Song of the Silent Harp (26 page)

Pat Gleeson had been Cotter's bodyguard for nearly six years, long enough to know that the agent turned vicious when foiled. The memory of Cotter's rages helped him make his decision.

Turning to the man on the horse beside him, he said bluntly, “We'll stop at the Fitzgerald hut before heading for Ballina.”

Sharkey, a short, muscular man with a nasty streak, shot Gleeson an impatient glance. “For what? You heard what the Britisher said.”

Ignoring Sharkey's irritation, Gleeson said, as much to himself as to his companion, “Something about that stuttering little fop puts me off. He may be Gilpin's man, but I don't trust him.” Turning his horse, he gave a sharp jerk of his head to indicate Sharkey should do likewise. “We'll just have ourselves a look,” he said. “I'll not be easy unless we do.”

Sharkey glowered, but turned his horse, signaling the men behind them to follow. “That one has never trusted a soul in his entire wretched life, I'd wager,” he muttered under his breath. “Pity he cannot see that not all men are as deceitful as himself.” His scowl deepened, as did his impatience, when a sudden blast of rain let loose from the clouds, a downpour that drenched them all within seconds.

“Men, Da!”
Katie cried, peering out the small front window. “Men on horses are coming!”

Thomas was hoisting a trunk to his shoulders and had it halfway up in the air when Katie called her warning. Setting it to the floor, he hurriedly pushed it beneath the bed where the Kavanagh harp had already been safely stored.

Morgan had feared that Cotter's toughs would come to check out the cabin. Thomas's mind raced, trying desperately to remember his brother's exact
instructions.

“Katie Frances, did you mind what I told you? About what you are to say to the men if they ask questions about me or your uncle Morgan—or Daniel John?” Without waiting for her answer, he jerked his arm toward the small deal table in the middle of the floor. “Hurry, boy!” he whispered harshly to Daniel. “There is no time!”

The lad scooted the table off its platform bottom, and Thomas quickly eased the wooden plank away so they could lower themselves into the hole it concealed. As soon as Daniel dropped down, out of sight, Thomas looked at his wide-eyed daughter and warned, “You'll not forget to replace the plank and the table, lass?”

She shook her head, but Thomas still hesitated, worried for the stark look of fear on her face. “It will be all right,
asthore.
Try not to be afraid—God is with us.”

Katie nodded, biting at her lower lip. “I know, Da.”

With a short nod, Thomas turned to the other two children. Using a hand language Morgan had helped him to develop, he once more reminded Johanna to take Little Tom to the back bedroom, and to stay there until the men were gone.

As soon as the children left the kitchen, he followed Daniel into the hole. Total darkness enveloped him the instant Katie slid the table back to its place. The black pit was actually a tunnel that led a distance away from the cabin; he and Morgan had started it over a year ago. When Morgan was in the village, he helped with it, but Thomas had done most of the digging himself, he and the two girls. In the beginning, he had used it as storage for their precious extra food supplies. Later, when the food was gone, he'd continued to tunnel, always with the thought at the back of his mind that Morgan might someday need a hidey-hole nearby; he had never expected to be hiding in it himself.

In the thick, unrelieved darkness, he could not see the boy at his side, but he was aware of Daniel John's trembling. Lifting a hand, he fumbled until he found the lad's shoulder.

“God help us, Thomas,” the boy murmured.

“God
will
help us, Daniel John,” Thomas replied, silently praying a psalm of refuge even as he voiced his reassurance.

When Morgan found the mountain cabin empty, he almost panicked. Only the leavings of some stirabout and bread crumbs gave him hope that the lads could be found close by.

He was soaked all the way through his cloak to his skin, his hair dripping down over his shoulders, but he took no time to dry off or warm himself.
Gathering some blankets from the back room, he crashed out the door, hurriedly tugging the small mare around to the back of the cabin to a rude lean-to deep in the woods.

As soon as he entered the shed, the immense red stallion tethered at the back began to snort excitedly. Morgan crossed to the horse and soothed him, speaking the Irish. He saddled him quickly, tossing the blankets across his broad back, then tied the mare to a lead rope.

“Aye, I have missed you, too, Pilgrim,” he murmured, making a soft clicking noise with his tongue between his teeth, which immediately quieted the big stallion. “But tonight we will ride together again.”

Leading both horses from the shed, Morgan silenced Pilgrim with a sharp warning as the stallion began to fight the mare's presence. After checking the lead rope, he swung himself up into the saddle. “So, then, where are the lads, Pilgrim? Where have they gone, eh?”

He thought he knew. Two priests and a country clergyman had thrown up a tent near Kilcummin, where they aided those on the road with what food and remnants of clothing they could collect. The lads made a practice of helping them out in any way they could, going down in the evening once or twice a week to drop off a bit of this or that, as well as to lend a strong back where needed.

The smudged tracings of hoofprints in the mud proved him right; at least they had headed in that direction. He had counted on finding the men at the cabin, and he resented the need to spend precious time running them down. He knew his anger was unreasonable, his impatience unjustified, but he was bone tired, anxious, and growing more apprehensive by the moment.

His mind went to those he had left behind in the village. Try as he would, he could not imagine the frail, mild Whittaker facing down Cotter's bully-boys. Even less would he allow himself to entertain the consequences of Daniel being discovered at Thomas's cabin before he could get back.

Suddenly the sound of hoofbeats and tree limbs brushing together made him look up, startled. Colin Ward and the other five lads galloped out of the woods toward him, hailing him as if he'd been gone for a month. Morgan actually gasped aloud with relief.

He yanked Pilgrim up short, waiting. “I need the lot of you in the village,” he bit out when they reached him, wasting no time on a greeting. “Bring in any extra horses we have from the woods and ride as hard as you can.” His eyes went over the six men, resting on the biggest of them all. “Cassidy, you meet me at Nora Kavanagh's cottage, with at least one extra horse. The rest of you go to my brother's cabin—go down the back road, and make sure
you're not seen. Cassidy and I will meet you there.” He paused, then added, “We will be bringing my family and the Kavanaghs up here this night.”

“All
of them?” questioned Cassidy, his heavy black brows drawn together. “The children as well?”

Morgan looked at him. “All of them,” he said. “The children especially.”

He saw the men exchange glances. As briefly as possible, he explained, giving them only a hurried sketch of the events that had taken place that day. When he had finished, Cassidy spoke without hesitation. “We will get them out, Morgan.”

The others nodded their assent, and Morgan drew a long breath. “Remember, we must not be seen. If we are taken, it will mean disaster for them all.”

“We will not be taken,” Colin Ward announced in a hard voice. Morgan knew from past experience that the young man with the black eye patch had the courage legends were made of and wits enough for two men. Just hearing Ward's reassurance made him feel easier.

“The other horses are nearby,” said Ward, nodding toward the small mare on the lead rope. “Why don't you send that one with us, sir? She'll only slow you down.”

Morgan quickly released the mare, handing her off to Ward. Cassidy parted his way through the other riders, pulling his horse up sharply beside Morgan.

With a short nod, Morgan turned his horse, and together he and the burly Cassidy started down the mountain for Killala.

22

We are fainting in our misery,
But God will hear our groan.

L
ADY
W
ILDE
(1820-1896)

T
he two rough-looking men burst into the cabin as soon as Katie cracked open the door. Flinging it aside, they shoved her backward into the kitchen with such force she cried out.

The bigger of the two, the one with the scarred skin and mean-looking eyes, glared at her. “Where is your da, girl?”

“He's not at home right now, sir,” Katie finally managed, nearly choking on her own voice. She was trembling, not from the cold cabin, but from fear.

“Well, and where
is
he, then?” grated the same man.

Katie's mind groped for just the right words, knowing that what she said and how she acted might be terribly important to her da and Daniel—indeed, to them all. “I'm…not exactly sure
where
he might be, sir. Just that he's away for now. I'm sure he
won't be gone long, though.”

Both men continued to pin her in place with their cold, threatening stares, but it was the big man with the heavy shoulders and cruel eyes who questioned her. “And what of your uncle, then? Morgan Fitzgerald?”

Katie swallowed hard but forced herself to meet the man's gaze, “My uncle Morgan, sir? Sure, and I don't know where he is. He doesn't live here with us, you know.”

“We hear otherwise,” pressed the second man.

His face was peppered generously with freckles, his mouth seemingly trapped in a permanent frown. Still, he acted a bit less gruff than his companion, so Katie fixed her eyes on him as she spoke. “Oh no, sir! Uncle Morgan stops for a visit now and then, he does, but he never stays for any length of time at all.”

The freckle-faced man raked a hand through his straight red hair. “Are you satisfied at last, Gleeson? Can we get on with it now?”

Ignoring him, the big man swept the cabin with his eyes. “Who else is here with you, girl?”

Katie's heart lurched, then raced. She could not shake the image of her da and Daniel huddled in the dark pit below the cabin. “Who else, sir?”

His eyes on her were hard and impatient. “Aye,” he snarled,
“who else?”

Katie was certain the trembling of her chin must be apparent to both men. “Only my younger sister and wee brother, sir. Johanna is putting Little Tom to bed. My mum is dead, you see.”

Katie held her breath. The man finally gave a short nod. “Check in the back!” he snapped. The freckle-faced man let go with a violent oath, but made his way across the room toward the rear of the cabin.

Seconds later he returned with Little Tom, clinging tightly to the hand of Johanna, who was white with fear. The big, burly man shot the same questions at Johanna as he had Katie, but the girl simply stared at him with huge, frightened eyes.

“My sister cannot hear or speak, sir,” Katie quickly explained. “She has no way of knowing what you want.”

He looked at her, then again at Johanna before turning to his partner with a scowl. “We will go now,” he said shortly, starting for the door, then stopping. “Let us hope that you are telling the truth, girl,” he said roughly. “It will go hard for your da and your entire family if you are lying.”

He watched her closely, as if he half expected her to deny everything she'd
said. Her heart pounding, Katie met his eyes with as level a look as she could manage.

As soon as the two men were out the door, she rushed to throw the bolt. Turning, she sank back against the door, staring at Johanna, waiting until the fierce trembling of her legs subsided enough that she could finally cross the room and move the table away from the hidey-hole.

Evan would never have believed he could feel such monumental relief at the sight of two outlaws. When Fitzgerald and the great brawny creature called Cassidy first edged themselves through the back door of the cottage, he could have fallen at their feet in welcome.

Fitzgerald's first move, of course, was to see to Mrs. Kavanagh. Evan found himself surprised and quite touched to see the gentleness which the Irish giant afforded the small, pale widow. It occurred to him, watching Fitzgerald's courtly tenderness with the woman, that this big, heavy-chested Gael was at heart, if not in breeding, a consummate gentleman.

When Fitzgerald quizzed him briefly but thoroughly on his handling of Cotter's thugs, Evan once again encountered a glint of approval in the Irishman's gaze.

“You have my thanks, Evan Whittaker,” Fitzgerald said quietly across the boy's bed. “You are a brave man.”

He turned his attention to Tahg. “We will make you as warm and as comfortable as humanly possible, lad,” Fitzgerald said in a gentle voice, taking the boy's frail hand and bending over him. “This will not be an easy thing for you, Tahg. But it is necessary.”

His eyes shut, Tahg nodded. “'Tis all right, Morgan. I understand. I'm only sorry to be such a burden…making everything so difficult—”

The boy's mother choked out a protest, but it was Fitzgerald who, bracing a huge hand on either side of the boy's thin shoulders, silenced him. “I'll not be listening to such foolishness from a man grown,” he said with a stern frown. “There is no burden about it. Once we get you into some warm wrappings, you will ride out of here on Pilgrim's back, and that will be that.”

Evan would have thought Tahg Kavanagh to be beyond enthusiasm of any sort, but the boy's eyes shot open and actually appeared to brighten. “Pilgrim? Is that your horse, Morgan? Is he a stallion?”

“He is,” replied Morgan, straightening, “and as hardheaded and cantankerous a great brute as you are likely to find trampling Irish sod. Now, then,” he said briskly, “let us get you ready for your journey.”

The boy gave a weak nod. “You are going, too, Morgan?”

Carefully freeing Tahg's arms from the bedding, Fitzgerald looked at him. “Well, of course, I am going. Would I set you on old Pilgrim by yourself?”

Tahg shook his head. “No…I mean, you are going to America with us, are you not?”

Fitzgerald stopped his movements for only an instant, his wide mouth straining at a smile. “Not this time,” he said, quickly adding, “perhaps later.”

Tahg tried to push himself up. “But, Morgan, you must go! You dare not stay here, in Killala, after—”

Fitzgerald brought a finger to his own lips. “We will save our talking for later, lad. For now, we must hurry; there is little time.”

With obvious reluctance, the boy sank back onto his pillow, remaining silent as both Fitzgerald and Cassidy worked to wrap him, first in Morgan's heavy frieze cloak, then in several layers of bedding. Throughout the entire process, the boy followed Fitzgerald's movements with a mournful expression and pain-filled eyes.

Watching him, Evan felt certain that a part of the pain in young Tahg's gaze was, for a change, not entirely physical.