Song of the Silent Harp (29 page)

Gradually a ribbon of fog wound its way between them, momentarily clouding their faces before drifting off over the water. Finally, with obvious reluctance, Morgan dropped his hand away. Taking Little Tom from her arms, he started off to help Thomas, who had just arrived with the cart.

Nora watched him go, his great, broad back bent as if straining beneath a formidable weight. For the first time in a long time she sensed the conflict in his soul, the fires that drove him. A terrible sorrow gripped her, a rush of loneliness to which she could give no name.

God in heaven, I do not want to leave him…how can I leave him so? He will be alone entirely…without Thomas…the children…Daniel John. Without me…

She forced the thought from her mind with the bitter reminder that Morgan did not need her or anyone else. Hadn't he lived his entire life as if to prove that very fact?

Once the cart was unhitched, Morgan returned with Daniel John and Cassidy, who was again carrying Tahg in his strong arms. Grasping Daniel John's hand, Morgan pressed it to Nora's, joining them. “You must go now! Cotter's men will be on us any moment. It will not do for them to see you, especially, Daniel John. Thomas has all the passages,” he said, glancing toward the ship. “You've only to go aboard. Cassidy will carry Tahg on for you.”

Nora followed his gaze. A few shadowed figures had begun to appear on the lower deck, ghostly in the swirling mist. Some now started down the gangplank while others remained on the deck.

“The crew,” Morgan said. “They will help you board.” He paused, then urged her again, “Please, Nora—you dare not wait any longer!”

Their eyes met and held one last time. His gaze was hooded, distant. Nora felt as if a great chasm had opened between them.

“I will try to come aboard before you sail, to say goodbye,” he said gruffly. “If not—” He stopped, looked at her, then at Daniel John, abruptly pulling them both into his arms. “If not, know that I will keep you both forever in my heart. There will never be a time when you are not with me.”

Daniel John's eyes brimmed with tears, and Nora thought she would strangle on the knot of grief in her throat. Just as she would have made a last attempt to change Morgan's mind, the moment was shattered by a panicky shout from Thomas.

“Morgan! They are here!”
His son in his arms, his little girls on either side of him, Thomas came lumbering toward them. In the distance behind him came a band of shouting men on horseback.

Morgan shoved Nora and Daniel John toward two of his men, yanking his pistol free as he spun around. “Sullivan, O'Dwyer—get everyone aboard!
Now!”

Cotter's men came charging up, reining in their mounts just short of the pier.

“Go!” Morgan roared, shooting a look over his shoulder as he feverishly herded Thomas and the children onto the pier.

Somebody fired a shot. Horses shied, screaming and rearing. Morgan's two men lunged into the midst of the emigrants, frantically driving them toward the ship, shouting at the crew to help.

Gripping Daniel John's hand, Nora began to run. She looked back to find Cassidy, saw him coming right behind them, Tahg locked securely in his arms. Suddenly Nora stumbled, wrenching her ankle. She cried out, and Daniel John caught her around the waist, then pulled her onto the gangplank.

Halfway up, she looked back. Her last sight of Morgan saw him striding resolutely toward Cotter's men, his head high, his pistol aimed.

25

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country?
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory?
Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sunblaze
Break at last upon thy story?

F
ANNY
P
ARNELL
(1854-1882)

F
rozen by indecision, Evan teetered on the end of the pier, just outside the ragged line of emigrants hurrying toward the ship. He watched them in their race to get aboard for only a moment before turning and going back the way he came.

With three of his men diverted at the ship and Quigley dead, Fitzgerald was
left with only the youth called Ward and Blake, a thin man with graying hair and a sharp edge of flint in his eyes. These three now stood together a short distance away from the entrance to the pier, guns leveled at Cotter's men.

The two rough-looking bodyguards, Gleeson and Sharkey, along with the constable, had already dismounted and stood glaring angrily at Fitzgerald and his men across the slight rise of muddy ground that sloped between them. At their backs waited half a dozen others, still mounted in an undisciplined row, like ill-trained troops reluctant to attack.

Evan was unarmed, but he felt a need to at least stand with Fitzgerald. Moving cautiously, he went to stand almost directly behind the three Irishmen. Just as he did, Fitzgerald stepped out, his pistol aimed directly at the head of the biggest and most brutish of the two bodyguards.

His voice was deceptively soft, laced with an unmistakable threat when he spoke. “You are outnumbered, Pat. You'd do well to be off with your lads right now while you still can.”

Gleeson glanced over his shoulder at the line of men mounted behind him, then turned back to Fitzgerald and said pointedly, “I think not.”

“Then think again,” Fitzgerald said quietly. “One of my lads is worth three or more of those poor
goms.
That is no secret to either of us.”

“Don't be a fool, Fitzgerald! Whatever daft scheme you and that traitorous Englishman have cooked up, it is over and done with now! You and the boy are coming with us, so flush him out and be quick about it!”

Gleeson was waving his gun in every direction, his eyes as unfocused as those of a drunken sailor. Swallowing nervously, Evan moved up a step, then another, edging over to the side of young Ward.

Fitzgerald was smiling—a terrible rictus of a smile that brought a chill to Evan's blood. “Ah, Pat, just drop your pistol, why don't you? Else I will have to drop
you
and leave my men to finish off the rest of your lads while your dust is still settling. Be the good fellow, now, and lay down the gun. We both know you never could shoot straight enough to hit the side of a barn. You're next to blind, and that's the truth.”

It did seem to Evan that Fitzgerald and his men had the others at a distinct disadvantage, despite the fact they were outnumbered. The men still on horseback looked to be the very dregs of the village—paid housewreckers, most likely—and, as best as he could tell, unarmed. The constable, a pawnchy, seemingly timid soul, was brandishing his pistol in a palsied hand,
but if he managed to wound anyone at all, Evan felt sure it would be entirely by accident. As for Fitzgerald and his men, they all had weapons, and Evan felt certain they were more than adept at using them.

Yet something in the eyes of the two named Gleeson and Sharkey made the back of his neck prickle.
Hatred.
The kind of mindless, depraved hatred that seemed to have no purpose beyond destroying the object of its malice. They would kill Fitzgerald simply because they were paid to kill him, never mind that he was one of their own countrymen, and a patriot at that.

Unexpectedly, the constable made a stab at asserting his authority. “Now, see here, Fitzgerald,” he said lamely, “you're deep enough into the stew as it is! You are a wanted man! Throw down your weapon and deliver up the Kavanagh boy before this goes any further. To persist will only bring more grief upon your family and you!”

It was the wrong thing to say; Evan knew it at once. He had already seen Fitzgerald's fierce protectiveness for his brother and family, his unshakable resolve to ensure the safety of his loved ones. Watching him now, Evan sensed the rage shuddering behind every taut line of that powerful frame.

The burning green eyes seemed to bore a path right through the constable's weak bravado. “Well, then, if my hanging is already assured,” Fitzgerald said, his voice hard, “I see no reason for further caution, do you? Ah, perhaps you'd step just a bit closer to Gleeson and his comrade, constable—in case I'm forced to deal with the three of you at once.”

The policeman blanched, hesitating. Fitzgerald's deadly smile remained locked in place, and after another moment the constable stumbled backward, lowering his gun and finally dropping it to the ground. Immediately the man shot a furious glare at the backs of Gleeson and Sharkey, as if this entire debacle were their doing.

“Thank you, constable,” Fitzgerald said with that same icy calm. “Now, Pat, if you and Mr. Sharkey there will oblige me by doing likewise, all you lads can still manage a night's sleep in your own beds.”

When Gleeson and Sharkey made no move but simply stood, glaring at him, Fitzgerald glanced at Ward, who gave him a brief, answering nod. With faultless timing and before anyone knew what was happening, they shot the pistols from the hands of the other two men.

Murder in his eyes, Gleeson started to lunge, curbing his charge when Fitzgerald raised the gun and aimed it steadily at the man's head. “I will not miss, Pat,” he said quietly. “We both know that I will not miss.” He stood waiting, as still and as implacable as a mountain. At the same time, Ward sprang across the rise and collected both weapons.

Gleeson cursed Fitzgerald with an obscene oath but dropped back. Beside
him, Sharkey now raised his hands in the air, shaking his head as if to indicate he was finished with it all.

Watching them with the keen eye of a hawk, Fitzgerald nodded slowly. “Aye, that's better. Now, then, you may get back onto your horses and take yourselves off to your homes and hearth fires. But carefully, lads,” he warned, his voice tightening, “very carefully.”

Seconds passed, during which the two men cast surly looks at each other. Behind them, the rank of mounted men sat deadly silent, as if holding a collective breath. Finally, their faces set in grudging defeat, both Gleeson and Sharkey began to back away, then turned and stalked off to mount their horses. Gleeson gave the reins a vicious snap, shouting to the others to follow as he spurred his horse hard and galloped off like a man possessed.

Moments later—though it seemed hours—Evan was still struggling to catch a steadying breath. Shaking his head a little to clear it, he leveled his eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose with an index finger. “Well,” he said pointlessly, then again. “Well, that would seem to b-be that.”

Fitzgerald turned to him with a faint, grim smile. “And what did you have in mind by sticking around here, Mr. Whittaker? Were you planning to plead for my life if it became necessary?”

Evan twisted his mouth with distaste. “I thought to d-do just that, if you really want to know, though the idea of groveling to those…heathens made me almost ill.”

“Don't you realize at all the fix you are in, man?” Fitzgerald asked with a wondering frown. “By now you are as much a priority on Cotter's hanging list as I am.”

“Oh, I kn-know that well enough, of course,” Evan replied. He was only too well aware of what he had done to himself, had been aware of it since the moment he made his decision to go against Cotter. “I suppose I was hoping
they
didn't know it yet.”

His eyes glinting with tired amusement, Fitzgerald put a hand to Evan's shoulder and started toward the pier. “Walk with me, my friend. We will go on board to say a proper goodbye.”

With the moon hidden behind a thick bank of clouds, it was difficult to make out anything other than shadows on the ship. As they started down the old, sagging pier, Evan was keenly aware of being dwarfed by Fitzgerald's towering shadow. He realized, though, that he was no longer intimidated by the Gael's impressive size. The big Irishman now treated him with respect—indeed, had called him “my friend,” and the warmth behind his manner somehow served as a vast equalizer.

Fitzgerald stopped for a moment, drawing in a long sigh of exhaustion. “So, then, Whittaker, what do you do now? Go back to England and seek different employment? Or will you try to mend things with Gilpin?”

Evan felt something warm begin to swell inside him, and he knew before the words ever left his mouth that they were not altogether his own. “No, I really d-don't think I'm meant to go back to England. At least n-not yet.”

Glancing down at him, Fitzgerald lifted a questioning brow. “What, then?”

“I suppose,” Evan replied uncertainly, “I suppose I m-might just as well stay here for now. Perhaps I could be of some assistance to you and your men?” he posed hopefully.

Fitzgerald shot Evan a look that plainly questioned his sanity. “You can't do that, man! Why, Cotter would have a noose around your neck before sundown tomorrow! You're mad to even think it! Go and get on that ship, why don't you? There are extra passages paid in full—use one of them for yourself! You've more than earned it.”

Boarding the ship had already occurred to Evan. He had some money with him, more saved, and indeed he had always wanted to see the States. But something in him was loathe to leave Fitzgerald just yet.

What, Lord? What more can I possibly do for this man? He's obviously dead set on braving it out here in Ireland.

“What about
you?”
he blurted out, turning to face the big man at his side. “You've a p-price on your head, your family and…and friends…will be gone—what would keep
you
here now?”

Fitzgerald looked off into the bay, delaying his answer. When he finally spoke, his tone was vague and infinitely weary. “Madness, some would say, and I'm not so sure but what they would be right.” He stood, facing the ship, his magnificent head lifted slightly to the sky as if he had in mind any moment to fling heavenward a myriad of unanswered questions. One long-fingered hand absently chafed the ragged neckline of his improvised cloak, the other clenched and unclenched at his side in a kind of mindless rhythm.

Watching him, Evan caught a fleeting glimpse of one of the medieval clan chieftains: a provincial Irish prince, perhaps, with a torn woolen blanket for his royal robe and an elusive veil of fog for his crown. A prince who ruled a ruined kingdom in which his own dying populace was breaking his heart.

“I wed myself to an island,” Fitzgerald was saying, tugging Evan back from his thoughts as they resumed walking. “For better or for worse, she is mine. There are changes on the wind, things coming, to which I am committed, both for country and out of loyalty to friends. I will stay,” Fitzgerald said quietly, “because I must. More than that, I cannot explain.”

They were almost at the ship. A raw, wet wind was whipping up again, and Evan shivered, both from the sting in the air and from the aura of fatalism he sensed in Fitzgerald's manner. He smelled the brackish waters of the bay, felt the heavy gloom and dread of this night closing in, threatening to engulf him.

A few scattered crew members were milling about on the decks and along the wharf. Looking toward the steerage deck, Evan could just make out Fitzgerald's brother and the others standing in a line, as if waiting to be shown where to go. Ship lanterns, combined with thin wisps of moonlight, haloed the dull waters of the bay, washing both him and Fitzgerald in a dim, wavering glow.

Fitzgerald lifted a hand to those on deck, then stepped onto the broad wooden gangplank. Impulsively, Evan caught his arm, stopping him. “I
wish
I could help you!” he choked out, meaning it with all his being.

Fitzgerald turned, raking Evan's face with a searching look. “Do you mean that,
mo chara
…my friend?” he asked quietly. “Because you
can
help me.”

“Of course, I m-mean it! You've only to tell me how.”

“If you really want to help me, man, then get on board that ship with my family! It breaks my heart every time I think of the fear they must be feeling, will be feeling throughout the days and weeks ahead. Thomas and Nora—they know nothing of cities, of strangers…of the world. They are innocents.” He paused, then added grimly, “And both of us know, do we not, what evil the world is capable of wreaking upon the innocent?”

Evan stared at the man, seized by the burning, desperate appeal in his eyes.

Is this it, then, Lord? Is this what You want me to do?

Almost at once, filling his heart, illuminating his thoughts, the answer came. “All right,” he said quietly, turning to stare at the ship. “I will go.”