Song of the Silent Harp

by BJ Hoff

  The words Morgan had spoken the night of Ellie’s wake returned again, as they often had in the days since. They didn’t actually help to ease the worrying, and certainly they answered none of his questions. Yet Daniel found an inexplicable measure of comfort when he considered them. Somehow the words relieved his need to blame God, thereby allowing him to maintain faith in the Lord’s compassion. He sensed there was much, much more to Morgan’s words than he’d so far been able to glean, some important truth that continued to elude him.

  Perhaps, he thought with a sigh, he simply needed to pray harder about it. Grandfar said too much thinking was a waste, that time and effort were far better spent on one’s knees. But Daniel found it virtually impossible to separate the two. It seemed his thoughts were forever interfering with his prayers.

  A frigid blast of wind-driven snow shook him out of his reverie for the time being, and he hurried on. He passed half a dozen scalpeens on the way to Thomas Fitzgerald’s cabin. Their numbers were increasing every day. The hastily built lean-tos were thrown together from whatever thatch and beams and rafters could be salvaged, then anchored against a roadside bank or stone ledge to secure them. Inadequate as they were for one alone, most were crowded with whole families and sometimes even a “lodger” or two. In these hard times, the people inside the rude shelters counted themselves fortunate to have even this much respite from the weather.

  Hunched stiffly against the shrieking wind and snow, Daniel was eager for some shelter of his own. His boots, entirely too small for his feet, were worn so thin they provided little protection. His cramped toes felt like chunks of ice, and his stomach was empty, making him lightheaded and a bit queasy. He felt a growing need to see Morgan, and he prayed his friend might have returned by now.

  Veering across the road, he started through the field leading to the Fitzgerald cabin. In truth, the “cabin” was little more than a hut in the hollow of a hill. Its walls were shaped by the hillside itself, its front made of mud, its roof sparsely thatched with fern and straw.

  Deep ice-glazed ruts in the field sucked at Daniel’s feet, slowing him down and freezing his toes. He lifted his face to catch some snow in his mouth, hoping to appease the gnawing in his belly; instead, he caught a sharp breath at the sight of the doctor’s trap in front of the Fitzgerald place.

  His heart pounding, he began to run. Catherine Fitzgerald had been poorly most of the winter; Daniel had heard his mother voice her concern more than once about her friend’s failing health. If the doctor were there, it could only mean Catherine had taken a turn for the worse.

  He gave a perfunctory knock, then opened the door and stepped inside. The Kavanaghs and Fitzgeralds went in and out of each other’s dwellings freely, like family. His automatic greeting of “God bless all here” met no response, for the only Fitzgerald in sight was ten-year-old Johanna, who was both deaf and mute. She stood staring at Daniel, a fist stuffed against her mouth. Thinner yet than her older sister, Katie, the girl looked pale and not entirely well. Her torn frieze dress, mended more times than the cloth could bear, hung on her like a sack, and her dark red hair was tangled and wild. Her face was so pinched and pale that the freckles banding the bridge of her nose appeared almost black.

  Daniel gave her a smile, but she didn’t respond. He was struck by a keen sense of something wrong. The cabin was silent. Silent and cold. No family was gathered about the table, and the peat fire had gone out. There was no sign of life, except for Johanna, who stood still as a stone, watching Daniel with frightened eyes.

  The Fitzgeralds were a family given to noisy laughter and much teasing—all except for Thomas, who tended to be solemn. Their cabin was normally a loud and lively place, even in these bitter times. The present hush was entirely unnatural, and Daniel’s apprehension sharpened still more.

  At that moment the curtain at the back of the room parted, and Katie Fitzgerald appeared. As soon as Daniel saw her red-rimmed eyes, he knew she had been crying.

  As if anticipating the reason for Daniel’s visit, she shook her head. “Morgan isn’t back yet, Daniel John.”

  “But the doctor is here, I see.”

  Katie nodded. “Mum is awful sick again, she is.”

  She came the rest of the way into the room then, and Daniel frowned at her appearance. A terrible pallor had settled over her skin, fading it to an almost unhealthy gray. Her face and neck were thin, almost transparent; she looked sad and troubled and somewhat ill.

  “Where is your da?” Daniel asked, looking around the room.

  Johanna came to stand beside her older sister, and Katie clasped her hand. “He took Little Tom to stay with the grandmother, so he wouldn’t be pestering Mum.” She paused and her voice faltered. “And…and then he was to go for Father Joseph.”

  Daniel looked at her with dismay.

  “Dr. Browne said he should.” Katie’s voice had dropped to little more than a whisper.

  Daniel stood staring at the two sisters, not knowing what to say. Katie’s reddish-blonde hair was damp around her thin face, her eyes desperate. At her side, Johanna continued to stare down at the floor, clinging to Katie’s hand.

  If the Hunger could fell the once strong and steady Catherine Fitzgerald, how much more easily could it devastate his small, frail mother?

  Unbidden, the question struck Daniel with a force that made him sway. For one dreadful moment he wanted to run, to flee the Fitzgeralds and their tragedy. But the look of utter helplessness and pleading in Katie’s face held him captive.

  Johanna was tugging demandingly at her sister, whining in an odd, voiceless manner, but Katie seemed scarcely aware of her presence. “Daniel John…do you think you could go for your mother? Perhaps it would help Mum if Aunt Nora were here…They’re such friends…”

  “Aye, I’ll go straightaway. Katie, I—” At a loss, Daniel fumbled for some word of comfort. Finding none, he simply repeated, “I’ll go now.”

  Ashamed of his eagerness to get away, he turned and started for the door, willing himself not to run.

  As soon as he closed the door behind him, however, he did run. Paying no heed to his half-frozen feet or the sharp wind knifing his face, he ran as fast as he could over the field to the road. He ran until he thought his chest would explode, furious with himself for his lack of courage.

  I don’t understand You, God. Why are You letting this happen to Catherine…to Katie and—and to all of us? You’re allowing the good to die with the bad, and even if You’re not the one doing the killing, You’re letting it happen, and that’s the same now, isn’t it? It’s not fair! You know it isn’t the least bit fair to take mothers from their children and let little babes die. What have we done to make You turn on us so, to make You so angry with all Ireland? Don’t You see what is happening to us? Don’t You care?

  It was almost dusk as Morgan tramped the last half mile toward his brother’s cabin. He was relieved to be back in the village, though disgruntled that his expedition had not been as successful as he’d hoped. His men had given generously of their meager supply, but they, too, had families to feed—some, entire villages.

  There were few ships to plunder on these stormy winter waters, and those that did brave the sea usually did so with naval escorts. Ever since the looting in Blacksod Bay a few months past, the government had been more cautious with their sea trafficking. Still, the lads had provided him with a measure of barley, flour, and dried beef. Morgan had carefully limited his portion, taking only what he could carry on his back; he dared not chance discovery of his mount, leaving it, as always, with his men in the hills.

  He neither knew nor cared which particular land agent might be short a few head of cattle or a barrel of flour. He had closed the door on any personal guilt when he’d come to grips with the truth about England’s handling of the famine: While Ireland starved, British ships sailed out of her harbors with enough Irish-grown oats and wheat and cattle in a year’s time to feed twice the population of the entire island.

  Other
countries—France, Germany, Holland—had also suffered from the potato blight during the last year, but these, not being ruled by the British, stopped all exports of other food at once in order that their own people would not go hungry. Not so in Ireland. Under the pitiless hand of British rule, tons of home-grown food left the country’s harbors every day on British ships, leaving the already starving Irish to survive on nothing but their failed potato crop. Even the grain stored in the farmers’ barns was not available to the people; it was marked for rent, to be collected by the agents, while the very ones who had grown it died lingering deaths from the Hunger.

  No, Morgan no longer allowed his conscience to keep him awake nights with recriminations. He had no illusions about the road he had taken: He was a wordsmith turned outlaw, a patriot turned rebel, and if he were caught he would die at the end of a rope.

  If he were caught…

  Should that be the case, he suspected that even the Young Ireland movement—which presently viewed him as an influential, if not entirely irreproachable, member—might be less than eager to claim him as well. All the essays and verses he had written for their journal, The Nation—not to mention the funds he and his lads had poured into their coffers—would not inspire them to come to the rescue of a common brigand. While he had done his part to convince Ireland’s masses that “peaceful negotiation” with Britain would never bring about a free Ireland, his writings stopped a bit short of the militant, inflammatory tirades some members of the movement would have preferred. He was no favorite of Mitchel or Thomas Meagher, and the fanatical Lalor despised him.

  In truth, the entire movement had progressed to an extremism Morgan found both ineffective and foolhardy, and The Nation was fueling its fire. He had held both its chief contributor, the now deceased Thomas Davis, and its founder, Charles Gavan Duffy, in high regard. But besides himself, only a few supporters, like Smith O’Brien, still shared the original concepts on which the Young Ireland movement had been founded—that of an Ireland with its own identity, a right to its independence, and a nationalism of the spirit that would embrace both Protestant and Catholic, peasantry and gentry.

  No, there would be little help for him from the movement. No matter; he wrote what he wrote, not for the movement, but for himself and the few in the country who still wanted to hear the truth. As for the rest of his “labors,” he liked to think they were for those who were too weak or oppressed to save themselves. And, of course, for those few he loved: Thomas and Catherine, their little ones…and Nora and her lads.

  He had reached the top of the hill behind his brother’s cabin now and, stopping, he shifted the bag of provisions from one shoulder to the other. He frowned when he saw no sign of life below—no smoke from the fire, nobody moving about. But in the remaining gray mist of evening he could just make out blurred hoofprints and tracks from a carriage.

  His uneasiness grew as he stared down at the desolate-looking cabin. Finally he moved, taking the hill at a leap, sliding most of the way down in his urgency to reach the bottom.

  He knew it was bad as soon as he was through the door. Thomas sat at the table with Johanna in his arms, both of them weeping. His brother’s face was stricken, his eyes stunned and vacant.

  Then he saw Nora Kavanagh, and knew it all. Joseph Mahon was leading her and Katie from the curtained room at the back. Nora’s thin shoulders were stooped beneath the priest’s supportive arm, and she was sobbing quietly. The silver-haired Mahon met Morgan’s gaze with a sorrowful shake of his head.

  Swallowing down his own sense of loss—for he had set a great store by Catherine, fine Christian woman that she was—Morgan dropped his bag onto a chair by the door, then crossed the room to Thomas. His brother wiped his eyes and grabbed for Morgan’s hand; Morgan could feel the wet from Thomas’s tears on his own skin. “She just…slipped away, Morgan. So quietly…so quickly…”

  Katie now came to stand beside Johanna, and Morgan released his brother to gather both little girls into his arms, giving them a hug and some feeble words of comfort before handing them back to their da. He turned and walked uncertainly toward Nora. When she lifted her face to look up at him, her grief was a raw, painful thing.

  Gently he eased her away from the priest, and she came to him with a choked sound of despair. As he held her, Morgan felt her trembling, sensed her frailty. The knife of sorrow dug even deeper into his heart, sharpened by a sudden thrust of fear for the small woman in his arms. Instinctively he tightened his embrace.

  “She is gone, Morgan. Catherine is gone.” Muffled against his chest, Nora’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Shhh, Nora.” He rested his chin gently on top of her head. “Catherine rests now. Her struggle is done.”

  While the priest prayed with Thomas and the girls, Nora went on crying softly in Morgan’s arms. He longed to console her, but at this moment he, who had spent most of his life fashioning just the right words for his feelings, could summon none at all to assuage her grief. He could only hold her steady and let her weep.

  After a time, her trembling subsided and she backed away, avoiding his eyes. “The old man is ailing now,” she said abruptly. “He took to his bed late this afternoon and has not got up since.”

  “Old Dan?” Morgan frowned. He shouldn’t be surprised; the elderly and small children were among those hardest hit by the Hunger and its companion diseases. But Big Dan Kavanagh had always seemed as invincible as the mountains of Mayo themselves, as enduring as the round tower on Steeple Hill.

  “I must get home,” Nora said, taking another step backward to free herself from his arms. “There’s no more I can do here for now, and I left Daniel John to see to Tahg and the grandfather.”

  Morgan nodded, noting the sooty smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the ashen pallor of her thin, drawn face. “I’ll see you home, then.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said stiffly.

  “It will soon be dark. Besides, you may need me to go for the doctor for Old Dan.”

  She shook her head. “I wanted to go myself this afternoon, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Even so, I’ll see you home.”

  She looked at him, saying nothing, then turned and went to have a word with Thomas.

  Outside, the last light of day had almost faded. The gloom-draped dusk was heavy with snow, and the sorrow from the cabin seemed to be carried on the wind.

  They walked along without speaking until Morgan broke the silence between them. “So then, how is Tahg? Any change at all?”

  Nora stumbled on a jutting ridge of ice, and he took her arm to steady her, tucking it firmly inside his own. “He’s so terribly weak,” she answered worriedly. “It’s as though he’s coughed away all his strength and has no more left inside himself. He coughs all the time now, night and day. The medicine Dr. Browne left with us doesn’t seem to help at all.”

  Morgan pressed her hand. “This cold weather is hard on a cough. Sure, and he’ll do better once spring comes.”

  When she said nothing, he added, “You must get some rest yourself, Nora. You’ll be no help to your family if you’re ill.”

  She gave a small, apathetic shrug but didn’t answer. Morgan felt her shiver and attempted to pull her closer to his side, but she firmly resisted.

  “It was all so much easier when we were young,” he said with a sigh, primarily to himself. He was remembering other walks they had taken through the snow, in happier days. “Life was kinder then.”

  “For you, perhaps,” she said tersely. “I hated being a child.” He looked at her. “Because of your mother.” It was no question, merely a statement of what they both knew.

  “There was that,” she said quietly. He winced at the hurt in her voice, remembering all too clearly Nora’s shame.

  “Nobody thought the less of you for her, Nora,” he said awkwardly, meaning it.

  “Nor the better of me either, I’m sure.” A harsh, choked sound of derision escaped her.

  “Many tho
ught you were a grand girl,” Morgan said evenly after a moment. “I, for one. And Michael, another.”

  He could scarcely hear her reply, so soft were her words. “Aye, I remember.”

  He looked down at her, but her eyes were fixed straight ahead. “Have you heard from him of late?” she asked.

  “Michael? Not since last fall.”

  “And both of us playing the fools over you.” He said it quietly, not thinking. She didn’t seem to hear. If Nora was remembering, she was keeping her thoughts to herself.

  A ghost of a smile touched the corners of her mouth as if she, too, were remembering. “You were the lads, the two of you. You, always in trouble, with Michael guarding your back.”

  Where had it gone, that time in the sun? The years of being young and brimming with life, when every wish was a promise and every dream still within reach…when Nora had been but a slip of a lass, with him and Michael standing as tall as heroes in her eyes?

  Ah, where had it gone…and so quickly?

  Where have the years gone? Nora wondered, a terrible sense of loss pervading her spirit. Had it really been so long ago that the three of them roamed the village as childhood friends and adventurers?

  They had been great companions, those three, young and more than a little foolish at times, but faithful one to the other for all their youthful follies…so different in so many ways, and yet somehow so close in spirit that each could finish the other’s thoughts.

  Nora had been in Killala first, before either Michael or Morgan. Born in the village, the only other town she had ever stepped foot in was Ballina. She was a child of shame, the oldest of four children, all born on the wrong side of the blanket to a woman who was the scandal of the village. Their father had been a womanizing British sailor who promised Nora’s mother the stars and delivered only stones. It was thought he had left a wife in England, for when Nora was eight years old he went back to the sea and never returned.