inject any strength into Ireland were either wholly ignored or scorned into silence.

  Factions of the Young Ireland movement heretofore split on the issue of rebellion came together, as if the revolution in France had changed everything. There was talk of shouldering pikes and guns, inflammatory literature written to fire the patriotism of young men. Even a new Irish flag was hoisted, at first with the French red, white, and blue in honor of the new French Republic. But soon there appeared the tricolored banner of orange, green, and white—to reflect the union of the parties.

  In the midst of the swelling cry for insurrection, William Smith O’Brien and a few others held back, still convinced that a peasant war in the midst of the famine’s devastation could wipe out the island entirely. Weeks before, however, impatient with the caution of O’Brien and others, the formidable John Mitchel had separated himself from Young Ireland. Taking his burning vision for a people’s rising and his considerable talent for arousing the masses, he began a new movement—one dedicated to armed rebellion.

  For his podium, he established his own newspaper, the brazen, vitriolic United Irishman. Soon many of the previously cautious Young Irelanders were quoting Mitchel’s fiery rhetoric and calling for armed revolt.

  Finally, it seemed, even Smith O’Brien surrendered to the people’s mood. At a huge meeting of the Confederation, he called for an Irish army of at least 300,000 men who would “protect social order and act in defense of the country.”

  Reading excerpts from O’Brien’s speech in The Nation, Morgan shook his head with dismay. Old friend, you have destroyed yourself, he thought. And more than likely, the entire Young Ireland movement as well.

  The British government had already instituted prosecutions for sedition against O’Brien, Mitchel, and Meagher. The three were still out on bail, but not for long, Morgan suspected. Not for long.

  Yet in the midst of the turbulence going on in the rest of the world, life had settled into an unexpectedly smooth routine at Nelson Hall. Grudgingly, Morgan had to admit the improvements could be credited only to Sandemon’s influence. Unbelievably, his new companion seemed to be proving the wonder Joseph Mahon had touted him to be.

  The black man had immediately set about imposing order and purpose on Morgan’s days, including a new regime of daily therapy and exercise. Such a program was fundamental, he insisted, for a long-range plan of restoring Morgan to health and vigor.

  The attendant from the hospital was immediately discharged. The day maids were supervised more closely; the mansion had actually taken on a neater, more cheerful appearance.

  To Morgan’s amazement, even the food seemed improved, not so much by variety but more by flavor and seasonings. Since he was quite certain that the dull Mrs. Ryan—queen of wilted cabbage and unsalted turnips—could not be coerced by any means, he could only wonder at what sort of ruse the devious Sandemon might have employed to inspire the cook.

  The one divergence from this newly developing order was Annie Delaney. Despite Sandemon’s rigid control over her, the crazed child from Belfast was a continual distraction and disruption.

  Apparently, in Annie Delaney, even Sandemon the Wonder had met his match. Instructed by Morgan to keep the girl “out of trouble and out of his hair,” Sandemon devised a schedule of chores for Annie. Unfortunately, she proved a monumental failure in all she attempted.

  The sound of smashed crockery rose above Mrs. Ryan’s fury when Annie was set to helping in the kitchen. Flowers wilted from her attention with the watering can. The fire blazed dangerously out of control when she poked the logs. The crystal vibrated in the wake of her unladylike dashes through the dining room. And Artegal, poor pale specter, froze in terror each time the girl careened into the hall after descending the steps three at a time.

  The Old Ones would have said she was a faerie child. Sandemon proclaimed her as God’s child. Morgan insisted she was a demented child.

  No matter what Sandemon tried, the girl’s appearance remained disreputable. She claimed to comb her hair each morning, yet it looked a tangled nest by the time she came down to breakfast. She swore that she bathed faithfully every other day, but the smudges on her cheeks never quite disappeared. Mrs. Ryan had accumulated some decent clothing for the girl, but on her angular frame all dresses appeared baggy, all hems hung unevenly, and half of all buttons were missing.

  Yet her gap-toothed grin could somehow break through Morgan’s black moods and coax a smile, no matter how firmly he resisted. At times he even caught himself listening for her approach.

  He admitted it was an impractical situation altogether, having the child continually underfoot, but when he considered sending her away, he could not think where.

  Perhaps it might be different if the girl were of any real help. At least that would justify her presence at Nelson Hall. But the truth was that Annie Delaney seemed to be good at nothing—nothing at all—except for making noise and breaking dishes.

  When he pointed this out to Sandemon, the black man would simply nod serenely and then remind Morgan that Christian charity required no justification. Besides, he would say confidently, in time they were sure to find just the right “service” for Anni
e Delaney. The girl would eventually do more than try their patience, he was certain of it.

  Morgan did not believe it for a moment. Sandemon pampered the girl, that was the thing. He had not missed the growing bond between the two. The child did seem to try to please the black man. The fact that she never succeeded did not appear to affect Sandemon in the least. He praised her for nothing, encouraged her in everything, and took an almost fatherly, forgiving view of her failures. Even when her grating Ulster accent reduced his name to “Sand-Man,” he seemed inordinately pleased by the exasperating child.

  Morgan knew better by now than to argue with Sandemon about Annie Delaney. For that matter, he was learning the futility of arguing with Sandemon about anything, anything at all.

  Besides, arguing required strength, and strength was something he no longer had. In truth, he doubted that he would ever be strong again. In spite of Sandemon’s rigorous exercise and therapy routine, he could not see where he had gained much, if at all. Oh, his bones had some meat on them again, and thanks to the black man’s relentless nagging, his muscles were toned and gaining some use once more. But all too often he still felt as weak as a scalded cat, and the pain that wracked him daily was nearly as fierce as ever.

  Indeed, he was convinced it was the pain that was keeping him so weak. Each time he thought he might be making progress, he would be seized with an agony that went on for hours and left him drained and inert for days.

  ’Twas the pain that had driven him back to the bottle. The bullet was still lodged in his back—and would remain so. No surgeon would touch it, they had told him in Belfast, and again in Dublin. They feared that displacing it could extend the paralysis even higher up his body—or cause his death. Morgan could not help but wonder if, like the bullet, the pain might be with him forever.

  Frightened of becoming too dependent on the laudanum, he had chosen not to keep it on the premises. But one night, at the end of his wits with the white hot pain, he had decided to have some whiskey brought in.

  His grandfather never touched “the creature,” as the people referred to it, so there was none in the house. He could not ask Smith O’Brien, for the man was a known teetotaler and would more than likely be offended by the request. Certainly he would not ask Sandemon. No doubt the West Indies Wonder would comply, but in the process would make Morgan feel a failure and a fool.

  In the end, it was Artegal to whom he turned. He knew very well his prim, pale footman took a drop every now and then—indeed, he had smelled it on his breath. When Morgan faced him with his suspicions, Artegal had at first looked offended, then anxious.

  The outcome was that Morgan now had his own bottle, tucked away unnoticed in his bedroom. Each night he would pour a small tumbler full and drink it quickly, so as not to enjoy the taste. He was careful to drink only a small amount, as little as he could get by on, in order to sleep.

  He was relieved at the difference it was making. A few solid hours’ rest without waking in pain had to be better for him, he reasoned, than those long, wakeful nights spent in agony. If he occasionally paused before the first sip of the evening, remembering what “the creature” had done to his father, the thought did not stay his hand for long.

  In truth, drink had immobilized Aidan Fitzgerald, stealing the attention and the affection that should have rightfully belonged to his sons, turning a bitter, unhappy man into a morose, defeated drunk. However, Morgan would remind himself with a grim smile, he was already immobilized, and he had no sons—or anyone else—requiring his attention or his affection. Besides, he had no thought of ending up like his father. He had handled the whiskey before, after all, when he was still a young rake on the road. He would handle it now. It would serve him as medicine, and nothing more, until the time came when he no longer needed it. If, indeed, that time ever came.

  Sandemon had spent most of the morning on the Dublin docks and was becoming increasingly dispirited by his surroundings.

  The young Seanchai was still curious about the woman who had allegedly rescued Annie Delaney the night she arrived in Dublin. Apparently, he had convinced himself that the child’s story was too outrageous to be anything but fabricated.

  For himself, Sandemon believed the child and wished only to thank the woman who had saved her. He had suggested to the dubious young master that he might do the same, if they were indeed able to locate Annie Delaney’s “guardian angel.”

  Whether Morgan Fitzgerald realized it or not, Sandemon was convinced the stubborn giant was becoming attached to his “demented child.”

  It was as he had hoped: Annie Delaney, with all her curious qualities and seeming flaws, had indeed been sent by the Lord and would be used in the Seanchai ’s healing.

  If, that is, Morgan Fitzgerald did not manage to resist her as successfully as he had resisted all other evidences of God’s grace thus far. For as was so often the case in the midst of tragedy, young Morgan seemed bent on turning away from his Lord rather than clinging to Him.

  Sandemon understood. He had done the same once, a long time ago. Tormented by the fear that God had turned away from him—wasn’t his personal tragedy evidence of that very fact?—he had proceeded to absent himself from God.

  As for the young master—well, this one was not simply turning away—he was running away, at least in his spirit. And not for the first time, according to the priest, Joseph Mahon. With evident affection, the aging priest had told Sandemon something of his new employer’s past, including the long years of spiritual rebellion.

  Only in recent months had the prodigal returned to his heavenly Father. But the homecoming celebration was short-lived, brutally interrupted by the shooting in Belfast that had left him as he was now—a bitter man in a wheelchair, feeling abandoned and utterly useless.

  There was abundant hope for the Seanchai, of course. He was God’s child, and he had friends standing in prayer for him. Yet Sandemon could not ignore a growing fear for the anguished young poet, who was attempting to numb his pain with the lie of whiskey.

  He thought he was deceiving those around him by drinking alone in his room at night. But he was deluding only himself. Most likely he was using the lingering pain of his injury to justify his dependence on the bottle. Sandemon sensed, however, that the young master’s spiritual torment far exceeded his physical pain. Such an agony would not be quenched by drinking from anything other than the Water of Life.

  Sighing, Sandemon turned his thoughts from Morgan Fitzgerald to look around him. It seemed this entire country was in agony. Here, spread out on the docks beneath a dull, heavy sky, hundreds of people waited for ships to take them away from Ireland.

  The depths of misery and neglect seemed no different here in the city than in the remote villages of County Mayo. Starving and ill, devastated by fever and the harsh elements, the poor souls camped on and around the docks, praying they would survive long enough to board their ship of rescue.

  Sandemon wept in his spirit for the nearly naked, starving children, the bewildered, diseased elderly, the gaunt young mothers with hollow eyes. For a time he abandoned his mission of locating Annie Delaney’s rescuer and joined three priests in moving through the crowds, attempting to soothe and console the suffering all around him. He prayed for the living and grieved for the dying, sorrowful but not surprised at what man’s inhumanity had once more wrought in God’s world.

  For three days Sandemon returned to question pub owners and innkeepers along the docks, as well as numerous poor wretches throughout the disreputable area known as the Liberties. He had only the sketchiest of memories of the woman he had seen with Annie, in addition to the child’s dramatic description: “Sure, and wasn’t she a great, tall lady, with glorious golden hair? She had a grand cloak, remember? And she was beautiful, like a stage actress! But she didn’t talk—she didn’t talk at all, Sand-Man!”

  On the fourth day, Sandemon felt his search might have proved fruitful. A young strumpet in the slums had reacted at once to the description the black man gave h
er. Suspicious and openly hostile, she proceeded to rake Sandemon from head to toe with cold eyes. “What’s it to the likes of you? A good way to get your throat slit, in case you didn’t know it, asking after a white woman in a place such as this!”

  Adopting an air of exaggerated humility, Sandemon stretched the reason for his questions as far as he could without actually lying. “She did a kind thing for a child who is—important to my young master,” he told the prostitute. “He is eager to find her, that he might—acknowledge her bravery.”

  “Bravery?” The young woman’s hard eyes narrowed in speculation. “Is it a reward he’s talking, then?”

  Sandemon merely shrugged and gave a noncommittal smile.

  She studied him for another moment. “Could be he’s looking for Finola. I’m not saying it’s her, mind—just that it might be.”

  “And could you tell me where to find this…Finola?”

  The woman shrugged. “She stays at Gemma’s mostly.”

  “Gemma’s?”

  She gave him an impatient look. “Gemma Malone’s. She has a place with some girls upstairs at Healy’s Inn. Not far from St. Paddy’s—the cathedral. This time of day,” she added with a sneer, “you’d find most of them at home, likely.”

  This one was little more than a child, Sandemon observed sadly, wondering how one so young had come to such a place. What tragedy had driven her to the streets? What lonely desperation lay behind the painted mask?

  Sandemon met her gaze, and for a moment something flickered behind the hard exterior. With a courteous bow, he then raised his eyes and smiled directly into hers. “God loves you, child,” he said gently.

  Then he turned and walked away to continue his search.

  35

  Finola

  Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure’s soft dream,

  He should try to forget what he never can heal.

  THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)