Song of the Silent Harp (27 page)

23

Through the woods let us roam,
Through the wastes wild and barren;
We are strangers at home!
We are exiles in Erin!

F
EARFLATHA
O'
GNIVE
(C. 1560)

[T
R.
S
AMUEL
F
ERGUSON
]

T
he road from Nora's cottage to Thomas's cabin at the edge of town spanned only a short distance, but tonight it seemed an endless trek. Indeed, Morgan felt as if he had been riding for hours.

His heart was stretched tight enough to crack. How long had it been since he'd last drawn an easy breath? Not since hoisting Tahg onto Pilgrim's back, that was certain. Instinctively, he tightened his embrace around the boy, snugly wrapped in several layers of bedding. Even so, Morgan felt the lad's trembling, heard him utter a soft moan with Pilgrim's every step.

The rain had stopped. Other than an occasional errant cloud moving across the face of the moon, the night sky was beginning to clear. He looked ahead. Nora was riding with Cassidy, with Whittaker just behind them on the extra roan. The horses took the wet, rocky hillside at a slow walk. Even Pilgrim, ordinarily a daredevil, had tempered his impatience, as if aware of the need for caution.

Morgan had fallen a ways behind the others, but in the faint spray of moonlight he could see them clearly. Too clearly. Although relieved for Tahg's sake that the rain had ended, he would have preferred the safety of cloud cover. Still, they should soon be well concealed by the fog drifting down from the mountains.

Despite the fact that the wind was cold and he wore no cloak, perspiration ribbed the back of his head, trickling down his back beneath his shirt. Anxiety. The thought of the ordeal ahead, and all that could go wrong gripped him with dread. And yet there was nothing he could do but go on.

And so they rode into the night, like prisoners already condemned to the gallows. Their only hope of survival lay in the hands of a God who seemed to have forgotten their very existence. A God who was absent.

Morgan's gaze traveled down over the hill, to the ancient round tower, then back to the night sky with its faintly shadowed moon. Lately he had found himself brooding over this…
absence
of God. Was it a fact? And, if so, did that
absence
somehow signify the
presence
of something else? Something evil?

All through history, it seemed that a common seed of evil sprouted its corrupt fruit, the spoiled and worthless crowding out the healthy and good. Civilization was much like the potato blight, he thought: As long as the plants blossomed prettily, grew healthy and strong in the sun, they were taken for granted but not really prized for their value. It was only after the pestilence struck, blighting the leaves and seizing the roots, finally wiping out an entire country's livelihood, that the worth of the now destroyed crop was finally realized.

With a shudder, Morgan pulled Tahg closer, as if to shelter him and will him to survive. To endure.

If only the good can ever hope to supplant the evil…if only what is innocent can ever hope to uproot the defiled, then what hope was there for this wasted island? The best of Ireland was dying or fleeing…What would be left behind to bloom in Ireland for a future day?

Oh, God…what would be left?

Daniel watched through the jagged tear in the paper-covered window. Any instant now he hoped to catch a glimpse of Morgan and the others.

Behind him, the dim room was crowded. Boxes bound with rope, one large trunk and a smaller one, three sacks of miscellaneous items—all were heaped randomly in the middle of the floor. Morgan's men were there, three of them; the other two had slipped out of the cabin earlier to scout the village and watch for Morgan as he brought his charges across the hill.

“You'll not see them coming until they're at the door.” Katie had edged up beside him. “They will come down on the other side of hill, not around the front way.”

Daniel nodded, but continued to peer out into the moon-dusted darkness. “I know. It's just that I thought they would be here by now.”

She touched his arm. “They will come soon, Daniel John. Uncle Morgan will see them safely here.”

He looked at her then, managing a smile.

“Aye, he will that. Sure, there is nowhere safer to be than under your uncle Morgan's protection.” Still studying her flushed, thin face, he added, “You did well tonight, Katie, turning Cotter's men away from the cabin as you did. You were brave.”

She shook her head. “I did not feel brave, I can tell you! I was frightened out of my wits! I still can scarcely believe I didn't ruin things for us all by breaking down like a crybaby.”

“Well, you didn't,” he said. “And besides,
feeling
brave isn't the same as
being
brave, you know. It's how you behave that counts the most, not how you feel—”

They both heard the sounds at the side of the cabin at the same time—the low murmur of voices, the wet slap of hoofs in the mud. Daniel caught a glimpse of his mother as she rounded the corner of the cabin, then Morgan.

“It's them!”
he cried, motioning to Katie to throw the bolt.

Morgan came in first, carrying Tahg in his arms like a baby in its wrappings. Daniel's mother and a big, gruff-looking man with a barrel chest came next, followed by the Englishman.

Without stopping, Morgan inclined his head to Daniel, motioning him to follow as he carried Tahg directly to the back of the cabin and eased him onto the bed. Daniel started to loosen the bedding from around Tahg's face, stopping for a quick embrace from his mother. When she began to fuss over Tahg, he moved aside to give her room.

As the blankets dropped away from Tahg's face, Daniel choked back a gasp of dismay. His brother's eyes were pinched shut, his lips cracked and tinged a milky shade of blue against the stark white of his skin. For a moment his heart stopped at the terrible thought that his brother was dead.

Finally Tahg began to cough. His eyes fluttered open, and Daniel caught his breath in relief. Glancing across the bed at Morgan, however, his relief immediately died. Morgan's eyes were fixed on Tahg with a grim, watchful expression. As if sensing Daniel's gaze, he looked up. Their eyes met, and in that instant Daniel knew with a stab of anguish that Morgan held no hope at all for Tahg's survival.

Instinctively he took a protective stance closer to his brother. Tahg looked up, moistening his parched lips in a weak attempt to smile. “Danny…”

“Aye, Tahg, I am here,” Daniel said quickly, putting a hand to Tahg's thin shoulder.

“Are we ready, then, Danny?”

“Ready, Tahg?”

His brother gave a small jerk of a nod. “Aye…are we ready to go to America?”

Daniel stared at his brother, his throat tightening even more. “Aye, Tahg, we are almost ready at last.”

Again the older boy nodded. “We must…we must convince Morgan to go with us, Danny…tell him…tell him he must go, too…”

It was the fever talking, Daniel knew. And yet he could not help but look across the bed to Morgan, who avoided his gaze by staring resolutely at Tahg.

“Do not wear yourself out, lad,” Morgan said, his voice gruff. “We will soon be leaving for the mountain. You must save your strength for yet another ride.”

Tahg's eyes rolled out of focus, then closed, and Daniel knew that he had once again drifted off to the place the fever took him.

Two miles outside of town, Pat Gleeson reined in his mount so sharply the stallion reared on his haunches and pawed the sky. Snorting, the horse hit the ground hard as he came down. Beside him, Sharkey pulled up his own horse with an oath. “What do you think you're doing, you—”

Gleeson sat his horse with his brawny arms braced straight out, his hands knotted tightly on the reins. “Where was the Englishman's mount, do you suppose?”

Sharkey stared at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses.

“Whittaker's
horse!”
Gleeson demanded impatiently. “Where was it? And why was he so intent on hanging about the widow's cottage—and not evicting her, eh?”

His partner twisted his face into a grimace of disbelief. “What do I know—or care—where the Englishman's
horse
is? What kind of madness is on you now?”

Gleeson didn't answer. Thinking hard, he sat staring into the night with fixed eyes and a growing certainty.

“Come on,” he said, turning his horse, “we're going back.”

Again Sharkey swore. “What's wrong with you, man? It's the boy and the outlaw we want, not some slow-witted farmer or widow woman! I should think—”

“Well, don't—you haven't the mind for it! Now, ride! We are going back!”

Without another word, Gleeson squeezed his legs against the stallion's sides and took off at a mad gallop.

Sharkey hurled a stream of evil epithets at him as he tore off, but after an instant spurred his mount and followed.

They had the cart nearly loaded and hitched to one of the extra horses when the sound of approaching hoofbeats came tearing out of the night. Crouched down on one knee to tighten a wheel, Morgan raised his head to listen, then lunged to his feet.

O'Dwyer and Quigley had returned from their scouting mission around the village. Waiting, Morgan wiped the oil from his hands onto his trousers.

“Is all quiet, then?” he asked the fair-haired Quigley as the men reined up in front of him.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when young Quigley blurted out, “The ship is in, sir! It's coming into the harbor now!”

For a moment Morgan could only stare at them, his brain refusing to take in what they had said.

“An American packet, it is,” spluttered the red-faced O'Dwyer with a huge grin. “A small one, but it looks fit.”

“The ship is in.” Morgan tested their news on his own lips. “You are certain?”

Daniel John walked up just then, staring wide-eyed, first at Morgan, then at the men on horseback. He started to speak, but Morgan stopped him with an upraised hand.