Song of the Silent Harp (20 page)

“Of course, lad,” Thomas answered without hesitation. “Of course, I will come. Let me just finish dressing and wake the girls so they can see to Little Tom.”

Morgan went to the boy and clasped his shoulder. “When, lad?”

“An hour ago, no more.”

“I will come with Thomas,” Morgan said, “if you want me to, that is.”

Daniel John nodded soberly. “Please.”

“When does your mother want the burial, do you know?”

“This afternoon. Since there can't be a wake, she thought it best for Tahg if we had the burial right away. That is,” the boy added, “if Thomas can get the…the coffin ready soon enough.”

Morgan nodded, squeezing Daniel John's shoulder. “We will help him. Your mother is right—it will be best this way.” He paused, aware of something more than grief reflected in the lad's eyes. “You're troubled about the lack of a wake, is that it?”

The boy nodded. “I know it can't be helped. But I wish there could be…
something
for him. Something special, you know.” For an instant his eyes brightened. “Morgan, do you think—” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.

“What, lad?” Morgan prompted, turning the boy toward him.

Daniel John looked up at him uncertainly. “I know that you and Grandfar were not friends,” he said, his voice faltering for an instant, “but…I thought if you could write something…a poem that would be just for him…it might somehow make the burial more special.”

It pained Morgan that the boy would be so reluctant to ask. “I had great respect for your granddaddy, Daniel John,” he said quietly.

“As it happens, I would consider it an honor to write a lament for Dan Kavanagh.”

Daniel John smiled, his gratitude boyishly transparent. “I do thank you, Morgan. I know Mother will be pleased as well.”

The thought of Nora reminded Morgan of the letter he had yet to deliver. Old Dan's death had created still another delay. For just an instant he was relieved, then felt ashamed of his selfishness. At this point, every delay only served to tighten the net of peril around Nora and his own family.

This evening, then. This evening, after the burial, he must give her the letter. He simply did not dare to wait any longer.

17

And to him, who as hero and martyr hath striven,
Will the Crown, and the Throne,
and the Palm-branch be given.

L
ADY
W
ILDE
(1820-1896)

A
t three-thirty that same afternoon, Evan Whittaker arose from another intense hour on his knees before the Lord, and began to pace. Cracking his knuckles, chewing his lip, he walked the floor from one end of the room to the other, trying desperately to decide what he should do—what he
could
do.

Evan had always considered himself a tolerant person. He had adopted his father's philosophy that even the best of men had their flaws and the worst of men could be expected to have at least one redeeming feature, if not more. Consequently, he thought he was reasonably objective and forbearing with his fellowman. That had been his father's way, and over the years he had conscientiously striven to make it his own.

Of course, Father had never met George Cotter, and by now Evan heartily wished he could say the same. After spending the better part of a week in the scurrilous agent's company, Evan was forced to admit that thus far he had been unable to find a single redeeming feature in the man. Bearing with the agent's “flaws” was turning out to be a monumental challenge.

Cotter seemed determined to force this eviction business, despite every attempt Evan made to delay things. Until less than an hour ago, he thought he had managed to stall the agent from carrying out Sir Roger's original demand to implement mass eviction. Insisting they wait until their employer had an opportunity to reconsider his instructions, Evan had almost
managed to convince himself that once Sir Roger learned the dire nature of his tenants' plight, he would indeed grant them at least a measure of mercy.

This afternoon, however, Cotter belligerently announced that, one, he had his orders; and, two, Evan was “only a secret'ry and not the one to be telling him his job.” Thus, he would proceed to carry out Sir Roger's original instructions that very afternoon—and he would start with the family of that “heathen Fitzgerald.” If the outlaw was lodging with his brother, as was rumored in the village, he would soon find himself without a hiding place.

Evan was aware that Thomas Fitzgerald had only recently buried his wife, and that he and his three children were just barely surviving in some godforsaken hillside cabin. Moved by feelings of pity he chose not to analyze, he met the agent's brash announcement with as much cunning as he could muster, attempting to gain a temporary grace period for the ill-fortuned family. Only by convincing Cotter that Thomas Fitzgerald offered the best chance of apprehending his outlaw brother was Evan finally able to delay the Fitzgeralds' eviction another day.

Cotter seemed to take a great deal of delight in Evan's discomfiture, fixing him with a glare of contempt and a threat: “This being your idea and all, Whittaker, you can handle the Fitzgeralds yourself; I have a number of others to attend to today and tomorrow. Why, you may turn out to be the very man who brings down our infamous Red Wolf,” he added with an ugly laugh. “Oh, and speaking of that good-for-nothing marauder,” he went on, “I've asked the magistrate to see to a warrant for Morgan Fitzgerald's arrest as soon as possible. I'm having some
Wanted
posters prepared, offering a three-month rent extension to anybody who gives information leading to his capture.”

Angered by the man's insolence, Evan had ventured to remind Cotter of the limits of his power. “Th-that is presumptuous and n-not at all within your authority!”

“Ah, but I am entirely within my authority!” Cotter shot back. “Didn't you bring me Gilpin's instructions yourself? ‘Get this Fitzgerald outlaw locked up,'” he said, quoting Sir Roger's letter, “‘and use whatever means necessary to do so.'” He paused, shooting Evan a look of smug triumph.

Evan attempted one last argument, but Cotter merely scowled and wagged a meaty finger in front of his face. “You just handle the brother! I'm way behind schedule now in carrying out my duties, thanks to you and your simpering, and I'll not delay any longer!”

Thus Evan prepared to leave for Thomas Fitzgerald's cabin, ostensibly to question the man about his brother before serving an eviction notice on him.
What Cotter did not know was that Evan also intended to warn Fitzgerald that his notorious brother was about to become a hunted criminal.

Pacing the floor, Evan admitted to himself that, while his sympathy for Thomas Fitzgerald might be understandable—the poor man was newly widowed and making every effort to save his small family—his concern for the man's fugitive brother was something else. Morgan Fitzgerald was, by all accounts, an outlaw. He flagrantly defied the authorities, flaunting his lawlessness by wandering in and out of the village whenever he chose. Still, Evan felt some sort of incomprehensible bond to the man, a strong enough affinity that he was intent on warning him of Cotter's vengeful plan to do him in.

Outlaw or not, the Red Wolf had undeniably managed to save a number of lives, and had done so without wreaking any known physical harm on those in authority. A few discreet conversations with some of the villagers had revealed not only an overwhelming sense of gratitude, but no small amount of admiration for the Irish raider. Apparently he had become a kind of folk hero to much of Mayo's populace—understandable, Evan thought, considering the way the outlaw and his men continued to risk their own skins in an effort to save the people from annihilation.

Evan could not deny that he found the tales surrounding this local legend intriguing. The Red Wolf was no ordinary, brutish scoundrel. The mixture of adulation and intimidation he seemed to inspire argued that he was anything but ordinary and certainly far from brutish.

In addition, Evan grew increasingly convinced that it was not Roger Gilpin's orders that had brought him here, to Killala, but rather the leading of the Lord. He was here for an entirely different purpose than the unpleasant tasks Sir Roger had assigned to him. As he prayed he sensed a whisper in his spirit: he was to be, in some inexplicable manner,
responsible
for Morgan Fitzgerald, perhaps for others in the village also.

He stopped pacing to adjust his flawless cravat and smooth his waistcoat. Suddenly, he felt somewhat foolish, wondering if he could possibly be allowing his penchant for melodrama, a suppressed longing for adventure, to cloud his normally sound judgment. After all, Morgan Fitzgerald
was
an outlaw, an
Irish
outlaw who was likely to be a vulgar, swaggering sort and not at all kindly disposed toward anyone reckless enough to present him with a warning about his freedom.

Especially if the bearer of such bad tidings happened to be an Englishman.

Still, there
was
that inner sense of responsibility for the man—indeed, for this entire village—which continued to pervade his being every time he
prayed. It had to mean
something.

Fogging his eyeglasses with his breath, Evan cleaned the lenses with an immaculate handkerchief, then carefully settled them over the bridge of his nose. His headache was returning with a vengeance, and he longed to simply collapse on the bed and forget about the Red Wolf, George Cotter, and Killala. Instead, he sighed and collected his legal case and gloves from the scarred, wobbly desk, then opened the bedroom door and left the room.

Evan was halfway down the long, dim hallway when his attention was caught by raised voices coming from downstairs, at the front of the house. He recognized Cotter's surly tone, but there were others—two, he thought, both gruff and coarse—which he assumed belonged to the agent's roughnecks. Evan was not one to eavesdrop, but he could not help but overhear Cotter's words.

What he heard made his heart thud to a stop, then begin to race. Drawing back, he stood, unmoving, listening.

“That's what I said!” Cotter snarled.
“Kavanagh. Daniel Kavanagh.
You're to nab the young scoundrel and bring him here, just as soon as you can lay your hands on him! He bargained with me,” the agent went on in an outraged whine, “and agreed to take a job days ago. Why, I paid the deceitful
gorsoon
a day's wage already! He will work it off or go to gaol! He'll find he can't steal from this landlord without paying a dear price for it!”

Evan nearly choked at the blatant lie. He had witnessed the entire encounter between Cotter and young Kavanagh, and there had been no exchange of money. Of that much he was certain.

Holding his breath, he took a step backward, concealing himself in the shadows. The replies of the other men were muffled, but Cotter's loud voice boomed all the way up the stairs.

“You just be sure and have him here by this evening! Tell the mother that her son is a thief, and if she doesn't want him in gaol by dusk, she'll send him along with you. If they refuse to cooperate, turn them out on the spot.” He let go a high-pitched laugh. “They'll be out by nightfall anyway, but that's for our ears only, until later. You just bring me the boy!”

Rage hit Evan like a massive blow. He had all he could do not to go flying down the steps and attack the besotted land agent. But Cotter was still giving orders, so Evan steeled himself to stand and listen, intent on learning all he could. He could almost see the odious man's slick, fat face and self-satisfied smile as he went on with his instructions.

“You collect the bailiff and the police right away—take care of the evictions in the Acres first, before you go to the Kavanagh shanty. And mind your
orders, now: no extensions, and no exceptions!”

There were some brief, muffled words from the other men, then, “I don't want to hear about widows and orphans, you fool! My orders are to turn out anyone more than three months in arrears, and to turn them out at once!
Burn
them out if you must, what do I care? At any rate, their filthy huts are to be torched before evening! The fever is rampant out there!”

Evan stood, scarcely breathing, his mind scrambling to take in what he had just overheard. Dear heaven, the man was a lying blackguard! He was going to have that boy picked up like a common criminal and then throw his family out in this ghastly weather, not to mention all the other poor souls who would suffer the same fate.

Stunned and weak, Evan swallowed hard, then began to back up toward the bedroom. Once inside, he quietly closed the door and leaned against it, trying to think.

He must
do
something, of course. But
what?
Cotter had his ruffians and a number of armed police at his command. And, to make matters worse, he had legal authorization from Sir Roger for what he was about to do.

Evan turned his fury inward for a moment. Like a fool, he had handed over Sir Roger's signed instructions to the agent when he first arrived. All Cotter had to do was wave the orders under the nose of the bailiff and the police, and they would comply with whatever the agent demanded. As for those thugs who had been ordered to lure that poor unsuspecting boy up here, they were probably paid well enough that they would go to any lengths to satisfy Cotter's whims. It would be the Kavanagh boy's word against the land agent's, a foregone judgment against the youth.

Tossing his gloves and legal case onto the desk, Evan crossed the room and sank down onto the bed. For a long moment he could do nothing but stare at the floor in frustration. Finally, he turned to the bedside table, picked up his Bible, and opened it.
What can I do, Lord?

He was only a frail, stammering Englishman who knew nothing about bravery except for what he read in adventure novels. He did not understand these people, none of them—Cotter, his toughs, the suffering villagers. Nor did he understand or even care about this wretched island. He had never in his life felt so isolated, so alone. What was one man against an entire army of wickedness?

His eyes fell on the open page, and the words leaped out at him:
A king is not saved by his great army; a warrior is not delivered by his great strength…the eye of the Lord is on those who fear him, on those who hope in his steadfast love, that he may deliver their soul from death, and keep them alive in famine.

Evan squirmed, clutching the open Bible more tightly. “I'm hardly cut out for the…business of deliverance, Lord, and even if I were, I wouldn't know where to begin. B-besides, I'm really not a bit stout—my lungs, You remember—and while I'm not altogether fearful, I suppose it's fair to say that I am somewhat t-timid about certain things. Oh—and of course You know that I st-stammer in the most disconcerting way, especially when I'm…tense or nervous…”

He fidgeted, flipping through the pages aimlessly. At last his fingers stopped, and he looked down again.

Then the Lord said to Moses: “Who has made man's mouth? Who makes him dumb, or deaf, or seeing, or blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Now therefore go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall speak.”