Song of the Silent Harp (11 page)

Mortified by his insufferable air of proprietorship, Nora tried to twist her arm free. Ignoring her, he merely tightened his hold and stepped up his pace.

Nora deliberately lowered her voice to avoid calling further attention to herself. “You haven't changed at all, Morgan Fitzgerald,” she spit out bitterly, stumbling along beside him. “You still have more gall than sense.”

He glanced down at her, not breaking his stride in the least as he gave her a measuring look. “And you, Nora lass, have not changed all that much yourself,” he countered with just the faintest hint of a smile. “Yours is still a terrible beauty when you're vexed with me. Now, tell me, what were you doing out in this miserable weather to begin with?”

Nora flushed at his words. “I was looking for Daniel John.”

She explained then about the stolen cow, being careful to conceal her feelings of desperation. “I told him to give it up, but he insisted on going out again this morning. The cow is gone for good. I know it, and I think he knows it as well.”

“He feels as if he has to do
something,”
Morgan replied softly. “With both Tahg and his granddaddy ill now, I imagine the lad is doing his best to take his place as the man of the house.”

Startled at his perception—for she had already recognized her son's efforts to do just that—Nora glanced up at him. “Aye, I'm sure that's how it is with him.” It made her heart ache to see her youngest trying so hard to become a man overnight. Fortunately for them all, the boy had always seemed far older than his years. True, he was a dreamer, but despite his fanciful imagination, he was a lad who could be counted on when he was needed.

“How is the old man?”

“Growing weaker by the day. He was still abed when I left the house.” Nora's voice betrayed her worry. “I can't remember him ever lying in so late before.” She paused, struck by a thought which she expressed, mostly to herself. “It seems that nothing is the same these days. Everything is changing. Even people.”

Morgan looked at her, nodding slowly. “There are even more changes
coming, you know. You'd do well to be prepared for them.”

They had reached the front yard of the cottage. Morgan stopped and turned to face her, catching her hand in his. “Nora—I'm going to be gone for a few days, but before I leave I want to know that you've food enough to last until I get back. Especially now, with the cow gone, can you manage?

Trying to ignore the sharp stab of disappointment she felt upon learning that he was leaving again, Nora nodded, avoiding his eyes.

With his free hand he caught her chin and tilted it up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I must know the truth, Nora,” he said urgently. “I'll bring some more provisions with me when I come back, but I need to be sure you'll be all right until then. Don't lie to me, lass—your pride will not keep your family alive.”

Stung by his words, Nora stiffened. She would
not
become dependent on him. She had no idea what he was up to, with this sudden concern for their well-being, but she must not allow herself to grow used to his presence in her life again. Morgan was quicksilver—unstable, unreliable, unpredictable. As for her pride, he was being entirely unfair. What he took to be pride was simply self-respect, and she thought he should have understood her need to retain what she could of it.

“Nora?” His eyes narrowed, challenging her.

“I—yes. We'll be fine.”

Still he searched her eyes, as if he were trying to read her heart.

“Your concern is misplaced, Morgan,” she said evenly. “Thomas and his children are your family. If you're determined to look after anyone, then see to them.”

He let his hand fall away from her chin. “Thomas is a man grown,” he said, drawing back slightly. “He takes responsibility for his own family.”

“Well, it's not for you to take responsibility for
mine.”
Her words sounded sharper than she'd intended. Still, she meant them. “We—will be all right,” she said, gentling her tone a bit. “Truly, we will.”

Morgan's eyes softened, a look Nora did not want to remember. “And that is all I'm wanting, Nora—for you and yours to be safe and well. Can you not accept that much from me, at least—that I still care for you?”

She could not look at him. She
wouldn't.
She would not look at him or listen to him or believe in him or feel anything at all for him. Not ever.

Mustering as impersonal a tone as she could manage, Nora fixed her gaze on a spot just past his shoulder. “Thank you…for what you did for Aine today, Morgan. It was very brave. I really must go inside now and see to Tahg and the old man.”

She sensed that he was about to say more—something nasty, by the looks of
his frown—but he held his tongue. His expression cleared as he gave a short nod and said agreeably, “Aye, and even more do you need to be getting out of those wet things.”

She started to turn, but he reached out and put a hand to her arm. “Nora—”

She turned back to him.

“Tell Daniel John that I'll be back in a few days. Tell him I said goodbye.”

She nodded, and started for the cottage. Already she dreaded the look she would see in her son's eyes when he learned that Morgan was leaving again. But then he might just as well get used to doing without the man. Perhaps Morgan meant what he said, this time, about coming back in a few days, but that was only for now. The day would come—and soon, more than likely—when he would go wandering off again, not to be seen for months or even years. Morgan would never be—
could
never be—anything else but what he was. She must not allow Daniel John to believe, even for a moment, that the man would ever change.

And she must not allow herself to believe it either.

8

All through the night did I hear the banshee keening:
Somewhere you are dying and nothing can I do:
My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;
Bitter is your trouble—and I am far from you.

D
ORA
S
IGERSON
S
HORTER
(1866-1917)

New York City

T
he snow that had begun at dawn increased with a vengeance throughout the day. Several inches already blanketed the city, and still it slashed relentlessly against the kitchen window facing the street.

Home from his watch and relaxing with his tea, Michael Burke propped his elbows on the table and stared down onto the street below. In the quickly gathering dusk, the snow wove a blowing veil about the gaslights, allowing the mean, cluttered streets to masquerade as a quaint, even charming winter scene. A flow of pedestrians hurrying home from work pushed urgently along, holding their caps as their coattails and scarves whipped sharply in the wind. Much of the garbage that bordered them on either side was disguised, distorted by flickering shadows from the snow swirling about the lamplight.

Michael checked his pocket watch; Tierney should be along soon from his after-school job at the hotel. Wiping a hand over the back of his neck, he yawned and glanced again at the newspaper on the table in front of him. He suspected much of his gloomy mood could be attributed to the
Tribune's
front-page report of the troubles in Ireland. These days the papers were filled with accounts of the Great Famine, as they were calling it; indeed, it was a rare edition that carried no news of the mounting disaster across the sea.

Compassion for Ireland's plight seemed nationwide. Young as she was, America was a land with an enormous heart, a generous heart. Oh, there was no denying Tierney's frequent complaints about New York's resistance to the Irish. The hostilities were real enough, even among the Irish themselves. The Protestants continued to view their Catholic countrymen with contempt, just as they had back in Ireland, thinking them ignorant, superstitious peasants who were incapable of bettering their lot in life even if they had a mind to do so. Such disaffection for the “papists,” some years past, had led to a number of Protestant Irish-Americans identifying themselves as “Scotch-Irish” to dissociate themselves from their Roman countrymen.

On the other side, the Catholic immigrants had transferred their native resentment of the normally wealthier and better-educated Protestants to the same class here in the States. Distrust and bitterness fed the old antagonism, creating new rifts between the two groups. In addition, new barriers rose between the Irish and other emigrants, especially the Germans. The German Catholics, for example, found the Irish too grim and defeatist for their own energetic, practical religious beliefs, while the Irish thought the Germans somewhat naive and pompous.

Despite their differences, however, Americans simply were not a people who could ignore the large-scale suffering of an entire country, especially a country that had apparently been abandoned by her own “Mother England.” Already meetings were being held—not only here in New York, but throughout the country—to respond to Ireland's needs.

Railways offered to carry free all shipments marked
Ireland,
and public carriers delivered at no cost all boxes going toward Irish aid. Relief committees throughout the nation hastened to put thousands of dollars and shiploads of food at the disposal of the Society of Friends—the Quakers—who were energetically organizing the United States' aid to Ireland.

Here in New York, Tammany Hall collected thousands of dollars, as did both Catholic and Protestant churches nationwide. “Donation parties” were held by all denominations, along with concerts and teas. Young ladies in
private schools volunteered to make useful articles that could be sold for the benefit of Ireland. Jewish synagogues sent their weekly collections. A group of Choctaw Indians worked to collect an offering of $170, and in villages and towns all over America, women and children pooled their pennies and sent them to Ireland.

Such a flood of enthusiasm had swept the land that not enough ships could be found to transport the bounty. Aye, it was a grand thing that was happening, but it rankled Michael that it should require a disaster of such tragic proportions to unite his countrymen. Especially those who claimed to be Christians.

Michael sighed and tapped his fingers impatiently on the newspapers, then rose and went to stand at the window, looking up and down the street for some sign of Tierney. He, too, longed to do more in the way of donations, but he had already dipped deep into their small savings. Tierney, however, exhibiting his characteristic cleverness and knack for money raising, had organized a host of lads from school into teams, and among them they'd pestered a number of shopkeepers and tradesmen into donating generous amounts for the school's “Friends in Ireland” fund.

These days Michael found himself thinking more and more of his own “friends in Ireland.” Morgan and Nora were frequently on his mind. Back in November, when news reports of the famine had begun to pour across the sea, he had written an anxious letter to Morgan in care of his brother, Thomas. Each day that passed he watched with growing impatience for a reply.

Strange—after so many years and an ocean between them, his mind could still see the two of them clearly. Nora was now a woman grown, a wife and mother; yet it was difficult to imagine her as anything but a small, sober-faced lass with enormous sad eyes and the tiniest waist in Killala. He hoped she'd been happy with the husband she'd chosen; Nora deserved happiness, she did, for she'd had little enough of it as a girl.

As for Morgan Fitzgerald, he supposed
that
rogue could take care of himself well enough. Michael smiled at the thought of his old friend, with his harp and his poems and his roaming ways—and, always, his fatalistic but fervent love for Ireland. He was a vagabond, Morgan was. Ever the dreamer, he had been smitten with the wanderlust as a lad and seemingly never recovered.

The man was a puzzle of many pieces, one or two of which might never be found. Michael thought he had as much love for his homeland as any respectable Irishman, but with Morgan it was more than love of country. It was an obsession. He could still remember the great oaf's words to him
when Michael had first told Morgan of his dream to see America, trying to convince him they should go together.

Backed up against a gnarled old tree, Morgan had stretched his long arms, locked his hands behind his head, and smiled that thoroughly impudent grin of his. “Ach, Michael, I could never do that, and you know it. You intend to go and never come back. I could never leave our Lady Ireland for good.”

To Michael's way of thinking, Ireland was more the fallen woman than the lady, and he said as much.

Morgan had laughed, shaking his head. “Aye, she's a miserable island at that, but she's claimed me entirely, don't you see? There never was a woman quite so bent on owning a man as our
Eire.
She's a fierce and terrible mistress, I admit, and most likely she'll be my destruction. But beloved as she is to me, I could no more give her up than rip out my own heart.”

Did Morgan still cling to his beloved, even now?
Michael wondered. He prayed not, for surely she would drag him to his death along beside her—

“Well, Da—I am here, but where are you?”

Startled, Michael jumped and whirled around to see Tierney standing just inside the door, grinning at him.

“Wool-gathering, it seems. I didn't even hear you come up the stairs.”

Tierney tossed his gloves on a nearby chair, then hung his coat and cap on a peg by the door. A shock of dark auburn hair, wet from the snow, hung insolently over one eye. The boy's other eye was still dark from a mouse he'd incurred in last week's scrap with the Dolan boy.

The thought of Tierney's frequent fights brought a sour frown to Michael's face. “That eye is a grand sight.”

The boy came to the table, his grin still in place. “Now, don't go starting on me, Da. What's for supper?”

“There's a pot of brown beans, and Mrs. Gallagher sent up a pan of corn bread. And I'm telling you again to quit calling me ‘Da.' We're not living in Ireland—talk like the American you are.”

“Irish-American,”Tierney corrected, going to the stove to check the beans. “And you still say, ‘aye,' you know. Can we eat now, Da? I'm starved.”

“As you always are,” Michael retorted, getting up from his chair. “Set the table and I'll fix our plates.”

Tierney whisked around the kitchen getting the dishes out, flipping them carelessly onto the table as if they were unbreakable—which, Michael reminded him again, they weren't.

“Have you heard, Da? Eleven ships are sailing from here to Ireland tomorrow with food!” Tierney's voice was boyishly high with excitement, though more often than not these days it tended to crack with the gruffness of approaching manhood.

Michael nodded as he dished up a plate of beans and handed it to the boy. “Aye, and four more leaving from Philadelphia the day after. It's in the paper.”

“Can we go to the harbor and watch them sail out? You're off duty tomorrow, aren't you?”

“I am, but need I remind you that you will be in school?” Michael shot him a stern look as he sat down across from him.

The boy shrugged and reached for the corn bread. “I won't miss that much. Not for just one day. Come on, Da—say we'll go.”

“I will say a prayer if you'll hush long enough to listen.” Michael glared at him, but the boy's tilted grin made him give over.

“Besides, I hate that school, and you know it,” Tierney continued after Michael gave their thanks. “I wish I could go to the Catholic school.”

“Catholics go to Catholic school.”

“I know, and that's my point,” Tierney muttered.

Michael put down his fork. “We are not going to have this conversation again, are we, Tierney?”

The boy shrugged, a gesture Michael increasingly disliked. “I will never understand why a lad born as a Protestant and raised as a Protestant has this cracked notion about becoming a Catholic.”

“It's the Irish way,” Tierney said, reaching for the butter.

“I said we weren't going to have this conversation again, and I meant it, boyo. But let me remind you of one thing: Ireland has bred a few Protestants as well as Catholics—myself, for one, and your mother as well, God bless her.”

“I know that. But it's different here in New York. The other Irish kids are all Catholic; they think I'm some kind of freak. And I'm just about the only Irish kid in the whole school. All my friends on the block go to Catholic school.”

“What
difference
does it make, Tierney?” Exasperated with the boy, Michael was far too tired and cross to be patient. “Christ is the same Savior to Protestant or Catholic—if they accept Him as such.”

“Sure,” Tierney muttered, pulling his mouth down in contempt. “And is that why the Catholics say theirs is the only church, and the Protestants say a Catholic church is no church at all—and anyone who disagrees with either one of them is a heathen?”

Michael drew a deep sigh and picked up his fork. “That's not the way with all Catholics or Protestants, lad,” he said between bites. “The thing that matters is your heart, don't you see? I've told you about my friend back in Ireland, Morgan Fitzgerald?”

Tierney's face lighted up, and he nodded eagerly. Again Michael sighed. Morgan had become a bit of a hero to the lad, and he supposed he could blame himself for that. Tierney was charmed by all the tales of Morgan's exploits repeated over the years. Ah, well, perhaps he'd pay more attention to Morgan's words than those of his stodgy old dad.

“Well, Morgan was never entirely convinced that the Lord is all that interested in our church buildings and doctrines and religious symbols. He seemed to think the Almighty would be more concerned about
relationships:
our relationship with Him, and with one another as well. And do you know, Tierney, the longer I live, the more truth I find in my old friend's words.”

The boy merely grunted, then shoveled another heaping spoon of beans into his mouth. His eyes danced as he chewed. “Well,” he said, swallowing, “when I'm grown and go to Ireland, I may not take to either church. Perhaps I'll look up old Morgan Fitzgerald and become a heathen, like him.”

“Morgan is
not
a heathen—and will you stop with that foolish talk about going to Ireland!” Michael exploded, banging his fork down on his plate. “Why would you even think of it?”

He was unsettled by the way Tierney met his gaze without wavering. The boy's blue eyes, so much like his mother's, turned hard and cold. “You've always known that's what I want.”

“Aye,” Michael growled, “and never have I understood why! Ireland is a corpse. Can you not get that into your skull? She is dead and rotting above ground. There is nothing there for us, nothing for anyone except death. Why do you think I left it in the first place?”