Song of the Silent Harp (41 page)

“Aye, the old man often rambled on about the sanctity of education when he was drunk,” Morgan commented brusquely.

Nodding, Joseph went on. “Your mother's family—at least on her father's side—was English, only a step or two removed from nobility. Wealthy, influential—”

“—and thoroughly Protestant,” Morgan finished dryly.

“That's the truth. Your grandmother left the church in a great rush to marry her English lover, and it was immediately hushed up that their spotless Saxon bloodline had been some tainted with a touch of the Roman Irish.

“Your father was a poor student when he met and fell in love with your mother. By that time her family was so entrenched in their wealthy English Protestantism that the news of their only daughter's love for a starving Roman Catholic brought as much horror as if she had asked their leave to wed a leper.

“Your father's family was no more pleased. They cherished their Irishness and their Catholicism every bit as much as the girl's family did their Anglican ways. Both families threatened the young lovers with expulsion if they did not part.

“Well, the long and short of it,” Joseph continued, feeling a renewed wave of sadness for the young couple who wanted only to be left alone with their love for each other, “was that your mother and father
would
be married, and so they defied their families—and their religions—and ran off to some godforsaken village in County Kerry to be married by a civil official.

“Over the years their poverty forced them to move from town to town. Aidan kept a school wherever he was needed, or else worked at odd jobs to
keep food in their mouths.

“When Thomas was born, Aidan's father—his mother had died—relented and asked them to come home with their babe. Things were better for them for a time, but when the old man died, nothing was left to them except a house on which they could not pay the rent.

“Your mother was carrying you by then, and after you were born, she sickened for some weeks, then died. Aidan tried to keep you boys with him, but he had no money and was drinking something fierce all the time. So he went to your mother's family and offered the two of you—you and Thomas—to them.”

As Joseph watched, a stricken look came over Morgan's face. “He gave us
away?
Is that the truth?”

“It wasn't like that! He was wild with grief, desperate to save you and your brother from starving. The family agreed to take you both, and gave Aidan some money to go away. He had to sign papers giving up all claim to you, had to promise he would never attempt to see you again. At the last minute, he couldn't do it. The papers were signed, the money in his pocket, but he reneged on the agreement and ran away, taking both you and Thomas with him.

“Apparently they tried for months to locate the three of you—even offered a reward. But Aidan went on the road like a common outlaw, hiding in the woods, stopping off in remote villages, until the family finally lost his scent. After that…well, as you know, he did the best he could. But by then he was a beaten man.

“The rest of it…no longer matters. There are private, personal things a father would not want his sons to know, only his priest.”

Morgan was silent for a long time. He sat slumped over on the bed, his broad shoulders sagging, his rugged face pensive. Joseph reached once to touch him, thought better of it, and dropped his hand away.

“So that is where the money for my education came from,” Morgan said softly. “He stole it from
them.”
He was silent for a moment, thinking. “How did my grandfather manage a pardon for me? And
why?”
He turned to look at Joseph. “And these
conditions
you mentioned—what are they?”

“Your grandfather has the power to obtain most anything he pleases,” Joseph replied. “As to
why,
you are his blood—his only grandson, Morgan—and he is sorry for what he did to your parents. Truly sorry.”

“Of course, he is,” Morgan sneered. “You still haven't told me what the conditions are.”

“Morgan, he is an old, sick man. Probably he has little time left on this earth. It is altogether likely his remorse is genuine. I believe it is,” Joseph said
firmly. “As for the conditions, they are more than fair. He asks only that you refrain from further ‘illegal activities.' And he wants to see you. He wants you to come to Dublin once you're released.”

“He wants to
see
me?” Morgan uttered a short, ugly laugh.
“When hell is an iceberg!”

Again Joseph reached to clasp Fitzgerald's shoulder. “Morgan—”

Morgan shook him off with a violent shrug. He shot to his feet and went to stand in the center of the shadowed cell. “If seeing him is a part of the pardon, tell him I'll whistle as I swing!”

He tossed the envelope and the pardon to the floor.

“Don't be
a fool!”
Ignoring the pain in his back, Joseph got to his feet and hurried to rescue the papers.

Facing Morgan, he pressed the envelope and the pardon into his hand. “I understand your bitterness, lad, and I don't blame you. But it will gain you nothing to go on nursing your poison. That paper is your freedom! Do not let your anger get in the way of your good sense!”

His face livid, Morgan waved the papers in the air. “Why, after all these years, Joseph? Answer me that! Why should I go toadying to a man who as good as murdered my parents? His own
daughter,
for the love of heaven! Why should I do anything for a man like that?”

Joseph looked at him, choosing his words carefully. “Because he is soon to die and wants to see his only grandson while there is still time.”

At Morgan's grunt of disgust, Joseph shook his head and put up a hand to quiet him. “And because
you
will die if you do not go, if you refuse to let him help you. You should do this thing out of mercy for him, and for the sake of your own life most of all. I cannot think you would need more reason than that.”

The younger man's back stiffened. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin. Standing there, so straight and towering, he looked for all the world like one of the ancient warlords.

Oh, God, soften his pride,
the priest prayed silently.
Quench his anger! Do not let him be such a fool as to deny the freedom he holds within his hand even now…

When Morgan turned back to him, Joseph was amazed to see the lad's eyes glazed with unshed tears. So, then, a struggle
was
going on.

Indeed, Joseph wondered, had there ever been a time when a battle was
not
going on inside that searching, tormented spirit?

Savior…tender Shepherd of our souls, reach out to Your prodigal son and draw him back into your loving arms. Give him, at last, the peace that has eluded him all his life…

Moments passed, and the silence in the room hung heavy and thick with dread.

Finally Morgan turned, his face set in an unreadable mask. “I suppose,” he said in a strangled voice, “I do not want to hang, after all. I will accept the pardon. I will go to Dublin.”

Their eyes locked and held. “God be praised,” murmured Joseph. “God be praised.”

An hour later, Morgan walked out the back door of the Castlebar gaol into a clear, star-studded night.

He stopped just outside the door. There, a few feet away, stood Pilgrim, tethered to a fence rail.

As soon as Pilgrim saw Morgan, he went berserk, pawing the ground and squealing with excitement.

Stunned, Morgan bolted toward the horse. He crooned to the big stallion in the Irish, stroking his sides, patting his noble head.

At last he swung around to Joseph, just coming out the door. “How did you manage this?” he asked, a smile breaking across his face. “Where was he?”

With one arm tucked behind his back, the priest started toward him. “Cassidy hid him in the woods, took care of him. I found out where he was only last night.”

Then, fixing a stern frown on Morgan, he withdrew what he had been holding behind his back.

Morgan's harp. His
broken
harp.

“What is the meaning of
this?”
The priest's voice was sharp.

Morgan shrugged.

“Can it be fixed?” Joseph asked, handing it to Morgan.

Hesitating, Morgan glanced at the strings hanging limply from the broken block of willow. Finally, he reached for it, nodding. “Aye, it just needs to be glued and restrung.”

The priest studied him for a long moment. “The same is true of yourself, I'm thinking.”

Morgan looked at him.

“God is calling you back, Morgan Fitzgerald,” Joseph said, his tone softening. “How long will you turn deaf ears to His voice?”

Morgan stared at the diminutive, frail priest with real affection. “I have much to thank you for, Joseph Mahon. My freedom, my life—even my horse, it seems. How do I tell you what is in my heart?”

“You have
God
to thank,” the priest replied. “I was only His hands and feet. It's Him you should be telling what is in your heart.”

Morgan inclined his head, smiling ruefully at the priest. “As you say, Joseph. Still, I owe you much.”

“Then repay me by grieving for your sins and turning back to your Savior. I could hope for no greater payment.”

Morgan studied him, wondering at the kind of great soul it took to make such a man. “You mean that.”

“Of course, I
mean
it! I have stormed the doors of heaven for you, Morgan Fitzgerald! Can you not at least go knocking on your own behalf?”

Morgan managed a lame smile. “I suppose I can try, Joseph. But do not be surprised if the doors are permanently locked against me.”

“Even if they are, lad, you hold the one key that will open them.”

“The key, Joseph? What key would that be?”

“Christ in your heart, Morgan.”

“Ah, I doubt He would live in a heart like mine, Joseph. Not now, not after all I've done.”

From a great distance away, as if floating down from the ancient mountains of Mayo, came the memory of the Englishman Evan Whittaker's voice:
“He means to have your attention…and your heart…and one way or another, He will. Be warned, Morgan Fitzgerald, for the Ancient of Days and the Shepherd of your soul is in pursuit of you…and there is no hiding from Him.”

Morgan suddenly thought of Jonah…the cold, dark belly of the fish…his gaol cell. Had the Castlebar gaol been his fish?

God, what was happening? He was sniveling, sniveling like a boy…

“Will you pray with me, Morgan?”

“Now,
Joseph?”

“Now,
Morgan.”

And so they knelt there, on the cold, wet earth in back of the Castlebar gaol.

With the weary priest at his side, the warm, familiar breath of his horse at his back, the prodigal prayed. And listened.

Above them in the night sky, the stars of heaven blinked in wonder.

“Do you still believe in the Man named
Jesus,
Morgan…the Man who was nailed to a cross on Calvary?”

“I do, yes,” Morgan said softly, silently voicing the precious name in his heart for the first time in what seemed an age.

Jesus…

“And do you still believe,” the priest went on, “it was the very Son of God whose hands and feet were nailed to that tree, Morgan?”

“Aye, I do.” His voice grew softer still, choking on a wave of long-suppressed tears.

“And do you know that He died for you…indeed, would have died upon His cross even if there had been no sinner in the world that day
apart
from you?”

God, oh, God, that's the truth, isn't it? You died for me, would have died for me alone…

Morgan Fitzgerald was weeping, his heart breaking.

“Lord, oh, Lord Jesus, forgive this sinner…”

Morgan, My son, I love you. You are Mine.

“Even now, Lord? Even now?”

I have always loved you, Morgan. Even now…now and forever.

The priest and the prodigal wept, and heaven sang.

36

Be Thou my wisdom, Thou my true word;
I ever with Thee, Thou with me, Lord.
Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight,
Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight.
Thou my soul's shelter, Thou my high tower;
Raise Thou me heavenward, power of my power.

A
NONYMOUS
(E
IGHTH
C
ENTURY
)

F
or three days Evan Whittaker lay suspended between life and death. Unconscious, seemingly unaware of everything but pain, he seldom moved except to thrash back and forth in the throes of his suffering. He made no sound except to add his intermittent groans and cries to the cacophony of despair that rang throughout the steerage quarters day and night.

Throughout the entire time, Nora felt that Whittaker had somehow escaped the
Green Flag,
had managed to slip away to a secret place, where he now awaited the Lord's decision as to his fate.

When, on the evening of the third day, he began to rouse, she nearly panicked. From the hour of the surgery, she had prayed for his recovery, yet dreaded his awakening. What would she say to him when and if he finally came to and found himself missing an arm?

Even as his eyes fluttered open to fix a glazed, uncomprehending stare on her, Nora looked frantically around the men's quarters for Daniel John. He was nowhere in sight. Only moments before, he had taken Little Tom to the back of the compartment to relieve himself, and they had not yet returned. MacCabe, the Galway farmer who was Whittaker's bunk mate,
was gone as well.

A garbled word from Whittaker made Nora turn back to him.

“Hurts…”

Leaning close, Nora put a cloth to his head. “Shhh, now, Mr. Whittaker, I know it must hurt something fierce, but you are going to be all right, truly you are. You will be just fine.”

His eyes closed for an instant, then opened again. Nora thought she saw a faint glimmer of recognition.

“Mrs.… Kavanagh…”

He was coming around! He would need the surgeon…somebody. “Daniel John! Oh, thank the Lord!”

The sight of her son coming up the aisle, tugging wee Tom by the hand, made relief spill over Nora.

“Take Little Tom to the girls, and come back.
Hurry!”

Glancing from her to Whittaker with surprise, Daniel turned before the words were out of her mouth. Pulling the little boy up into his arms, he hurried him off to Katie and Johanna.

He was back in a moment, his eyes anxious as he came to stand next to his mother.

As if sensing the movement, Whittaker's eyes flickered open. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his face still bruised and scraped from the fall he'd taken at the time of his shooting.

“What…happened?” he finally managed.

Nora's throat ached with despair as she reached out to smooth a strand of limp blond hair away from his forehead, gently, as she might have touched an ailing child.

Merciful Lord, what do I say? There are no words that can make this any easier for him.

“You…you have had surgery, Mr. Whittaker,” she choked out. “Three days past now.”

“Surgery?” His head lolled to one side, and his eyes closed again, only for an instant. “What sort of…surgery?” When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was more focused.

Oh, God, how do I tell him the terrible truth? I want to comfort him, but there is no comfort for such a thing as this.

“Your arm, Mr. Whittaker…the wound was badly infected, you see. The surgeon…Dr. Leary…he—” She glanced at Daniel John for support, but the boy's attention was fixed on Whittaker, his eyes glistening with pain and sympathy.

Nora's mouth went dry as she turned back to Whittaker. “The doctor said there was…no other way if you were to live. He said…it was the only thing to do.” The words stuck in her throat.

Whittaker's eyes met hers, and Nora suddenly felt the man absorb her horror. Slowly, he reached his right hand across his chest to touch the empty space at his left side.

Nora could feel his shock—the sudden, awful emptiness—as if it were her own. She swallowed, held her breath, nodding at the anguished question in his eyes.

“He
had
to do it, Mr. Whittaker,” she managed to say, strangling on the words. “You would have died if he had not…operated.”

Whittaker's hand continued to move, fumbling, passing over the blanket once, then again. All the while he continued to stare at Nora, as if expecting her at any instant to tell him he was dreaming, that his arm was right there, just as it had always been.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Whittaker,” Nora choked out. “It was the only way.”

His eyes froze on her face, bleak and mute. Nora swallowed down the knot of despair in her throat, unable to speak. At last Whittaker squeezed his eyes tightly shut and turned his head away.

Nora cast a pleading glance at Daniel John, and he put an arm around her waist to steady her. “We'll take care of you, Mr. Whittaker,” he said, his voice trembling as he repeated the assurance. “We'll take care of you. You'll be fine in no time at all.”

Nora wasn't sure exactly what she had expected from the Englishman. She would not have been surprised if he had screamed or lashed out in a fit of hysterics.

What she had not anticipated was the stillness of the man, the lack of even the slightest display of horror or anger or outrage. He lay there on the bunk, eyes closed, quiet as a shadow. Once he opened his mouth in a soft, sobbing sound. Other than that, the only indication of his grief was a silent tear that crept from the corner of his eye, then made a slow descent down his scraped, lightly bearded cheek.

Instinctively, Nora reached to blot it gently with her fingers. Its dampness mingled with her own tears as she lifted a hand to brush them away.

To Daniel's surprise, Dr. Leary came again that night to check on Whittaker.

He had appeared each day since the surgery, briefly, but showing what appeared to be genuine interest in his patient. During each visit, Daniel had thought him to be reasonably sober.

Until tonight. As had been the case when he'd first tended Whittaker's wound, the surgeon showed up reeking of whiskey, obviously unsteady on
his feet.

Angry, Daniel was relieved that his mother had gone to lie down. He would not want her exposed to the surgeon's foul mood—or his foul mouth—when he was drunk.

Glaring at the man, he kept him under close scrutiny as Leary checked Whittaker's bandages with clumsy hands. Once, Whittaker gasped with pain at the doctor's careless touch, spurring Daniel to lunge forward and throw a restraining hand on Leary's arm.

The surgeon shot him a glazed look, then glanced angrily down at the hand clutching his arm.

Daniel didn't move. “Why did you come here like this?” he challenged.

“Like
what?”
the surgeon snarled. “Keep your hands to yourself!”

“You're
drunk!”

“You're impertinent!” Leary
shot back, shaking him off.

“What is it with you?” Daniel pressed in a low voice. “You seem a
good
surgeon when you're sober enough to mind what you're doing. Why do you do this to yourself, and to those who depend on you?”

The surgeon straightened, brushing the back of his hand across his brow as he fixed Daniel with a sullen glare. Beneath the swaying glow from the overhead lantern, Daniel saw a subtle change in Leary's expression. Resentment gave way to a look of weariness. The doctor's features, indeed his entire body, seemed to slump in defeat.

“That's the truth,” he mumbled, averting his eyes. “I
was
a good surgeon once. More than good, some said.”

“You still are,” Daniel countered awkwardly. “Or you
could
be if you'd only leave the whiskey alone.”

Replacing a roll of bandages in his case, the doctor slanted a disdainful glance at Daniel. “You know nothing, boy. Nothing at all. Let it be.”

“I know your hands were deft and steady the other night when you performed Mr. Whittaker's surgery. Just watching you…it made me want to be the best physician I can be.”

It was true, Daniel realized. In spite of the agony of watching Whittaker lose his arm, the terror of the entire procedure, he had been fascinated, even inspired, by the surgeon's obvious skill. He could not comprehend how a man of Leary's ability could descend to such an abysmal level.

Daniel stared at him for a moment. Then, sensing the futility of trying to reason with the man in his drunken state, he asked, “Did you bring more laudanum as you said you would? He's in fierce pain most of the time.”

The surgeon gave him a blank look.

“You forgot!” Daniel accused him. “He needs
something
for the pain!

Leary nodded distractedly, waving him off. “I'll bring it down later. Later tonight.”

“No, you won't,” Daniel grated, knowing full well the surgeon would be passed out on his bunk within the hour. “I'll go with you and get it myself. He needs it
now.”

The doctor twisted his mouth into an obstinate pout. “You're not allowed above decks. You're in quarantine.”

“You're the surgeon!” Daniel challenged. “Sure, and you have the authority to make an exception. Besides, it will save you a trip,” he added spitefully. “You must have more important things to do.”

Leary leveled an exasperated look on Daniel. “Oh, all right, then!” he said, snapping his medical case closed. “Come along!”

Daniel took time to ask that Hugh MacCabe keep a close watch on Whittaker until he returned, then leaned over to reassure Whittaker himself. “I'm going with the surgeon to get something for your pain. You'll be all right until I get back?”

Whittaker's attempt at a smile failed, but he managed a light squeeze on Daniel's hand to indicate he had heard.

Looking at him, Daniel felt a great rush of affection course through him. Who would have thought this quiet, retiring man would own such an infinitely heroic heart, such a brave, steadfast spirit?

A renewed determination to help his English friend rose up in Daniel. Indeed, thanks to Evan Whittaker, his faith in the Spirit of God working in mankind had been restored.

In spite of men like Dr. Leary.

A fierce, overwhelming wave of homesickness slammed into Daniel as soon as he crawled out onto the open deck. He stood, breathing in the smell of the salt sea, letting the cold, clean air wash over him like a gift.

Unbidden came the thought of home, the dark waters of the bay, the sagging pier, the sea-stained cottages, Killala…

Home! So
strong were the memories, so powerful the longing, he nearly went to his knees. Shaking off the yearning thoughts, he gave the surgeon a hand up. Leary swayed a bit, grabbing for the rail to steady himself.

In an attempt to throw off his melancholy, Daniel started up a running conversation with the physician—mostly one-sided—as they headed aft.