Song of the Silent Harp (46 page)

She looked at Whittaker, saw his gentle frown of concern as he asked the question.

“Aye, I will always miss him,” she answered quietly. The image of Tahg's white face, his pain-filled eyes flashed before her. Instinctively, she put a hand to her throat, touching the wooden cross that lay next to her skin, the cross carved by Owen and worn by Tahg up until his death.

“It isn't likely I will ever stop missing him,” she said softly, “Tahg and the others. So many gone, so much lost—”

Her voice broke, and she stopped for a moment until she could regain her composure. “But I would not wish them back. Not now, not knowing the torment they would have had to endure if they had lived. My sorrow for them all will go on, but I am grateful they were spared…all this.”

Their eyes met, and Whittaker gave a slow nod of understanding.

Later that night, Abidas Schell sat at his desk, writing in his journal, making what would be one of the final entries for this voyage:

Light winds, NE by E. Weather pleasant, but some fog. Saw two land birds, much weed. Should spot a pilot boat by morning.

Should enter the Narrows late tomorrow night or early Sunday.…

In his cabin, William Leary, the ship's surgeon, sat hunched over his desk, half drunk, but still sober enough to handle a pen.

Smoothing the paper with a trembling hand, he held the pen suspended as his thoughts wandered.

He was writing the letter now, rather than later. Later tonight he would be too drunk, and tomorrow he would be too busy with preparations for arrival. After tomorrow…

He would not think beyond tomorrow.

With any luck, he would sleep tonight, once the letter was completed. By tomorrow night, they should be sighting New York. Finally, this latest nightmare would end.

For him, the nightmares were about to end altogether. He would make no more voyages with Abidas Schell.

The pistol was safe in his medical case, hidden beneath the bandages. He had not yet decided whether to use it on himself alone or on the both of them. Either way, he would be free of his demon.

At least in this life.

Shaking off any thought of the future, he began to write, penning the only address he could think of:
The New York Police Department.…

“We'll need to go to Sergeant Burke first thing in the morning,” Sara said to her father, “and at least get a description of his intended. I don't imagine he can help us much beyond that, unless he happens to know exactly how many are traveling in her party.”

“How long has it been since he's seen this woman?” asked her father, finishing his custard.

“Almost seventeen years or thereabouts, I believe. Let's hope she still looks somewhat like he remembers her. We need at least one person we can identify rather quickly.”

Lewis Farmington met his daughter's eyes over his teacup. “He's going to marry a woman he hasn't seen in seventeen years?”

Sara shrugged, toying idly with her custard. “He's a very unusual man, Father.”

“Mmm. Either that or a perfect fool.”

“He's no fool,” Sara said quietly, but with marked emphasis.

He darted a sharp look at her. “Sara, are you quite sure you're not taken with this man yourself?”

Jabbing the custard with her spoon, Sara answered bluntly, “I could be, I imagine, if he weren't committed to somebody else.” She looked up at him, saw the mixture of doubt and worry in his eyes, and added, “But I am no fool either, Father. You needn't concern yourself.”

She glanced up to find him still searching her face. “Very well,” he said, blotting his lips with his dinner napkin. “We will have Uriah drive us to Bellevue in the morning.”

41

And sweet our life's decline for it hath left us
A nearer Good to cure an older Ill:
And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them.

A
UBREY
D
E
V
ERE
(1814–1902)

N
elson Hall was a great rambling structure, a vast entanglement of Georgian dignities, sprawling palisades, and endless wings that seemed to have sprung up at will, with no real pattern or purpose in mind.

Not quite a castle but more than a mansion, it reigned to the north of Dublin, near the coast and almost directly below Drogheda. Its uniformly gray landscape was relieved in the distance by deep emerald hills, soaring gulls, and pearl-white clouds swirling in from the coast.

Morgan thought it the most hideous affront to architecture he had ever seen.

He had noticed it before, of course, during his roamings—indeed, had stopped to study it from a distance any number of times.

Until today, however, he had never viewed it as the palatial home of his own grandfather.

Richard Avery Nelson. Retired member of Parliament, philanthropist, art collector, descendant of a Cromwellian toady whose reward was this valley of fertile land and rolling hillside.

Early on Saturday morning, Morgan hitched Pilgrim to a fence post, then went strolling up to the immense front door. He had deliberately decked himself out in his tattered blanket-cloak, muddy boots, and worn frieze trousers.

An aristocratic looking footman, clothed entirely in black except for his frosty linen, appeared in the doorway before Morgan could lift a hand to the brass knocker. The man took him in from head to toe in one scathing glance, but to his credit he did not so much as blink an eye at the sight of this rabble who had the audacity to appear at the front door, rather than the back.

As the elderly servant chose not to dignify the shabby caller with even a glint of acknowledgment, Morgan bluntly announced his business.

“I am here to see Richard Nelson.”

The man's face was a stone as their eyes met and held. “For what purpose?”

“Ah, that would be personal, I'm afraid.”

The footman lifted his eyes upward a fraction, an indictment of this ragman's impertinence. “Sir Richard does not receive. He is indisposed.”

Morgan regarded him with lively amusement. “The thing is, you see, I am invited.”

“Invited?” A blinking of eyes, a lifting of brows, a clearing of throat. “By whom?”

“By himself.”

Silence. Finally, “And you are…?”

“His grandson,” Morgan said with a nasty grin. “Would you be announcing me now?”

Nelson's library was everything Joseph Mahon had proclaimed it to be. Thousands of books, hundreds of them rare and carefully preserved, filled a cavernous room that smelled of aged leather, rich wood, and years of lemon oil.

Morgan's first surprise came when the old man behind the desk stood for the first time. This, then, was the source of his ungainly height and wide shoulders. Odd; he'd always assumed his and Thomas's long legs had been passed down to them from the Fitzgerald clan.

Richard Avery Nelson looked to be well into his eighties. His hair was white, his face a map of years. But his back was still straight, his shoulders broad, and his eyes clear and discerning.

Bracing both hands palms down on top of the desk, he surveyed his grandson with a keen, discerning gaze. In his prime, Morgan thought, the man across from him must have presented an imposing sight.

Nelson stood waiting, almost as if he half expected Morgan to approach him with an outstretched hand.

Morgan stopped several feet short of the desk, meeting the old man's appraisal with one of his own.

“You are Morgan Fitzgerald.”

“I am.”

“My grandson.”

“So you say.” Morgan's eyes went to the old man's hands splayed widely on the polished desktop. They were trembling.

“The fact that you are a free man confirms it.”

Morgan stood, legs apart, hands behind his back. If this was about obligation, he would not be staying long.

The old man beckoned to a comfortable-looking leather chair near the desk. “Please, sit down.”

“I believe I will stand, thank you.”

“As you wish.” With stiff movements, Nelson sank down onto his own chair. “I assume you have read my letter by now.”

Morgan nodded. “It was very informative.” Hesitating, he added, “I suppose I should be thanking you for my pardon, though I wonder why you bothered.”

“You're of my blood.”

“No doubt I am as grieved over that fact as yourself.”

The old man nodded, as if he had expected this. “You are very bitter. I rather imagined you would be.”

Morgan uttered a short laugh. “Now, why would I be bitter? You disowned my mother, ruined my father, and chose to ignore every drop of the harm done until you heard I was about to wear a noose. Sure, and there is nothing in that to make a man bitter.”

In spite of his diatribe, Morgan was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable under the old gentleman's calm, almost sorrowful scrutiny. He wasn't sure what he had expected to find here—self-righteousness, perhaps, certainly arrogance and condescension—but not the serenity emanating from this mild-mannered old patriarch.

“You may say whatever you wish to me, young man. I probably deserve the worst of it. But we can save each other a great deal of time if you'll simply listen to me first, and listen with an open mind.”

Morgan stared silently at him.

“I wanted to see you,” Nelson said, ignoring Morgan's sullenness, “to tell you I am sorry for whatever pain I caused your father, as well as you and your brother.”

Morgan found himself wondering if the old man was dying and this was his idea of a deathbed confession. But he did not look to be dying, and he did not seem the type to make superficial confessions even if he were. He remained silent, waiting.

“As I explained in my letter, I was a pompous fool when I was a younger man, but to be fair you must realize I was a victim of my own upbringing and environment. I thought my daughter's love for your father was irresponsible and foolish. I handled it miserably and then was too proud to do anything about it. One thing you must believe,” he said, looking up from his hands, “your grandmother and I would have been good to you and your brother had Aidan not run off with you. Our willingness to raise you both was quite genuine.”

Morgan spoke for the first time since the old man had begun. “A magnanimous gesture, I am sure. You hoped to save us from our Irishness, from Rome—and at the same time, from the devil,” he bit out resentfully. “All by separating us from our father.”

To his surprise, the old man did not argue. “That was a part of it, I imagine. And, of course, I simply lost my head altogether when Aidan ran off with the two of you and the money we'd given him—”

“Aye,” Morgan broke in roughly, “thanks to you, we all went on the road like animals.”

“Yes. And that was shameful.” Nelson stopped and looked away for a moment before turning back to face Morgan. “I will tell you once more, just as I told you in my letter—I am deeply sorry. I was a fool, and I realize I caused a great deal of pain for you, for
all
of you. I shall go to my grave regretting any hurt I brought upon you and your brother.”

“My brother is dead,” Morgan said flatly. “As is my father.”

The old man's expression grew even more pained. “I know.”

“You wrote all this in your letter,” Morgan said impatiently. “Why, then, did you demand I come here?”

Nelson folded his hands, his eyes going over Morgan's face as if to measure what he saw there. “I know before I answer that you will not believe me. But I swear to you that I am telling you the truth, and I mean every word of it with all my heart. Promise me you will listen and say nothing until I am done.”

Shifting from one foot to the other, Morgan gave a grudging nod of assent.

For a moment the old man's eyes took on a distant, haunted expression, as if his thoughts had temporarily wandered past this room to a far-away place. “I have spent most of my life in this country. Indeed, it has become
my
country, in a way I cannot explain. It means far more to me than England ever did. I have grown to love the land, and, believe it or not, the people.”

He leaned forward, regarding Morgan with frank directness. “At the same time,” he went on, “I have come to know great sorrow over what the country of my birth—England—has done to this land. Out of old prejudices and ignorance and indifference, England has run roughshod over this small and ancient island, trampling an entire noble race into the dirt.”

The old gentleman now had Morgan's undivided attention, if not his trust.

“I am nearing the end of my years, and over the last half dozen of them I've become much better acquainted with the God to whom I once gave only lip service. Much to my surprise, I've found great joy in becoming His friend, as well as trying to be an obedient son. Perhaps that's why He's gradually, over the past few months, chosen to show me at least a small part of His concern and love for this island.”

Morgan drew his hands into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

Nelson nodded, as if sensing the younger man's cynicism. “I know,” he said, smiling sadly. “It's difficult for you to believe that God would reveal His love for Ireland to an Englishman. Still, it's true. He has shown me, during my times alone with Him, that the tragedy of Ireland grieves His heart. I long to do whatever I can to make a difference on this island, but I'm afraid there's very little I
can
do, with my health failing as it is. Therefore, I need to look to someone else, someone with the youth and energy to accomplish what I cannot.”

He paused, then with a sweep of one hand, said, “Morgan, please—won't you at least sit down? I won't keep you much longer if you choose to go.”

Morgan hesitated, but finally dropped down onto the chair the old man indicated.

“I want you to know that I've made you my heir. My only heir.”

Morgan gripped both arms of the chair, half rising. “You—
no
! I don't want a shilling from you!”

Again came a wan smile. “I understand. But it's not entirely for you. That's why I asked you to come, so I can explain.”

Morgan frowned skeptically, but relaxed into the seat again.

“I have been reading your writings,” said the old man with a look that conveyed genuine admiration and interest. “In fact, once I learned who you were, I made it my business to read everything you've written—your poems, your essays, your songs—everything I could put my hands to. Actually, that was what motivated me to demand that you refrain from your…illegal activities. I could not bear the thought that such a valiant heart and a mighty pen would be silenced on the gallows.”

Still, Morgan waited, trying to steel himself against the power of the old man's words.

“Morgan, we both know there is a planned rising, a rebellion that many of your friends are trying to foist upon the people. And we both know just as certainly that, if it comes, it will fail—and very possibly destroy any future Ireland might have as a free country.”

Morgan softened enough to nod his agreement.

Encouraged, the old man continued. “I am making you my heir because I believe with all my heart that you possess the wisdom, the genius—and the
love
for this suffering island—to make a difference. Men like you can speak to the hatred that has been the root of Ireland's struggles for centuries.”

When Morgan would have interrupted, Nelson put up a restraining hand. “It has been given many names, many guises, but at the heart of all the conflict and the anguish is
hatred.
It has
always
been hatred!” The old man leaned forward, his eyes burning. “Hatred between the English and the Irish. Between Protestant and Catholic. Between tenant and landlord. Hatred that repeats itself and feeds on itself from one generation after another.”