Song of the Silent Harp (14 page)

Dublin

Two young men, both in knit caps and dock workers' jackets waited in the darkness between the side of a warehouse and a pub on the wharf. It was late, past midnight, and the only light was a thin ribbon from the moon that barely managed to squeeze between the buildings.

The taller of the two was a year older than his companion and had dark hair and a hard mouth; he stood so still he scarcely seemed to be breathing. Hair the color of corn silk straggled below the cap of the smaller man, who was pulling nervously at his gloved fingers.

Neither had ever met Morgan Fitzgerald before tonight, but he was said to be a great steeple of a bearded man with dark red hair. They heard the sound of boots scraping the dock, and in another moment a dark, towering shadow loomed before them in the opening between the buildings.

“I nanabhruid fen ama ge
—”the tall, cloaked stranger intoned by way of identifying himself.
My harp will sound a joyful chord.

“Gach saorbhile samh
—”Both men completed the greeting in unison.
For the Gaels will be free!

Fitzgerald slipped into the space where they stood. “Any word yet?”

The fair-haired youth gaped at him openly, trying to get a better look in the dark, while the taller of the two shook his head. “None. But we've got your tickets. And some money.”

The giant's copper hair could barely be seen in the shadows. His voice was oddly gentle for such a large man. “That's grand, lads. And what about the ship?”

The dark-haired man opened his coat and withdrew a small packet, handing it to him. “It's yours, sir. But we'll need a date.”

The big man in the cape took the packet, and there was a hint of a smile in his voice. “You're efficient as well as generous. I do thank you. But as to a date, I'm waiting for a response to my letter. Your lad was to wait on it and return it himself?”

“Aye, sir. Those were his orders, and he's dependable.”

Fitzgerald nodded. “Well, then, we'll simply go ahead with the plan. I'll have to trust my friend in New York to come through for me as I believe he will.” He paused, running one hand down his beard. “Whether he does or he doesn't, I
must
get them onto that ship. Let's plan for the last weekend of March.”

“Time enough,” answered the dark-haired man without delay. “The ship is
ready, as is the crew. The other passengers will be boarded before she sails into Killala Bay. One good thing, the weather should improve some by then.” He paused, adding, “It's a small ship, sir, but American-built. Safer than any of those British coffins.”

“I appreciate it, lads. It's my family—and others dear to me—who will be sailing on it.”

The younger man spoke for the first time. “It's treacherous, sailing out of such a small harbor, sir.”

He felt the big man's eyes on him and worried that he'd spoken out of turn.

But the voice in the darkness was kind when it came. “I know. But it's the only way, you see. There will be some going who are ill, if they last long enough to go at all. They will do well to make it to the bay, much less survive the trek to a distant port.”

The youth was quick to reassure him. “Sure, and they'll be fine sailing out of Killala, sir.”

Fitzgerald's heavy sigh filled the darkness. “If I can convince them to sail at all.” After a brief lull, he said, “Well, lads, you can reach me through Duffy or Smith O'Brien for another day or so. Then I'll be starting for Killala—I dare not stay away any longer. You'll see that any message from New York reaches me there right away?”

“You'll be contacted just as soon as our man returns, sir. You can count on that,” the dark-haired one assured him.

“Sir—”

The big man had turned to go, but stopped at the youth's voice, waiting.

“You've heard about O'Connell? They're saying he's a broken man.” Fitzgerald nodded and again sighed. “He has exhausted himself entirely.”

“For Ireland,” the youth said stoutly.

“Aye” came Fitzgerald's soft answer. “For Ireland.”

The two men watched him disappear into the mist-veiled night. “He's not at all as I had pictured him,” said the younger.

“How is that?”

“I expected him to be a somewhat—harder man. A bit loud and fiery, perhaps even gruff.”

His dark-haired companion murmured agreement.

“Still, he calls himself a simple schoolmaster and a poet,” said the youth.

“That he does,” replied the older man. “But in County Mayo, they call him the Red Wolf.”

11

For the vision of hope is decayed,
Though the shadows still linger behind.

T
HOMAS
D
ERMODY
(
1775-1802
)

M
arch came to Killala with no song of spring, no hint of hope.

Ordinarily it was a month greeted with relief and lighter hearts. March meant the approaching end of winter and the drawing near of spring, the promise of warm breezes and planting time, the welcome escape from long months of indoor confinement and idleness. Soon the days would turn gentle, the evenings soft with the scent of sea and heather.

That had been March before the Hunger. Now the month arrived with the sobs of starving children and the endless clacking of death carts in the streets. Heralded by the lonely keening of those who mourned their dead and the shuffling footsteps of homeless peasants on the road, the winds of March moaned across the land with no respite from the winter's cruelty.

In every county, in every province, evictions were commonplace, starvation was rampant, and disease raged through village after village with the fury of a host of demons. By March the reality of an epidemic was undeniable. Fever hospitals dotted the countryside, but they were so few and so poorly equipped as to be almost negligible; the workhouses, too, were impossibly overcrowded and had long since closed their doors. The afflicted had little choice other than to suffer at home—if indeed they still had a roof over their heads—or to surrender their lives in a ditch by the road.

The Kavanagh household was no exception. They had depleted their paltry supply of food days ago, and with no cow or other stock to slaughter, they were facing imminent starvation. Nora had even found herself praying for Morgan Fitzgerald's return, in the far-reaching hope that he might bring another precious store of provisions with him.

Daniel John had gone outside just before midday to look for food—a futile effort, Nora knew only too well, and she had tried to dissuade him. The poor lad was trying so desperately these days to be a man, to be strong for them all, but there was nothing he could do. There was nothing
anyone
could do.

Her spirit had always been set against the wind, opposed to giving in to hardship or despair. But she had very nearly reached the point where she no longer had the strength or the desire to drag herself through another hopeless day. Were it not for her sons and the old man needing her so desperately, she could easily lie down and welcome death.

But they
did
need her, and as long as they did she could not give up. She sat watching them now, her ailing son and father-in-law. Daniel John had helped her move his grandfather's bed into the alcove next to Tahg's so she could more easily attend to the two of them at once. They were both sleeping, Tahg fitfully, his forehead furrowed with pain as he shivered beneath the threadbare blanket. Old Dan lay somewhere in the shadowed place where he'd been for days, waiting for the angels to come for him. Except for the heaving of his sunken chest, he moved not at all.

Nora leaned her head back, closing her eyes against the painful sight of their misery. Not for the first time, she was stirred by anger and resentment at the thought of all that had been taken from the old man and his descendants. This was
his
land, after all, his and that of his ancestors before him. Ever since the youthful Eoin Caomhanach—the first John Kavanagh—had fled to the west after Cromwell's invasion, this land had been worked and farmed by the Kavanagh family. Driven across the country like cattle fleeing from a storm, those early refugees from Cromwell's cruelty had learned to make the best of the land as they found it.

But over the years, history repeated itself, and the people of Killala, like those throughout all Ireland, found themselves plundered and stripped of all they owned, reduced to the station of destitute serfs upon their own land.

At a moan from Tahg, Nora's eyes snapped open. Dragging herself up from the chair, she gave her head a moment to clear, then went to wipe a trail of blood-tinged spittle from Tahg's chin. His face was white, with that awful transparency that seemed to reflect the dim light of the room. In spite of the cold—for there had been no turf to burn for days now—his skin was hot and damp with unhealthy perspiration.

The pain in her head throbbed fiercely as she tended to Tahg. Turning to Old Dan, she tucked his blanket more closely about his shoulders, then braced her hands on either side of his wasted body to steady herself. Straightening, she gasped as a hot wave of nausea washed over her. Her ears were ringing, the room spinning. She grabbed for the bedstead, but missed.

She fell, tumbling slowly at first, then faster and faster toward a deep, dark pit. Again she reached out, clutching at something, anything, to break her fall. But it was too late. The pit yawned and widened, sucking her into a dizzying whirlpool of darkness, then hurled her into oblivion.

Daniel hadn't intended to go so far; certainly he had not thought of ending up here, on the hill where the land agent lived.

But he had promised himself not to return to the cottage until he'd found
some sort of provisions for his family. Tahg was so terribly ill, as was Grandfar—and lately Mother looked nearly as weak and sick as they did. He had to get help for them all—he simply
had
to!

Now, after searching for more than two hours and finding not even a rotten old turnip, he stood staring up at the bleak gray house of the agent, attempting to muster his courage. Perched almost at the very top of the hill, it was a grim, ill-kept block of a place, square and ugly and battered by the Atlantic winds. It stood there in all its drab coldness, glowering down on the village as if to mirror its occupant's contempt.

In spite of his earlier promise to himself, Daniel shivered, longing to turn back. But he knew in his heart that this might be the one place he would find food—food that could very well mean his family's survival. And so he began to walk, hesitatingly at first, then with more purpose.

About a quarter of the way up, he stopped to read a notice tacked up on a fencepost. It was the same warning he'd seen in numerous places throughout the village. Thomas Fitzgerald had said the stranger in town had nailed up the notices, the one sent from London by the Big Lord. Gilpin's lackey.

The tenantry on Sir Roger Gilpin's estate, residing in the village of Killala and surrounding manor, are requested to pay into my office on the 30th of March, all rent and rent in arrears due up to that date. Otherwise summary steps will be taken to recover same.

It was signed by the agent,
George Cotter.

Daniel wanted to rip the notice from the post and burn it. No one in the village—including his own family—was in a position to pay the rent.

Anger and fear churned together inside him, making his empty, bloated stomach cramp even more. Clenching his hands into tight fists, he resumed his trek up the hill with more determination. He passed a stone fence that followed a wild thicket up to the stables, and, farther up, a rough-hewn storage barn. It was a forlorn, wild-looking property that appeared to have had no attention for years. The buildings were in need of paint, the weeds overgrown; and paper and other debris littered the yard.

Out of breath, his chest heaving from the effort of the climb, Daniel stopped. Partially concealed by a tumble of overgrown brush, he stood unmoving, taking a long, careful look around his surroundings. Satisfied that nobody was about, he broke into a run, heading toward the back of the house. As soon as he came around the side, he spotted a large bin and some barrels, but they were dangerously close to the door. He crouched, again scanning his surroundings.

The backyard led straight into the woods with a path leading off to the right,
toward the stables. There was no one in sight, no sound from the house. With the wind whipping his face, he broke toward the barrels near the door.

He made it as far as the nearest barrel when he froze, paralyzed by the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

A horse snorted, and somebody shouted,
“Halt! You
—
stay where you are!”

Daniel whipped around to see the agent bearing down on him on his enormous gray stallion. Behind him, on a black mare, sat a small, slender man with fair hair and round spectacles. He was dressed like a gentleman, and Daniel knew at once this must be Lord Gilpin's man from London.

Instinctively, he stiffened, bracing himself for the blow he was sure would come.

Cotter drew his horse to a sharp halt, and the other man stopped beside him. The agent's eyes were blazing, his face flushed and slick with perspiration. In his upraised hand he held a riding crop.

“What the devil are you up to, you little nit?” he shouted, waving the crop in Daniel's direction. “Thinking to rob me, is that it?”

Daniel tried not to shrink beneath the agent's fierce gaze. His tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth, and his heart threatened to explode, but he stood his ground, waiting.

Cotter looked as slovenly as he was rumored to be. Stains spotted his coat and a tear showed in one sleeve; he was unshaven and appeared to need a wash.

Daniel's only thought was to run, and he did lunge forward. As if the agent had anticipated his move, Cotter turned the big stallion's lathered body sideways to block him.

“Stay where you are, you thieving little wretch! I want your name!”

Daniel opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. He swallowed, trying again. “Daniel…Daniel Kavanagh.”

“From the village?”

“Aye, sir.”

“How many more of you are hiding in the bushes?” Cotter glanced toward the woods.

“None…none, sir. I'm alone.” Daniel's heart was hammering crazily, and he feared that, in an instant of terror, he was going to humiliate himself by breaking into tears. But he fought for a deep breath, seeing something in the agent's eyes that said it would go even worse for him if the man sensed his fear.

“Well, then—what are you doing here? Have you come to steal or to beg?”

“I—neither, sir.” Shame crept over Daniel as he tried to explain. “I was
hoping you wouldn't mind if I helped myself…to some of your leavings.”

Cotter's lips turned up in disgust. “You thought to steal from the garbage? What are you, then, a rat?”

Angered, Daniel refused to shrink from this bleary-eyed man. “No, sir,” he muttered harshly. “I am simply hungry. As is everyone else in the village.”

The agent leaned forward on his horse, his small, glazed eyes boring into Daniel. “Well, then, perhaps you'd like to beg,” he sneered. “Any lad hungry enough to eat a man's garbage should certainly be humble enough to beg, I would think.”

Daniel stiffened, blinking furiously against the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He looked at the younger man on the horse beside Cotter, surprised to see him studying the agent with a look of open contempt.

“Who are your people, boy?”

Daniel's gaze returned to Cotter. A faint shift in the agent's tone made him wary. Cotter's anger seemed to have faded; in its place was another expression that sent a ripple of uneasiness coursing through him.

“My people? My da was Owen Kavanagh, sir, but he's dead now. My mother's name is Nora, and I'm called after my granddaddy, Dan Kavanagh.”

“And how many more nits at home?”

“Just my brother and me, sir,” Daniel replied grudgingly. “My little sister died of the fever.”

Cotter rubbed the side of one hand across his stubbled chin. “And you're hungry, is that it? You and your family?”

Daniel gave a curt nod, bitter that the agent would feign ignorance of the widespread starvation in the village.

“Lazy, too, I'll wager,” Cotter sniped, leaning forward still more.

Daniel was struck by a roaring wave of rage, and with it a sudden desperate wish to be a man grown. A big man, as big as Morgan, so he need not stand here and be disgraced by this disgusting, loathsome creature. For the first time in his life he knew the intense, almost debilitating desire to harm another human being.