Song of the Silent Harp (47 page)

Knotting his hands together, Morgan bent his head to them for a moment, as if deeply grieved. He was unable to deny the man's sincerity any longer. Nelson's love and sorrow for the land laced his every word.

“Great evil has been done to this ancient, beautiful island,” the old man continued. “And great evil has been done
by
her. But in the end, no matter how righteous, how just, each side believes its cause to be,
hatred
is still the wall that holds any hope of compromise, any chance of resolution, beyond reach.”

He appeared to be tiring suddenly, and Morgan felt an unexpected sting of concern for the old man as he went on speaking in a weary, somewhat tremulous voice.

“I happen to believe that men like you, Morgan—men who have a gift for seeking and finding God's truth and then communicating it with vigor and power—may well be the only hope of saving Ireland from total destruction. All I can do is provide you with the security, the funds, to make it possible for you to devote yourself to your writing on behalf of your country.

“I foresee a day, unless these foolish prejudices and ungodly hatreds can finally be destroyed, when this island will run red with the blood of brother against brother, father against son, even mother against daughter.”

Suddenly he leaned back in his chair, his shoulders sagging as if he had exhausted himself. “I am asking you to stay with me a while, Morgan, to get to know me—and allow me to get to know you. I yearn to know your heart, your whole heart, and to share mine with you.”

Straightening slightly in his chair, he turned a look of appeal on Morgan. “You are my
grandson!
My blood runs through your veins! I am asking for only a few days, a few weeks, if you would. In the meantime, whether you agree or refuse, I want you to know that I've already drawn up the papers, amended my will. My estate will make it possible for you to dedicate the rest of your life—if you are willing—to saving this land you love so much.

“Morgan…Morgan,” he said softly, his eyes beseeching, “your words stir a man's heart as no drumbeat ever will. They pierce the human spirit as no sword ever could! You speak with the voice of Ireland's heart, the voice of truth and hope and the promise of freedom.
Morgan…son of my son…please, forgive this old fool! Allow me to at least be your friend, if not your family.”

Morgan's hands tightened still more on the chair arms. His gaze locked with the old man's, and what he saw there shook him to his very soul.

He might have been gazing into his own face, fifty years from now, with all the grief and shattered dreams of one who has never known the enduring love of a family. In Richard Nelson's stricken eyes, he saw his own lonely heart.

On the heels of that revelation came the thought, not without its own touch of irony, that twice now his neck had been saved—and both times by an Englishman!

And last came the reminder that he himself had been forgiven, and his offenses had no doubt grieved the Lord more than those of the old man seated across from him.

Who, then, was he to withhold forgiveness from Richard Nelson?

“Many in the movement are counting on me to speak out on behalf of the rising,” he said hesitantly.

The old man nodded. “Smith O'Brien being one of them.”

“He is a good friend. I respect him.”

“But he has been drawn into something he can no longer control.”

When Morgan remained silent, Nelson pressed, “Do you deny it?”

Reluctantly, Morgan shook his head. “But that doesn't change the fact that he is counting on my help.”

The old man studied him for a long moment. “Do you believe in this rising? Do you believe it's best for your people?”

Morgan met his eyes. “No,” he said, again shaking his head. “I believe it could finish them.”

“Then why not do what you can for
all
Ireland, rather than for only a few? That is the opportunity I am trying to afford you, son.”

Morgan looked down at his hands, then at the old man's face. And he knew what he must do. What
God
would have him do.

“Aye…Grandfather,” he said quietly, testing the name on his lips and finding it far easier to say than he would have guessed. “Aye, I will stay with you a while, and we will talk of Ireland.”

42

Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no More,
Banshee of the world!—no more! Thy sorrows are the
world's, thou art no more alone; Thy wrongs, the world's.

J
OHN
T
ODHUNTER
(1839–191S)

H
undreds of emigrant vessels put into New York City every year, sometimes as many as thirty or forty a day, bringing hundreds of thousands of steerage passengers from their respective countries—the majority of them from Ireland and Germany. Thousands died before they reached New York, but new babies were born every day aboard ship.

Some of the vessels brought opium into the city, along with whiskey and prostitutes. Others carried typhus, smallpox, and cholera. Hundreds of cases of disease managed to slip by the cursory quarantine examinations, escaping into the city to contaminate entire neighborhoods.

New York had become a refuge for the homeless, the destitute, the suffering. In return for her open door, she inherited disease, labor dilemmas, and some of the worst slums in the world. Within the city, among her tenements and revival brownstones, inside the mansions along Fifth Avenue and the shanties on Vinegar Hill, resentment and rebellion had begun to breed.

But to the immigrant in search of hope and a new life, the city still loomed as the Promised Land, the Golden Shore, the American Dream.

Aboard the
Green Flag
this Saturday morning, hearts had begun to stir and hopes had begun to rise.

They would soon be in New York City.

The directive came down from the mate on the foredeck to begin the final scrubdown. With it came the shocking order that all mattresses, pillows, and bed covers were to be tossed overboard with the refuse and leftover food.

Finally, they were given the heartening news that their captain had arranged for them to be met by reputable guides who would lead them to clean, respectable, and affordable lodgings. They were sternly warned to take no heed of other individuals who might try to lure them away from the ship, for these despicable characters preyed on helpless foreigners, robbing them of their valuables and taking advantage of their women.

This information brought exclamations of “Thanks be to God!” and whispers of horror at what might have become of them had it not been for the captain's foresight. The voyage had been a dreadful experience, but perhaps they had judged Captain Schell a bit too harshly. He had been looking out for their welfare, after all.

The order to throw their mattresses and bed covers overboard, however, was met with a great general outcry. To many of the destitute in steerage, their bedding represented the sum total of their personal belongings, virtually all they had to bring with them into the new world other than the rags on their back. But when the mate warned that to disobey could mean weeks spent in quarantine, they rushed to do as they were told.

Soon, the sea around them was mucked with mattress ticking, blankets, and baskets of rotten food. At the last, and against the heartrending pleas of their loved ones, the bodies of three recent typhus victims were thrown callously into the sea, along with the other castoffs.

Nora and the children worked in a frenzy alongside the others, scrubbing the walls and floor with sand, then sluicing them down, even drying the timbers with hot coals the crew provided from the galley. Within a few hours, the former hellhole had taken on a tidy, almost comfortable appearance. Certainly any inspector appraising the
Green Flag's
steerage would now have only marks of approval for what he saw.

Once they were done with the cleaning, Nora scrutinized first the children, then herself, with a choked exclamation of despair. They looked like filthy squatters!

Appalled at her own condition—her dress was in tatters, her hands grimy, and she smelled of seawater and sweat—she was equally dismayed at the appearance of the children.

“We cannot go ashore looking like tinkers!” she declared. “We will use a bit of the water to wash ourselves before changing into fresh clothes.”

“Don't fret so, Mother,” Daniel John told her, already stripping Little Tom out of his raggedy shirt. “Your friend, Sergeant Burke, will understand. He made the voyage himself, remember?”

Physical pain shot through Nora at his words, immediately followed by an even stronger surge of guilt. From the beginning, she had told no one, not even her son, of Michael Burke's questionable proposal of marriage. As far as the others knew, he was simply an old friend standing by in New York to help them get settled.

Nor did they know she had selfishly torn up his letter and address. All of them—Daniel John, the children, even Whittaker—had hopes that there would be at least one friendly face waiting for them in this city of strangers. Why, only the day before, Daniel John had repeated to her a conversation he'd had with Whittaker about this very thing, explaining how they had prayed that God would put some “people in the city” for them!

What if Michael Burke's proposal had been God's way of doing just that
—
and she had gone and ruined things for them all?

Now they were entirely on their own. Ashamed and dismayed, she realized she would have to tell them the truth, and soon.

But not now. There was no time. For now, the truth would have to wait.

The most recent announcement from the mate on the foredeck brought shouts of joy and relieved weeping below.

“Steerage passengers are now allowed above decks!”
he proclaimed through a megaphone.
“The captain hopes you will enjoy your first sight of America! You should be able to see Staten Island within an hour or so, perhaps sooner.”

The ladder almost collapsed with the rolling weight of groping hands and shoving bodies as those who had survived the nightmare of steerage clambered up to the hatch in pursuit of freedom.

William Leary had carried the letter in his shirt pocket ever since he'd written it, along with the key to the cabins, waiting for the right time and a trustworthy messenger. In the pocket of his seaman's jacket he fingered the pistol.

When he saw the Kavanagh boy help the Englishman through the hatch, he cornered them, hauling them both to one side.

The boy, in a fever to get to the rail, shot Leary an impatient glare.

“Here, now, listen to me!” the surgeon muttered, glancing furtively around to see that no one nearby was paying any heed to them. “I have only a moment, and there's something I need to ask of you!”

Pretending to make a cursory examination of the Englishman's surgery, he spoke in a harsh, frenzied whisper. “Take this letter to a policeman as soon as you get off the ship!” he urged. “It is vital! Promise me you will give it to nobody else—only a policeman!”

The Englishman and the boy looked at each other, obviously bewildered.

“Promise me!”

“Yes…all right!” the Englishman agreed, regarding Leary with a measuring stare as the surgeon pressed the letter into his hand. “B-But what—”

“No time for questions! Just guard the letter!” Leary paused, adding, “All you need know is that it will help to put Abidas Schell where he belongs—and perhaps save a number of future victims at the same time!”

Turning abruptly to the boy, he snapped, “Are you a lad to be trusted?”

The youth shot him an indignant look, followed by a grudging nod.

“Take these keys, then,” Leary told him, pressing them into the boy's hand. “They open the first two cabins. A pilot will be coming aboard to guide the ship into South Street, to tie up. You must unlock the doors and take the children who are inside the cabins to the pilot. Only to the
pilot,
mind—
not
the medical officer! Do you understand me, lad?”

The boy stared at the keys in his hand as if they would set his palm ablaze. “Children? What children?”

“Little girls!”
The words ripped from Leary like a wailing on the wind. “Little girls who have been sold for evil use! You must get them out of those cabins while the pilot is still on board! Can you do this, lad?”

The boy's head came up slowly, and Leary saw understanding begin to dawn in his eyes. “Aye,” he said, his voice hard. “I will do it, you can be sure.”

“One thing more,” Leary said, his words spilling out in a ragged stream. “Whatever you do, be sure you do not go with the captain's ‘representative'! Plead illness—” He returned his gaze to the Englishman. “Say you think you have the typhus, say whatever you must. Just don't let yourselves be taken!”

Leaning toward them, he hurried on. “Even quarantine is to be preferred over the place where he would take you. You think you have known hell aboard this ship, but you have known no hell at all until you've seen Five Points!”

Several members of the crew were beginning to close in around them now, herding the immigrants already on deck out of the way to make room for others pouring through the hatch.

The blood pounding wildly in his ears, Leary locked gazes with the Englishman. “Once you are free of this ship, tell others the truth about what you have been through. It is happening on other vessels as well, a growing number of them. People should know.”