Song of the Silent Harp (19 page)

What I mean to say is that, if you bid her goodbye once, you will be saying goodbye forever. For I will commit my heart to her—and what is left of my life—in an attempt to give her whatever happiness is within my power to give. Do not think that if you should have a change of heart at some time in the future I will simply step aside to make way for you, for indeed I will not.

Morgan gave a small, grim smile, for he could not help but remember Michael's tenacity, once he made a decision.

So consider your feelings well, old friend, for there will be no going back. That done, if your decision still stands, then do your utmost to convince Nora to come to me, and to come quickly. Do not let her delay and die in Ireland. Convince her to come now, before it is too late. And I thank you, Morgan, for your trust, for I know in my heart that by doing this you are giving up the only thing you have ever truly loved besides that wretched, dying island….

For a long moment, Morgan continued to stare at the pages in his hand, though he knew Thomas was growing impatient. He felt a cold, desolate hole begin to open somewhere deep inside him, and for a moment the image of Nora's wounded, fearful eyes froze in his mind with a pain he thought could not be borne.

At last he lifted his eyes from the letter to meet Thomas's questioning gaze. “You are going,” he said quietly. “It is all arranged. Your fares are more than paid for, and Michael has even explored some job possibilities for you. And it would seem—” He faltered, then managed to go on with forced cheerfulness. “It would seem that he intends to ask Nora to marry him when she arrives. Perhaps that is the very thing that will finally convince her to go.”

Thomas's eyes on Morgan were grave and searching as he slowly got to his feet. “I'm thinking it should not be Michael Burke asking Nora to be his wife. You have loved that lass since you were a boy.”

Shaking his head, Morgan made no attempt to answer. Instead, he deliberately changed the subject. “You can be ready soon, you said.”

After another long look, Thomas nodded. “Aye, there's little enough to pack.” He paused, again searching Morgan's face. “It's grateful I am to you,
brother, for making this possible. You have kept us alive for weeks now, and it would seem that once more you are saving me and my children. I owe you much. But won't you at least give thought to going with us? I know—”

Morgan interrupted as if he had not heard. “I will count on you, Thomas, to be a help to Nora—assuming I can convince her to go.”

“She is still resisting, then?”

Morgan uttered a short, dry laugh. “Adamantly. I am hoping Michael's letter will help to bring her around.”

“You said the other night when we first talked that things were set, with the ship.”

“Aye. It should be in the bay anytime now. Possibly as soon as the end of this week.”

Thomas said nothing more for a moment, but Morgan could see that he was troubled. “What is it, then? You're not having a change of heart?”

Thomas shook his head. “No, none of that. But I cannot help thinking of that coffin ship that sailed from the bay last year,” he said, raking a hand down one side of his beard-stubbled face. “I'm not worried for myself, you understand. It's the children.”

The
Elizabeth and Sarah
to which Thomas referred had sailed from the bay the past summer only to lose forty-two of her passengers to death during the voyage. Morgan had learned from one of the Young Ireland men in Quebec that the ship had actually broken down and had to be towed the rest of the way into the St. Lawrence.

“That ship was greatly overloaded with passengers and understocked with provisions,” Morgan reminded Thomas. “You will be going on a much finer ship—an American vessel. They're far better constructed and more ably commanded, in addition to being much faster than the British vessels. My men arranged this especially for my family, Thomas; they promised to do their best to secure a safe, fast ship. I understand your concern, but—”

Thomas put up a hand to stop him. “I'd not be much of a father if I did not fear for my children's safety. But risking their lives on a voyage across the Atlantic still appears to be a far safer venture than keeping them here to die in Killala.”

Morgan was relieved at his brother's good sense. If only he could convince Nora to see things the same way. “I will go to Nora first thing tomorrow morning,” he said, carefully folding the pages of Michael's letter and tucking it back inside the envelope. “You will get the children ready as quickly as possible?”

“Aye, they will think it's a great adventure, no doubt.” Thomas's expression
darkened. “Perhaps it will even help to ease their grieving for their mother.”

With a distracted nod, Morgan lay the envelope on the table. He was weary, almost aching with fatigue and a somber sense of impending loss. Yet he knew he would manage little sleep this night.

“You should get some rest, brother,” Thomas said, his own eyes red-rimmed and heavy. “It is late.”

“You go on. I want to work a bit longer on Williams' poem.”

After Thomas left the room, Morgan continued to stare at the envelope on the table for a long time. Finally, he sighed, and cupping the candle's flame with the palm of his hand, snuffed it out.

Still he could not bring himself to move, but merely stood like a cold marble statue in the darkness of his brother's cabin.

The breaking of his heart was now complete.

16

Famine and plague, what havoc have ye made?
And was it thus that stalwart men should die?

J
EREMIAH
O'
RYAN
(1770-1855)

O
ld Dan drew his last breath early the next morning.

An icy rain had returned during the night, and even now, long past dawn, its gray chill seemed to drape the entire cottage in gloom. Sensing that the old man's death was imminent, Nora had sat by his bed most of the night. When at last she heard the death rattles in his throat, she rose and went to call Daniel John in from the kitchen.

“You will want to say your goodbyes to your grandfather now, son,” she told him gently. “He will soon be gone.”

With anguish in his eyes, the boy parted the curtain and entered the alcove. Nora followed, waiting at the foot of the bed as Daniel John slipped in between Tahg and the old man. Tahg was awake—one of his increasingly rare lucid times—and lay watching as his brother took their grandfather by the hand.

“Can he hear me, do you think?” Daniel John asked, not taking his gaze from the unconscious old man.

“Only God knows,” Nora answered. Tortured by her son's grief, she put a hand to her throat, swollen painfully with unshed tears.

In the silent shadows of the alcove, Tahg suddenly reached out a thin, white hand to his brother, who turned to look at him. “I'm sure he hears,” Tahg said in a strained whisper. “Tell him for me, too, Danny. I can't—” He broke off when a fit of coughing stole his breath.

Daniel John's eyes filled as he stared at his older brother for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and turned back to Old Dan, then began speaking in the Irish.

The ache in Nora's heart grew fierce as she listened to her son's last farewell to his grandfather. He thanked him for the countless sacrifices he had made for the family, acknowledging the noble menory, the legacy of love and goodness and integrity Old Dan would be leaving behind.

“I will do my best…to be true to your name, Grandfar…to bring honor to you. I will remember for all my life that the name of Daniel Kavanagh is one to wear with pride.”

Nora sobbed aloud as the boy bent to kiss the old man's sunken cheek. She had said her own goodbyes earlier that morning, but God help her, it was still hard to let him go. Dan Kavanagh had been the only father she had ever known, and in truth he had treated her as his own flesh and blood. She could not imagine this cottage, which he had built with his own two hands—or, for that matter, life itself—without him.

For the next hour, the three of them kept their vigil, praying together, then mourning together when it was finally over. Both boys cried, and Nora felt it was a tribute to their da that they were able to do so. Owen had raised both his sons to be strong in heart and tender in spirit. He had been a fine father, Owen had, as fine a father as a husband, and she missed him deeply, especially at times like these.

Before she realized what she was doing, she found herself wishing that Morgan would come. Just as quickly, she despised herself for her own weakness, for she knew it was his
strength
for which she longed, not merely his presence.

She was so tired, so utterly exhausted. The very thought of having to deal with yet another death overwhelmed her to the point of desperation. But deal with it she must, and right away, especially with Tahg so ill; he must not have to lie there, in a bed alongside his dead grandfather, for any length of time. Obviously, she could not send for Morgan. After their words two nights past, she was certain he was as bent on avoiding her as she him. He had been noticeably ill at ease the day before, when he'd stopped by the cottage for Daniel John. No, Morgan would not be coming round again soon—if ever.

On the heels of this thought came a fierce longing for Catherine Fitzgerald. Nora herself had never laid out a body. Catherine had tended to the pitiful wee babe who had been stillborn, between Tahg and Daniel John. When Owen died, Catherine laid him out, and she had been there again for Ellie. But now Catherine was gone, and this time Nora was on her own. She would not ask Daniel John to help; she simply couldn't. The boy was still only thirteen, not yet a man grown. And this was his grandfather, after all—he should not have to do what it was her place to do.

What she
would
do, however, was to send him for Thomas Fitzgerald. Thomas had promised that when the time came he would make a coffin for Old Dan. It would be a simple one, of course, for they had only some scrap wood and part of an old table she had saved with this day in mind. But at least the old man would not be dropped into the ground from one of those awful hinged “trap coffins” used by the death-cart drivers. Dan Kavanagh had been a man of great pride and dignity before the Hunger had stripped most of it away, and Nora was immensely grateful to Thomas for offering to spare her father-in-law the final humiliation of a pauper's grave.

There would be no wake, of course, and this distressed her. The old dear should have had a proper mourning. For years Dan Kavanagh had been treated to the respect and confidence of the entire village. Why, he was one of the very oldest residents, he was. In the old days, he would have been a tribal chieftain. His ancestors dated back to the time of Cromwell's invasion, when the young Eoin Caomhanach—John Kavanagh—had fled across the island to Connacht rather than risk exile to Barbados.

Still, there would be no wake. The few villagers who might yet possess the strength to make their way to the cottage had all they could do to see to their own families. Besides, with the fever now on the rage throughout the district, few were willing to risk public gatherings, even to show respect for the dead.

There was nothing to do but lay out the old man in private and see to it that he at least had a proper burial.
Thank God for friends like Thomas,
she thought with a deep sigh. She would send Daniel John for him right away.

Morgan dumped an armload of wood next to the fireplace, then went to the table to drain the last of his tea. Replacing his empty cup, he picked up the envelope containing the letters and, after giving it a long look, tucked it securely inside the pouch tied at his waist.

This morning he would deliver Michael's letter to Nora. It must be done now, before his foolish feelings allowed him to delay any longer. He had spent most of the night at odds with himself, sleeping hardly at all as he mulled over and over again what lay ahead. By dawn he had almost managed to convince himself to simply keep quiet about the letter. He would take Nora and the others across, to the States, and once they arrived he would—

He would do
what?
The lack of an answer to that question ultimately forced him to face the utter absurdity of his plan. Unless he were willing to stay in America and build a life together with Nora—and why would he even imagine she would have him?—then there was no conceivable reason to go with her.

He squatted down to punch up the fire, putting aside his foolish thoughts. Thomas was going, and Michael was waiting; Nora would be perfectly fine. The best thing for her—indeed the
only
thing, if she was to find the happiness she so deserved—was for her to marry Michael Burke. He was a grand lad, a veritable rock of a man: sober, hardworking, ambitious, a man of unimpeachable integrity. And hadn't he already committed himself to Nora's happiness? He would give her a new life, a good life in America. In addition, he could provide Daniel John opportunities the likes of which the boy would never see here in Ireland.

He would take the letter to Nora this morning. Then the only thing remaining would be to convince her to go.

He would never see her again, never again feel his heart melt from the warmth of her huge gray eyes or hear her soft, uncertain laugh or touch the silk of her raven hair…Daniel John would be lost to him as well…He would not see him grow to manhood, would not be allowed to feed his hunger for learning, share his dreams, encourage his music. So much would be lost to him, so much…

But so much would be
gained
by
Nora,
he reminded himself, straightening. And that would somehow have to make his own loss bearable. Besides, who could say he would not see her again? He could always pay a visit to the States.

But by then she would be another man's wife.

He uttered a sharp sound of disgust at himself. Had she not been another man's wife for years? It was time for him to stop playing the fool for the woman and get a grip on himself.

Squaring his shoulders, he crossed to the table and sliced off a crust of bread, chewing it without really tasting it. Little Tom came trudging out
from his bed just then, and, as always, ran to Morgan, climbing him as he would a tree.

Morgan scooped the little fellow the rest of the way up, hoisting him onto his shoulder. He was scarcely out of didies, this one, but already the stunned, morose look of the Hunger was on him. His enormous green eyes—as green as Morgan's own—held, instead of a childish glint of fun, the faintly suspicious, watchful stare of a stray pup trying to gauge an unpredictable master's intentions.

Yet this wee wane was healthier by far than most of the other children in the village.
Pity those little ones,
Morgan thought grimly,
who had no outlaw uncle to fill their bellies.

“Your sisters are still asleep?” Morgan asked the tyke in the Irish. As he most often did with his own family, he spoke the ancient language, determined that the children should grow up entirely at ease with the original tongue of their people. Morgan loved the language, and because he knew himself to be one of the last remaining Gaelic poets and writers, he was determined to do his part in keeping this much of their heritage alive. As long as their language survived, perhaps there was hope that all things Irish would not perish under Britain's colonization.

The little boy nodded and put his arms around Morgan's neck in a tight hug.

“Say the words, Tom,” Morgan demanded.

“They are sleeping, Uncle Morgan,” the little boy replied in the Irish.

“Ah, then to you is appointed the privilege of waking them,” Morgan said, grinning at his nephew as he swung him down to his feet. “You have my permission to tug their ears, if that's what it takes. Just a tiny tug, though; you must not hurt them. Girls are very tender, don't forget.” Swatting the little boy lightly on his bottom, he stood and watched him go trundling off to the back of the cottage, where his sisters slept.

“And what is he about so early?” Thomas asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he entered the room.

“I thought it might be well to wake the lasses. There will be much to do over these next days, and they could be of help to Nora as well.”

“Johanna, perhaps,” Thomas agreed solemnly, tucking his shirttail inside his breeches. “Katie is that weak, though. She seems to tire with the least effort.”

Fear lurked in his brother's eyes, and Morgan didn't wonder at it. He, too, had seen the frailty of his eldest niece. Katie had a blotched, feverish look about her. The girl had never been a sturdy child, and lately she appeared even more wan, almost wraithlike. Morgan suspected the lass had long been plagued with a heart malady; she seemed to gasp for her breath with the
slightest exertion and never appeared to feel entirely well.

“Little Tom can help,” Morgan said reassuringly. “He's growing fast, that one.”

Thomas's expression cleared somewhat. “Aye, he'll be a brawny lad. He's the stoutest of the three. Catherine used to say the boy was—”

He stopped at the sound of a rap on the door, immediately followed by Daniel John's voice. “Thomas?” Pushing the door open a bit, the boy stuck his head inside.

Thomas motioned him in. “What are you doing out so early in the day, lad?”

Entering, Daniel John looked from Morgan to Thomas. “Grandfar,” he said quietly. “He…he is gone. Mother said I should ask if you would come.”