Song of the Silent Harp (37 page)

Joseph Mahon, the priest, felt swept under by a great wave of defeat as he prepared to pray for the neck—and the soul—of Morgan Fitzgerald.

Joseph Mahon, the man, felt despair and anger as he knelt beside the bed in his room behind the chapel and considered the kind of death the brash young poet would endure.

Joseph had seen men hang, had rubbed his own neck at the snap of the
noose, beheld the final agony of their last moments. He could not bear the thought of Morgan Fitzgerald facing such an end. The man was an outlaw, a renegade, a rogue. But, oh, what God could do with such a man, with such a valiant heart and mighty spirit!

Yet only a fool could not anticipate Fitzgerald's end. There would be no trial; the rumor was all over the village and the county, and Joseph had not been at all surprised to hear of it.

He had tried to stop this mad rush to the gallows, had spent days pounding on the door of every magistrate in the area who might have helped to stay the hangman's rope. But everywhere he went, he heard the same sound: the toll of doom for Morgan Fitzgerald.

And yet he knew that somehow it must be stopped. The man waiting in the Castlebar gaol, waiting to die, must be saved, spared from the noose at all costs. The country was in dire need of this man, would be in even greater need of him in the days to come.

The priest had a single hope—only one—to save Morgan from the gallows. Aidan Fitzgerald, Morgan's father, had given him that hope with his final confession, before he died of the drink.

But how could he salvage that hope, how could he use it in Morgan's behalf, without violating both Aidan's confession and his wishes for his son?
How, Lord?

There was a man. One man, in Dublin, who could turn the tide. If he would.

Joseph prayed. Prayed for light, for a word of wisdom, for a work of power that would save a man's life—and his soul as well.

32

Abandoned, forsaken,
To grief and to care,
Will the sea ever waken
Relief from Despair?

(A
NONYMOUS
—N
INETEENTH
C
ENTURY
)

D
aniel and his mother fought their way up the ladder to the hatch, gripping the splintery rungs with fierce determination. Behind them, hands grasped and shoved in an effort to push upward and free themselves from the stench of illness and death that now permeated steerage.

At the first clang of the morning bell just after daybreak, the ladder became a prize sought by every able-bodied person in steerage. Reaching the foredeck first didn't necessarily guarantee an early place at the stove; that boon was reserved for those holding bargaining power with the deck cook, such as bribe money or flattery from a pretty lass. Still, there was a mad rush every morning to reach the caboose, the fireplace that served as a cooking stove
for steerage passengers.

The race for the hatch was even more frantic than usual this morning. All were in a fever to flee the misery of their quarters—not so much to gain the advantage at the caboose, but to escape the common dread of being confined with dead bodies.

Two had died late in the night, an elderly grandmother and a wee lass. Not long after, wild rumors had begun to sweep the entire deck.

There was even talk of the Black Fever, though nobody seemed willing to say for certain as yet.

The victims had been left to lie in their bunks after the surgeon's cursory examinations. Dr. Leary had been in a fierce hurry to leave, ignoring the questions and pleas of the frightened passengers trying to crowd him.

With the surgeon himself in such a bother,
Daniel thought bitterly,
is there any wonder the passengers are eager to flee?

Despite the pall of death and the ominous rumors, his own heart felt lighter this morning than it had in days. For the first time since boarding the
Green Flag,
his mother seemed to be her old self again. Oh, her sadness was still painfully apparent, but at least she had eaten her meals two days in a row.

Today she had come for him before the morning bell, not long after he awakened. He'd seen at once that she had combed her hair and scrubbed her face.

Smiling at him, she handed him one of the two cooking pots she was carrying. “You must have a warm breakfast this day, Daniel John,” she said, much as she might have had they still been at home in the village. “It's important to eat and build our strength, so we can ward off the fever.”

“Then you believe that's what it is, the Black Fever?”

Averting her eyes, she nodded, then answered in a strained voice. “I have seen it before, several years ago in the village. From what they're saying about the bodies, I've no doubt it's the typhus.”

Instead of the fear Daniel would have expected, she seemed surprisingly steady and matter-of-fact.

Now, as they clung to the ladder, waiting for the hatch to open, she still appeared resolute and in control. Glancing back over her shoulder, she said, “We'll bring breakfast back for Katie and Johanna. They're minding Little Tom so I can go above decks. And we'll fix enough for Mr. Whittaker as well, though if he's as ill as you say, I doubt he'll be able to eat.”

The Englishman had grown worse all through the night, flush-faced and hollow-eyed with the fever, going on like a crazy man in his sleep. “I'll have a look at him as soon as we come back,” his mother went on. “Oh—and Daniel John, I'll need the medicine box. Katie is some fevered, too.”

“It's under my bunk,” Daniel John said, his spirits plummeting with her comment about Katie. Uneasily, he remembered how pale his friend had looked the day before, how listless and weak she appeared every time they were together. “Mother, you don't think Katie—”

He broke off when the hatch suddenly opened, letting in a thin veil of light from early dawn. Behind him, the big-bellied, peevish man from a neighboring bunk prodded his back, and Daniel instinctively kicked out a leg to keep from being knocked off the ladder.

Only five or six people were in front of him and his mother, so he had no trouble hearing the sailor who now stood in the hatchway, staring down at them with hard black eyes. “Go back to your quarters, all of you! No one is allowed above decks this day! You're under quarantine until further notice from the captain!”

“
Quarantine?
For
what?
” A redheaded man at the very top of the ladder blasted out the question.

“There's two of you dead of the Black Fever, that's for what!” the sailor retorted, his mouth screwing up with contempt.

“By whose say-so are we quarantined?” called out another man, this one halfway down the ladder.

“The surgeon's! Now get below, the lot of you!”

“But how long will you be keeping us down here?” cried out the man at the top.

“I wasn't told.” The crewman started to close the hatch, then stopped when a thin, gray-faced woman standing near the bottom of the ladder cried out. “You can't just be keeping us locked up down here, in this—pit! Why, we won't be able to cook our food! We can't even get to the privies!”

Her outrage caught fire and set off a round of furious protests. People began to fight their way higher up the ladder, toward the hatch. Those still on the floor now started to move, until soon a swarm of hands was clawing at the ladder, threatening to topple everybody on it.

“You'll stay below deck until you're told otherwise!” shouted the sailor, shaking his fist through the opening of the hatch. “Now get down to your hole where you belong!”

With two meaty hands, he gave the redheaded man at the top of the ladder a hard shove, enough to cause him to reel backward. The man shouted as he
swayed, then toppled helplessly from the ladder, causing the woman and little girl at his back to lose their balance. The ladder itself creaked and shook.

Daniel grabbed his mother around the waist with one hand, bracing the two of them against the hull with his other arm as their cooking pots went clanging to the floor. The burly man at his back let go an oath. Daniel shot him a look over his shoulder, shouting, “Get down! Get off the ladder!”

The man cursed him again, but turned and yelled the same warning to those behind him. Finally, one by one, they lowered themselves to the floor. After a moment, Daniel and his mother followed.

While some went to help those who had fallen, others clustered at the foot of the ladder, murmuring and looking about in fear and anger.

An elderly hawk-nosed man on a cane yelled up at the sailor, who still stood in the hatchway, scowling down at them. “God have mercy, man, you must at least help us to get the corpses out of here! We can't be leaving dead bodies lying about!”

The sailor glared at him, cursed, then heaved the door shut with a bang.

Within seconds, the angry murmurs of the crowd swelled to enraged threats and invective. Daniel could smell the fear in the air. Questions flew among the bunks, met by dread predictions and cries of alarm. Soon a general wailing went up. Women wept, children whined, and the men cursed and raged among themselves.

Suddenly, from across the room came a high-pitched shout of terror.
“Fiabhras dubh! Fiabhras dubh!
It is the Black Fever!”

Careful not to crack his head against the low ceiling—which was actually the underside of the main deck—Daniel stretched, craning his neck forward to see where the cry was coming from. At the opposite end of the men's quarters, a fair-haired boy who looked to be about his own age was hunched over a lower bunk, wide-eyed with fear.
“Their faces! Oh, God, have mercy, their faces
—
they're almost black!”

Daniel lunged forward, but his mother grabbed his arm, holding him back.
“No!
Stay away!” He froze, staring at her.

“Let only those who have had the fever and survived it go near the bodies,” she said, clutching his arm. “It's not as dangerous for them. The rest of us must do whatever we can to slow its spread!” Her eyes bored into his. “We have too many people depending on us to come down with the fever, Daniel John. We must stay well!”

Daniel looked from his mother to the bunk across the room. A number of men had gathered near the frightened boy and now stood staring at the occupants of the berth. “But what can we do? How can we possibly
not
come down with it, locked up in this…
dungeon!”

He broke off, dismayed at how easily he had surrendered to his fear. Even in his own ears, he sounded like a panicky child.

“We will do what we must,” said his mother, her voice unexpectedly gentle. Still clasping his arm, she added, “And you can be sure there will be much to do. But, first, we must see to Mr. Whittaker. Now, hurry and get the medicine box for me.”

Daniel looked at her, confused as much by this new, unsettling show of strength as by the chaos surrounding them.

“Daniel John
, please.
I'm frightened, too. But we must do what we can while we're still strong!”

He saw the look in her eyes, a plea for him to be a man, at least for the moment.

The panic rising in his throat threatened to reduce him to blubbering, but, catching a deep breath, he nodded and followed her down the aisle.

Evan strained to focus his eyes on the face lowered to his. The bunk, the stinking lantern hanging from the ceiling—even the woman's face—swayed drunkenly in front of him.

Now he stared into twin faces, two Nora Kavanaghs. He saw himself reflected in both pairs of eyes. The eyes were worried…or was it fear that stared back at him?

He tried to speak, but someone had sewn his mouth shut. There was a weight on his tongue, a hot coal…

In lieu of speech, he attempted to lift his hand, to make a signal of sorts. But his arm had been tied to the bunk. Pain held it fast; his other hand was free, but stiff and numb, lifeless.

He struggled to sit up, but hands held him down, pressing him into the bunk.

“It's all right, Mr. Whittaker. We'll take care of you. Be easy now, just rest yourself and be easy…it's all right.”
Both faces spoke as one, smiling with kindness.

Hot…he was so hot…and a host of knives stabbed, slicing into his shoulder.

The twin Nora Kavanaghs were saying something, their voices echoing, drifting away.… Young Daniel hovered closer, frowning, his eyes burning, heating Evan's skin even more. Why did the boy look so frightened?

Again he tried to speak. Nothing came. Humiliated, he felt tears track his cheeks…hot tears…scalding hot, like his skin and the pain in his shoulder.

“Please don't struggle, Mr. Whittaker. We'll take care of you…try to rest.”
The boy's voice was thin, distant, fading…

Something cool touched his forehead…so good. He mustn't weep…what would she think? He didn't want her to think him weak. He was supposed to be taking care of
her…