Song of the Silent Harp (45 page)

Watching him, Sara breathed a prayer that God would enable her to help Sergeant Burke. Otherwise, she had no doubt at all that he would ultimately risk his life to save the woman Sara was trying her utmost not to envy.

“I do not understand how Morgan could do such a thing,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling with hard eyes.

Sara strained to hear. “Morgan?”

“My best friend in Ireland,” he said. “He arranged the passages for Nora and the others, or at least
had
things arranged.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, “He could not have known. He would never have put Nora aboard if he had any knowledge of Schell's reputation. He was deceived; he
must
have been!” Breaking off, he looked at Sara again. “God help the man who betrayed him. He will rue the day, and that's certain.”

Sara stepped closer to the bed. “Sergeant, I must leave, but I'm asking you to promise me that you will do exactly as your surgeon and your nurses say.”

When he remained stubbornly silent, she pressed.
“Sergeant?”

He glared at her, his wide upper lip curled down in a terrible scowl.

Sara drew herself up. “Sergeant Burke, I will agree to gather your information for you only if
you
agree to take proper care of yourself! It's entirely your choice.”

The glare heated to a boil, and Sara recalled rumors she had heard about the Irish temper. Still, she held his gaze with a frigid stare of her own.

“All right, all right, then!” he
snarled, again trying to haul himself up on one arm, this time succeeding. “But you'll let me know right away once you learn the arrival date, mind! I intend to be there when that ship enters the harbor, and neither you nor anybody else will be stopping me!”

Sara rolled her eyes, entirely unintimidated by his masculine bluster.

A thought struck her, and she felt she should ask. “Your son—is there anything you'd like me to do for—Tierney, is it—while you're in the hospital?”

A look of surprise crossed his face. “That's kind of you,” he said somewhat grudgingly, “but I'm sure he's fine. He comes every day that he can, and he seems to be getting on well enough. Tierney's almost a man—he can manage.”

“Yes, of course,” Sara said dryly. “Men always…manage.”

She turned and did her best to flounce out of the room. Flouncing was difficult, of course, when one was lame, but Sara thought she managed it rather well, under the circumstances—until she heard his deep voice, laced with amusement, at her back.

“Did you know, Miss Farmington, that you are really quite lovely when you're fussed?”

Sara managed not to stumble as she flounced through the door.

40

Our feet on the torrent's brink,
Our eyes on the cloud afar,
We fear the things we think,
Instead of the things that are.

W
ILLIAM
B. M
CBURNEY
(1855–1892)

I
t took three days for Lewis Farmington to ferret out the information Sara had requested regarding the arrival of the
Green Flag.
Throughout the entire period, Sara routinely cajoled and nagged him to do all he could on behalf of Sergeant Burke.

They had dinner alone Friday evening, just the two of them, in the long, narrow dining room of their home on Fifth Avenue. As was his custom, whether entertaining guests or simply enjoying his daughter's company, Lewis Farmington was attired in his black dress coat and silk neck cloth.

Bending to kiss him on top of the head before seating herself, Sara noted his appearance with approval. “You're looking very elegant tonight, Father.”

She wasn't flattering him. In her estimation, Lewis Farmington was a fine-looking gentleman. His hair had gone entirely to silver, but had thinned very little. His almost black eyes usually danced with fun; his figure was trim, his skin ruddy from all the hours spent outside in the yards rather than inside his office.

Glancing up from his newspaper, he watched Sara closely as she sat down and rang for Ginger to begin serving.

“And you look harried,” he said, regarding her with a speculative expression. “Just as you have all week.”

Sara smiled sweetly at him. “Please ask the blessing, Father.”

After he prayed, her father transferred his critical eye to Ginger as she set a silver soup tureen in front of him.

“How many years,” he said with deliberate emphasis, “is it going to take before you stop trying to foist that seasoned dishwater off on me, woman? Must I tell you again?
Take away the soup! I do not like soup.”

The striking, middle-aged black woman slanted an unconcerned look at him. “Soup is a part of your meal,” she replied, making no move to take away the tureen. “Polite gentlemen eat their soup.”

“Polite gentlemen have polite housekeepers.”

Ginger smiled, all pearly teeth and flashing dark eyes beneath her white turban.

Sara grinned into her own soup as she lifted her spoon. Her father and Ginger had been engaged in an ongoing argument for almost as long as she could remember. When it wasn't soup, it was something else. They loved to argue, and both were extremely creative in their efforts. How many times had she enjoyed the stunned reactions of dinner guests who happened to witness a session of informal banter between Lewis Farmington and his British West Indies housekeeper? Close family friends knew, of course, that Ginger would lay down her life for Lewis Farmington or any member of his family, just as they were aware that Father held
her
in high respect, with an almost brotherly affection.

Sara waited until Ginger brought her father's serving of pot roast and set it down in front of him with a pointed thud—alongside the soup tureen—before asking her daily question.

“Well,
Father?”

He forked a generous bite of meat into his mouth. “Well, what?” he finally said.

“Father—”

“I want you to answer a question for
me,
my dear. I would like to know,” he said solemnly, pausing to take a sip of water, “the exact nature of your interest in this…Irish policeman.”

“Sergeant Burke.”

“What?”

“He's a police sergeant, and his name is Burke,” Sara said matter-of-factly.

“Yes. Well, is this…
Sergeant Burke
simply another one of your projects, or is there more to this than you're telling me?”

“No, Sergeant Burke is
not
another one of my projects, and, no, there is no more to this than I've told you,” Sara said patiently. “As for the nature of my interest, I've already explained that to you: The man was shot in the line of duty and is presently incapacitated. I'm trying to do him a simple favor, that's all.”

“Why?”

Sara looked at him blankly. “Why?”

Swallowing a bite of potato, he glanced over at her. “Why would you want to do a favor for a man you scarcely know?”

“Because he needs help,” Sara answered easily, meeting his gaze. “And because I like him.”

He appraised her for another moment, then resumed eating. “Very odd behavior, a girl of your background becoming friends with an Irish copper.”

“My behavior has always been odd for a girl of my background, just as yours is frequently considered odd for a man of your position. Indeed, we are probably the only two people among our circle of acquaintances who aren't shocked by our odd behavior. That doesn't bother me in the least. Does it bother you, Father?”

“Not at all!” he said with a grin, lifting his fork in an unmannerly fashion. “I rather enjoy myself, don't you?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on cheerfully, “All right, then, since you assure me there's nothing improper about this, ah, concern for the sergeant, I will tell you what I've learned.”

Sara replaced her spoon, beaming at him excitedly. “Then you
do
have news! Tell me.”

“It's nothing definite, you understand,” he cautioned as he went on devouring his meal, “but I should think it's fairly reliable. Poston at the yards did some investigating for me, and in the process he talked with the captain of the
Yorkshire,
one of the Black Ball packets. They just came in today, and he thinks they may have overtaken this
Green Flag
two days ago. The
Yorkshire
is supposed to be the fastest ship built, you know,” he explained rather petulantly, “although I think we have one nearly ready to launch that is far superior. At any rate, if he's right—if it was the
Green Flag
they passed—she should be coming into the harbor as early as tomorrow or Sunday, I'd say.”

Tomorrow or Sunday!
Sara's mind raced. There was so much to do and scarcely any time in which to do it! If this awful Captain Schell was the scoundrel his reputation touted him to be, the people on that ship could be in dreadful danger.

Of course, she reminded herself, Sergeant Burke didn't even know for certain his friends were actually
aboard
the
Green Flag.
Was she being altogether foolish, intending to rush to the rescue of a ship filled with immigrants who might be strangers to both her
and
Sergeant Burke?

But they were human beings, whether they were known to her or Sergeant Burke or not. That in itself was reason enough to try to help them.

Turning to her father, she studied him for a moment.

When he raised an inquiring eyebrow, Sara ran a finger around the rim of her porcelain teacup, thinking.

“Father, I wonder if I might enlist your help?”

He pursed his lips. “I suppose you're referring to this ship thing.”

Sara nodded. “Knowing what we know, I really think we at least have to make an effort to help those people.”

“Would it do any good to remind you that we don't know for certain those people need our help?”

“I'm afraid not.”

Lewis Farmington sighed and pushed his plate away. “I thought not,” he said mildly. “Very well, then. What, exactly, are you going to drag me into
this
time?”

On Friday evening, the steerage passengers were given extra water rations. Nora used hers to launder a change of clothing for all of them, including Whittaker.

She used one of their precious last scraps of soap, scrubbing as many items as she could until the water was no longer clean enough to make a difference. With the help of Katie and Johanna, Daniel John strung a line from the iron plate on the hull where his bunk was secured to the next bunk across the aisle. Nothing would really dry, of course. Steerage was too damp and very cold, plus the fact that the damage incurred during the storm allowed continuous leakage of the sea. But Nora felt better—less like a squatter—just to have made the effort.

While the children hung up the laundry, she applied salve to the sores on Little Tom's knees, rubbed raw from playing on the rough floor of the deck. She was as gentle as she could possibly be with the tyke, but he whimpered, trying to push her hand away. “Hurts!” he chanted accusingly.

Poor wee wane. Just that morning he had asked for his “mum” again. Most of the time he seemed to have accepted Catherine's death, but on occasion, when he was sleepy or fretful, he still called for her. It nearly broke Nora's heart.

“You're very close to the F-Fitzgerald children, aren't you?” Evan Whittaker stood beside her, dangling a piece of rope in an effort to distract the little boy so Nora could tend to him.

“Aye, I am. We were more family than friends, always popping in and out of one another's houses and the like.” Memories flooded her mind, making it impossible for her to go on.

“Have you thought about what you'll d-do once we reach America? With the children, I mean?”

Nora squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. When she opened them, she set wee Tom to the floor, and he went at a run toward his sisters and Daniel John.

“I think about it all the time,” she answered truthfully. “But there are only questions, never answers.”

“Mrs. K-Kavanagh, I will help you—and the children—however I can.”

Nora turned, lifting her face to look at the Englishman. He had been staying up, walking around the deck, for longer periods of time each day. But one glance revealed the frailty and weakness of the man. He had a long way to go before he would be able to help himself again, much less anyone else.

“You are kind, Mr. Whittaker. I do not know how I will ever repay you for your kindness to us.”

Pulling up a stool across from her, he braced himself on the rim of the bunk until he'd managed to sit down. Nora instinctively reached to help the man, then withdrew her hand, sensing her gesture would not be welcome.

“Friends d-don't concern themselves with repayment, Mrs. Kavanagh,” Whittaker said, his face pale from even this small exertion. “And I
would
like to think that, after all we have g-gone through together by now, we are friends.”

Nora regarded him with genuine liking. “Mr. Whittaker, no soul ever had a better friend than yourself.”

He flushed a bit, but looked extremely pleased. “In that case, d-do you suppose you could stop c-calling me ‘Mr. Whittaker'? Just plain ‘Whittaker' or ‘Evan' will do between friends, don't you think?”

“I do, yes.” She paused, then added, “And I think you should call me ‘Nora,' if you please.”

“Thank you…
Nora.
”

Nora liked the way he said her name, so soft and carefully that he made it sound like music.

“Are you excited, now that we're nearing New York?” Whittaker asked.

Nora turned to replace the tube of salve in the box beside her. “Excited?” She shook her head. “Frightened is what I am.”

“Yes. I confess that I share your f-fear. Still, I'm sure the Lord understands and considers our anxiety. I'm d-doing my best to trust Him in this.”

She looked at him. Of course he would be frightened. What would become of an ill, one-armed man in a foreign country?
What would become of them all?

She wished she could share his belief that God was aware of and concerned about their circumstances. But these past weeks of hell aboard the
Green Flag
had convinced her of what she'd only suspected back in Killala: God had withdrawn His blessing from them all. Apparently, He had judged them and found them guilty and was now meting out His punishment on a rebellious people, herself included. Not a soul on this evil ship had managed to escape His wrath.

After a long silence, Evan cleared his throat and looked away from her. “Are you still missing your son…Tahg…very much, Nora? I know losing him…in addition to your other losses…m-must have made all this even harder for you.”