Song of the Silent Harp (33 page)

Wringing his hands, Mahon studied him. “That is not for us to decide,
Morgan. We cannot know why God chooses to give life to some or withdraw it from others. But one thing I do know: There is an entire well of hatred and bitterness in you, lad, that must be emptied if you are ever to find your way back to the Lord.” He drew a shaky breath. “Morgan…you know they will hang you.”

Morgan looked at him. “Aye, they will.”

Mahon seemed flustered by his directness. “You must not die with all this hatred on your soul, Morgan, and with such…lawlessness, such sin. Please, at least let me pray with you.”

Morgan saw in the priest's face what he had seen in few others: a pure, selfless compassion and concern for another human being. It should have moved him, but in truth it only made him sad. “Don't waste your efforts on me, Joseph,” he said, turning his back to the other man. “There are too many others in the village who need you. Save what strength you have for them. I deserve the hanging they are going to do, and we both know there is no stopping it.”

Behind him, Mahon's quiet words sounded unexpectedly stern. “Do not let your brother's death be in vain, Morgan! Even worse, do not let our
Savior's
death be in vain.”

Morgan felt a muscle near his right eye twitch. When he turned, the priest had risen to his feet and stood watching him.

“Say what you mean, Joseph.”

“Thomas loved you to the point of despair, Morgan,” the other man said firmly. “He agonized over you—over your soul. The man literally stormed the gates of heaven for your return to God's arms, time after time, year after year, never once conceding that his efforts might be in vain. And at the end—” Mahon stopped, but his gaze never wavered. “At the end he died in order that you might live. Sure, I do believe that you owe Thomas's noble memory at least a prayer in your own behalf.”

Angry at the man's intrusion into his grief, Morgan scowled, opening his mouth to shoot back a caustic reply.

But the priest ignored him. “God in heaven, lad, do you not see it, even now? Your brother's unselfish death, our Savior's sacrifice on the cross—both were for
you.
Thomas died to spare your flesh, but our Lord died to spare your soul. Morgan, Morgan,” the priest said, shaking his head sadly, “you belonged to Him once. Why have you turned from Him all these years? Let Thomas's final gift to you be your way back to the Savior!”

Steeling himself against the storm of emotion battering at his heart, more mindful than ever of the ache throbbing against his jaw, Morgan again turned his back on the other man. “I am not up for this, Joseph,” he said
unsteadily. “I know what you are trying to do, and I know you mean well. But I ask you to leave me. Please.”

There was silence for a moment, then the sound of Mahon's weary footsteps scraping the stone floor as he came to stand beside him. “I will go, then, Morgan. But I want you to know that I will do whatever I can to change some minds. I will go this very day to speak with the authorities.”

In reply, Morgan gave only the ghost of a knowing smile. Finally, the priest gave his arm a light squeeze, hesitating another moment before calling the gaoler.

“I will come if you need me, Morgan. Night or day, I will come. You've only to call.”

Morgan nodded shortly, waiting until the priest was gone before crossing the room and sinking down onto the mattress. Idly, he began to finger through the things Mahon had brought: some worn books, a stack of poems and articles for
The Nation,
a clean shirt and pants. At last his hand went to the harp. He lifted it, placed it on his lap, and sat staring at it for a long time.

Finally, his face twisted with pain and rage, he began to yank at the strings, pulling them free one at a time until all dangled brokenly.

Then he stood, and with an agonized cry ripping up from the very center of his soul, gave the useless instrument a fierce toss, hurling it against the stone wall of the cell.

It fell to the floor with a voiceless thud.

28

O
wise men, riddle me this:
What if the dream come true?
What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn
Shall dwell in the house that I shaped in my heart….

P
ADRAIC
P
EARSE
(1879–1916)

New York City

M
ichael Burke stood staring at his reflection in the bedroom mirror, a practice to which he was not ordinarily given. Lately, however, he had become increasingly concerned about his appearance.

At the oddest times and in the most unlikely places he would catch himself trying to measure just how much he had changed in seventeen years. It embarrassed him, caused him no end of impatience with himself, to realize that this recent preoccupation with his looks had been brought on entirely by the unsettling question of how he might appear to Nora after so long a time.

This morning he felt neither pleased nor displeased by the image staring back at him, only anxious. Walking a beat, chasing the pigs from city streets,
and running at least one gang member to the ground every day kept him fit and lean enough. And there was more than one advantage in not being a drinker; his middle was as trim as it had been the day he sailed out of Killala Bay.

A few lines in the face could not be denied, mostly about the mouth, which, according to Eileen, had always been a bit grim at best. Ah, well, at least his hair was still thick and dark, though lately some silver had begun to peep through here and there.

He leaned a bit closer to the mirror in order to inspect his face more thoroughly. After Eileen's death, he had considered growing a beard, or at least a mustache. Now he decided it would be best to remain cleanshaven—at least until Nora had had a chance to get used to him again.

If she came.

Unwilling for the moment to dwell on whether she would or would not make the journey to America, he began to comb his hair. The room reflected in the mirror caught his attention—a small room, too small, and too drab entirely. Somehow Eileen had managed to fill it with color and freshness, but her cheerful influence had long since faded. He had changed nothing since her death, yet the room did not appear the same at all. The ruffled curtains and pillows she had made, the coverlet she had quilted, the rough pine she had faithfully waxed—it was all the same, yet altogether different. The iron bedstead needed polishing, the vanity was scratched and dull, and the curtains hung as limp as a cow's tail on a hot summer's day.

He frowned at himself and the bedroom in the mirror. It was a faded, dull room, in sore need of a woman.

And that's what I've become,
he thought.
A faded, dull man in sore need of a woman.

He pulled back from the mirror and went to stand by the window. If Nora were coming, she might well be on her way, even now. According to the messenger who had come for his return letter to Morgan, the ship was to sail from Killala some time near the end of March. That being the case, they could arrive in New York as early as the end of April or the first part of May. It would take at least five weeks, perhaps longer, depending on the type of ship and the weather. Some of the packets were said to be crossing in as little as thirty days. His own voyage had lasted for nearly six weeks; his seasickness, however, had made it seem far longer. It had been a miserable
time, despite his youthful excitement at the adventure that lay before him.

Unless Nora had changed greatly, he doubted she would be excited. Frightened, perhaps, and even resentful at having to leave her own Ireland for a strange land, but not excited. Nora had never been one for adventure or change, had ever held back when it came to daring the unknown.

Why, then, was he so foolish as to think she would marry him?

Perhaps because he wanted it so—wanted it selfishly, to fill his emptiness, ease his loneliness. But he
could
help her and her boys, after all. The flat might not be much, but it
had
to be better than what she was used to in Killala. He knew the cottages in the village well enough: even the best of them boasted only dirt floors, patched windows, and turf fires. Besides, now that he had the promise of a promotion, he might soon afford a better place in a nicer neighborhood. Just because he worked Sixth Ward didn't mean he had to live here forever, especially with a wife and a family.

Until this moment he had not admitted to himself how very much he
wanted
her to come, how greatly he was anticipating it. And it was not an anticipation he would have felt for just
any
woman. No, it was
Nora
he could not get out of his mind, shy Nora from Killala whom he longed to see.

Oh, Lord, if she is on that ship, bring her safely to me. It's a terrible journey at best, and to a shy lass like Nora it will be a torment. Give her the courage to leave, Lord, and then give her the stamina to survive the crossing. I'll be good to her, I promise I will…I'll do all that I can to make her glad she came
—

“Da?”

The bedroom door came flying open as Tierney charged into the room. Michael sighed. The boy never walked, it seemed, could only run or leap or trot; indeed, sometimes he seemed to fly.

“I thought we recently had us a talk about knocking before bursting into someone's room,” Michael said. He had to force a frown, for this morning his spirits were too high for more than a token sternness.

His son grinned at him, as if sensing his good humor. “Don't fret yourself, Da. Once your Nora arrives, I promise I'll knock before I come crashing into the bedroom.”

Now Michael
did
frown. “That'll do, Tierney! Don't be fresh. And she is not ‘my Nora'!”

“Not yet,” Tierney shot back, still grinning as he plopped down onto the bed. “So, then, d'you think they are coming?”

“There's no way to know that.”

“But if they do come, you think Nora will marry you, right?”

Uncomfortable with the boy's scrutiny, Michael turned back to the mirror and pretended to straighten his collar. “And how would I know the answer to such a foolish question? No man can say what a woman will do.”

“Mmm. Well, I hope they come. And I hope she marries you. But then, I'm sure she will, since she already knows what a fine fellow you are.”

Pleased, Michael exchanged grins with him in the mirror, then turned. “You really mean that, don't you, Tierney? You
do
want them to come?”

“Sure I do, Da, I've already told you so. It'll be grand! You'll have a wife, and I'll have myself a brother. Well, perhaps not a brother,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, “but at least a friend from Ireland. I can't wait to ask him all sorts of questions!”

“Nora has two sons, Tierney,” Michael reminded him.

“Oh, I know,” the boy put in quickly. “It's too bad about the older one. He must be very ill.”

Michael shook his head. “Aye, it sounds so. But we can continue to pray for the lad, you know.”

“Sure, Da. Listen, I've got news!” He stood, and Michael saw now that his face was flushed with excitement. “I'm to have a raise in pay, starting next week. That'll be a help if we're to take on a new family, won't it?”

“Why, that's fine, son, just fine,” Michael said, crossing the room to make up the bed. “Help me with this, won't you? And before you tell me more about that raise, I'll hear your reason for coming home so late last night.”

Tierney talked as he worked. “Mr. Walsh stopped by and asked me to stay over a bit—that's when I found out about the raise.”

“Walsh himself talked to you? Isn't that a bit unusual?”

Tierney flung the coverlet up on his side, then smoothed the pillows. Walking over to the bureau, he picked up the previous day's newspaper and, rolling it into a tube, began to tap it against the palm of his hand. “He told me he's pleased with my work—
greatly
pleased, he said. So, starting next week, I'm to handle the desk until eleven.”

Michael straightened, frowning. “That's too late for you to be out, Tierney. Too late entirely. You have your schoolwork to do, and you must get your sleep as well. Besides, what's the man thinking of, giving a boy your age such a responsible job?”

“He knows I can do it,” Tierney said, color rising to his cheeks as he slapped the paper harder against his hand. “He trusts me, you know.”

Michael could not argue with that, not in good conscience. Tierney
was
responsible, at least when it came to his job.

The lad had always seemed older than his years; at times his maturity worried Michael, for he wanted a normal childhood for his son. More than likely Walsh had seen that same maturity, and he could hardly fault the man for that. It would not do to have the boy think he was criticizing him for being dependable.

“Tierney, understand, son, I am glad Mr. Walsh thinks so highly of you, but—”

“Come on, Da,” the boy interrupted, tossing the newspaper back onto the bureau. “You know I don't have to put in all that many hours to get my grades. Even if I did, that's just another advantage to the job: I can mind the desk and study at the same time. Mr. Walsh said so, said I can do whatever I please just so long as I don't neglect the desk.”

“Tierney—” Michael stopped, uncertain as to how to phrase his reservations. “Mind, now, I think it's grand that you've done so well, and I'm proud to hear that you're appreciated. It's only that I don't want you getting too tight with Patrick Walsh. There is plenty of talk about the man, and not all of it good; I've told you that already. I've heard questions raised all too often about the nature of his businesses—and the legitimacy of them.”

Tierney scowled. “You've also told me I should never mind gossip,” he bit out. “And I
won't
listen to it about Mr. Walsh! It's jealousy talking, that's all. He's smart and ambitious, and he's good to those who work for him, which is more than you can say about most of the other swells in this city.”

“That may be true,” Michael countered, “but you must admit, it's a rare thing entirely for an Irishman to make his mark in New York at all, much less in only a few years, as Walsh has. I'm only saying that you should have a care, Tierney, that's all.”

The boy's casual nod told Michael he would remember his caution no longer than it took to repeat it. “Sure, Da, I'll be careful. But I'm telling you, you've nothing to worry about with Mr. Walsh. Anyway, guess what else? I told him about Thomas Fitzgerald, how he'd be needing a job and a place to stay, and he said if he's any good at all at gardening, he just might have a place for him. His present man is going west next month, so he'll be needing somebody to replace him. There's even a gardener's cottage on the grounds—he has a grand estate on Staten Island, you know. And that's not all,” the boy went on, his words spilling out in a breathless rush. “He also told me he has some extra work for me some Saturdays if I want it, up at his house. Odd jobs, he said, but he'll pay me well.”

Michael regarded his son with troubled eyes. Something about Patrick Walsh's easy generosity bothered him. Irishmen in New York City nearly always fell into one of two categories: Either they remained unemployed, or they worked at low-paying, undesirable jobs that “respectable” citizens
refused to touch. Yet Patrick Walsh had managed to become a wealthy, successful businessman in only a few years. He owned at least half a dozen boardinghouses near the docks and in other low-rent districts, plus a couple of nicer hotels farther uptown. There was no telling how many saloons belonged to the man, no figuring how he had wangled his way into the political establishment at Tammany Hall. The fact that Walsh seemed to enjoy wealth, influence, and respectability—all uncommon to the Irish in New York City—made him immediately suspect in Michael's mind.

Still, he hated to spoil the lad's news. “Just remember what I've told you, Tierney—have a care. Things—and people—are not always as they seem. Now, then,” he said, shoving his hands down deep into his pockets, “I've some news for
you.
It seems that I am up for assistant captain.”

Tierney crossed the room in three broad strides to grab Michael by the shoulder. “But that's
grand,
Da! Is it definite, d'you know?”

“Well, nothing is certain until it's announced, but I was told by Captain Hart I should expect it.”

“And you deserve it! You're one of the best they have, and it's time they were knowing it!”

Surprised at this rare affirmation from his son, Michael beamed at him. “So, then, it would seem that we will both be getting a raise in pay. Perhaps this is a sign from the Lord that we are indeed about to expand our family.”

“Could be, Da, could be,” Tierney said negligently, reverting now to his usual noncommittal manner as he moved to check his own appearance in the mirror. “You'd know more about that sort of thing than I would.” He started for the door. “I must be off, or I'll be late. Are you leaving now?”