by BJ Hoff
“Evan—you foolish, foolish man!” she burst out, unable to stop the tears that spilled over with her words.
He blinked, looking altogether stunned. “Why, Nora, what did I—”
“You are my love, Evan Whittaker! You are my husband, my best friend—and my love! Don’t you understand? Yes, Morgan was the love of my girlhood. He was my hero-lad, the love of my youth. But, Evan, you—you are the love of my life!”
She stepped back from him, bringing her hands to her face. “There is something I would tell you, Evan,” she said, dropping her voice to little more than a whisper. “It shames me to admit such a thing, a thing better left a secret, but I will tell you in spite of my shame…because you deserve to know the truth.”
With a deep shudder, she dropped her hands away to face him directly. “Not only do I love you more than I ever loved Morgan Fitzgerald, but in truth I love you more than I loved Owen—Owen Kavanagh, my husband…and Daniel’s father. Do you hear me, Evan? Do you understand what I am saying to you? I…love…you…more! I have never loved any man as I love you, Evan Whittaker. And you must never dare to question my love again, after my telling you such a thing. Never!”
His features had gone slack, his skin chalk-white. With a stricken look, he reached to draw her to him. But Nora resisted, searching his eyes for something she could not quite define.
“Oh, Nora…dearest…can you forgive me? I’m so sorry! I have been foolish, and now look what it’s cost you.” He stopped. “Nora—thank you! Thank you for telling me something so…private. You can’t imagine how m-much it means to me, hearing those words from you.”
Nora saw what she was looking for, the quiet assurance that had not been there before. She took a step toward him, then stopped. “You must promise you will never again doubt my love for you, Evan.”
He extended his hand to her. His eyes behind the spectacles were bright, glistening with some new light of confidence. “I promise, Nora. I do.”
Nora felt spent, but strangely relieved to have finally spoken such a stark truth about her feelings. Warmed by the assurance her confession seemed to have inspired in Evan, she moved into his embrace.
For a moment they stood, saying nothing, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. “Nora?” Evan finally said. “Though I’ve promised never again to question how m-much you love me, I wonder…do you suppose you m-might just remind me every now and then?”
Nora smiled to herself, then lifted her face for his kiss.
Morgan and his entire entourage had been on deck for well over an hour, awaiting their first sight of the American shoreline.
All about them the water was polluted with debris, refuse thrown overboard from emigrant ships entering New York Harbor. Apparently this was a common practice.
Terrible things bobbed up and down with the current, forcing one to look away. Morgan could not help but cringe at the sight. He was accustomed to the clean waters of Ireland, had not imagined that his first look at the States would include the carelessly dumped garbage of her newest arrivals.
At least the ship on which they had crossed had strict regulations about such negligence. All round, the Destiny was a wondrous improvement over what he had been told about other vessels, especially the British emigrant ships on which bodies were herded together in steerage like cattle, doomed to pass the entire voyage in squalor and filth and disease.
The Destiny was a new vessel, reputedly the fastest of the Farmington line, and clean, with spacious quarters for all. Morgan had not been able to descend into steerage, but Sandemon had gone as his emissary and found the emigrant bunks more than adequate.
It would seem that Michael’s father-in-law was a man of conscience. In the beginning, Morgan had found it difficult to accept Farmington’s offer of free cabin passage on his newest packet. He had always assumed that if he ever made the crossing to America, he would make it as most of his people had before him: in the dank, mean quarters of steerage, suffering the same desperate conditions.
But back then he had not known that he would make the voyage as a crippled man in a wheelchair, with a wife and two children. After reluctantly accepting Lewis Farmington’s largesse, he had been gratified to learn that the man kept a decent ship, with fair conditions for all, even the exiles. It would have seemed obscene to travel in comfort while other poor wretches suffered in misery below.
It was an auspicious morning for their arrival, clear with a brilliant autumn sun overhead, and brisk without being chill. They began to see other vessels at a distance, heard murmuring all round that they were close now, approaching land.
They were all eager, none more so than Annie, who was fairly dancing with anticipation. Gabriel, held securely in Sandemon’s sturdy arms, was growing restless, but Morgan insisted the boy remain on deck. Although Gabriel was likely too young to recall this early glimpse of the States, the memory would still be his own, tucked away in that deepest part of the mind that time and change could not alter.
Beside Morgan, on his left, stood Finola, her hand clasping his shoulder. Her usual serenity seemed to have vanished as her anticipation grew.
He lifted his hand to cover hers. “So, macushla, are you eager?”
“I am,” she said, sounding slightly breathless. “I have dreamed of seeing America, but never thought it would come to pass.” She paused. “But you, Morgan—you must find the waiting unbearable. In no time now you will be reunited with your friends and your little niece.”
“Not so little by now, I’ll warrant.” Mentally, he calculated Johanna’s years. “Johanna and our Aine are close on the same age, thirteen years.”
“Shall we be friends, do you think, Seanchai?” Annie spoke up. “Your niece, Johanna, and I?”
His daughter’s voice sounded somewhat anxious, and Morgan realized anew what a momentous event this was for her. “I can’t think anything else, alannah,” he said. “But you recall that Johanna cannot hear? You must remember to face her when you speak so that she can read the words on your lips.”
“But she does speak?”
“By God’s grace, she does, though there’s no telling how well. It has been only a short time since she discovered she had a voice.”
“No doubt she will be wild to see you again, Morgan,” Finola said.
“I only hope she will remember me.”
He spoke more to himself than to the others standing nearby, but Sandemon had heard him. “Blood remembers,” the black man said quietly. “It has not been so long ago, after all, that you parted.”
“Aye, but a few years can make a large difference to the young. And she has never seen me in the chair.”
“I doubt that your niece will even take note of the wheelchair,” Annie said brightly, as if she already knew Johanna and held a good opinion of her. “She will be far too happy to see you again to bother about anything else.”
Morgan nodded, determined not to surrender to the veiled melancholy that had been nipping at the heels of his spirit most of the morning. He had resolved upon sailing that he would not allow thoughts of the pending surgery—if indeed there were to be a surgery—to cloud the enjoyment and high spirits of his family during the crossing.
Soon now, this very day, he would be reunited with friends and family. Michael. Nora. Johanna and Daniel John. The delightful Whittaker.
Moreover, steps had already been taken by Michael’s father-in-law and a clergyman-friend of the family to bring Joseph Mahon’s famine diary to the attention of an American publisher. There seemed to be real hope for the diary’s publication—reason enough in itself for this voyage, to Morgan’s way of thinking. If he accomplished nothing else than getting the truth about England’s perfidy and unconscionable indifference past the British press, the journey would be well-served.
Throughout the coming days he would be in the company of loved ones as he explored this vigorous, important new nation about which he had read volumes. Perhaps he would also meet people of consequence who might make a di
fference for Ireland.
So, while it was true that a dark unknown—perhaps even a dread unknown—awaited him further on in this adventure, he would not dwell on it today. Today he would discover America.
Land! someone down the deck shouted. Someone else took up the call, and the words rolled across the ship like thunder claps. America! By the grace of God! America at last!
Morgan felt a thrill ripple through him. He gripped Finola’s hand more tightly as his gaze swept their surroundings. He had not expected to see so many hills, all splashed with vivid autumn hues. The waters were placid, though dotted with countless other vessels. Clippers and longboats. Smaller craft, some flying medical flags, zigzagged in and out among the larger ships. A few emigrant vessels bravely displayed tattered banners of green and gold, along with laundry hung on the rigging: Ireland’s tattered frieze and frayed red petticoats, mostly.
From Michael’s description Morgan knew they were passing through the Narrows, the channel running between Staten Island and Brooklyn. The docks had come into view, teeming with people and activity.
The entire spectacle was bright and busy, a scene of energy and color and excitement.
Breathtaking!
The steerage passengers had come above decks, and everywhere people embraced and wept and called out to one another. Some fell to their knees and gave thanks, while others stood in mute amazement.
Morgan felt Finola’s hand in his tighten still more. Behind him, he heard Sandemon’s deep-chested “Ah!” and turned to see his comrade lift wee Gabriel high on the wide expanse of his shoulders.
“Do you see, Gabriel?” Morgan shouted above the din all around them. “We have come to America! Remember this day, lad, for one day you can claim knowledge of a country known above all others. This nation of exiles is called the Golden Shore, the Land of Liberty.”
With his face still set on the docks just ahead, he murmured to himself: “Aye, she is all that and more, this gracious land. To the millions, she has become a door to hope, a promise, a gift of God. And may she always be so.”
35
Welcome to New York
There are those in this city who would brighten, to me,
the darkest winter-day that ever glimmered…
and before whose presence even Home grew dim…
CHARLES DICKENS (1812–1870)
FROM AMERICAN NOTES
Thanks to the forethought and influence of Lewis Farmington, the Fitzgerald party was passed through the usual debarkation procedures with extreme ease and all possible speed.
As soon as Sandemon wheeled him down the gangplank, Morgan began to search the crowds for a familiar face. Nora, of course, he would recognize, no doubt Johanna and Daniel John as well. But he knew it was unlikely that he would be able to locate Michael in a horde such as this, not after twenty years.
Finola and Annie, eyes wide, had come to a stop beside him. Gabriel stood between the two, his arms stretched upward, a hand securely anchored in each one of theirs.
The docks were so dense with milling crowds that it was virtually impossible to move more than a few feet in any direction. Although Morgan had heard any number of tales about the bedlam that greeted passengers leaving the ships in New York, nothing could have prepared him for the reality.
The cacophony of shouting and weeping battled with the sound of running feet tearing off down the wharves and the sailors’ boisterous exchange ringing back and forth from adjoining ships. Morgan’s ear singled out at least six foreign tongues, as well as all manner of accents and brogues, the most common by far being Irish.
In only moments he saw the runners Michael had described in his letters: hard-looking men with knives between their teeth or an occasional musket in hand, literally shoving people aside in their haste to board the ships or hawk their services to disembarking passengers. Most of the bounders were Irish themselves, knaves who preyed on unsuspecting emigrants from their own country. Greedy and brutal, they would stop at nothing, would even seize an entire family’s belongings as a means of forcing them into their “protection,” then promptly lead them off the docks to an abysmal boardinghouse or tenement run by other pirates like themselves.
One such scoundrel came snaking his way through the crowd at that very moment, jostling the wheelchair, stopping only long enough to level an oath at Morgan. Sandemon reached one large hand to the blackguard’s shoulder to stop him, but Morgan gestured to let him go.
“Have a care,” he muttered to his friend. “According to Michael, a black man does not dare to lay a hand on a white for any reason, not even here in New York.”
Sandemon looked at him, and Morgan wondered if they weren’t both thinking the same thing: that even in this land of liberty, freedom had its limits.
Carefully, he tucked his harp next to him in the chair—he had not been willing to trust it with the rest of the baggage—then stretched his neck in an effort to scan the dense throngs of people lining the docks. It was almost impossible to see anything, and after being caught in the same place for more than ten minutes, they made their way a little farther down the docks.
By now Gabriel was growing agitated from the noise and confusion. No doubt the tyke was hungry as well. In any event, he began to set up a fuss of his own. Finola lifted him into her arms and tried to quiet him, but he went on squirming.
Morgan knew it wouldn’t take long before Finola also would react to the clamor and chaos. Uncomfortable in crowds, she could quickly become unnerved by excessive noise and disturbance.
He supposed it had been sheer presumption on his part, expecting that someone would be here to greet them. Their arrival had been delayed past the initial date, after all. The storms they encountered early on had slowed their speed considerably. Nonetheless, he could not curb an edge of disappointment. It would have been a cheering sight to find some welcoming smiles amid the crowd.
That not being the case, he decided the sensible thing to do was to hire a conveyance to take them to Michael’s house. He turned to say as much to Sandemon. At the same instant his attention was diverted by a commotion off to his left. A broad-shouldered fellow with dark hair and a moustache came whipping down the docks, parting the crowds to make his own lane, leading what looked to be a small procession behind him. He scowled as he came, threading himself and his party past one startled bevy of onlookers after another, waving his hand like a warning.
As he drew closer, Morgan could see that the fellow held what appeared to be some sort of badge, star-shaped, of copper tint. This must be one of the New York City “coppers,” one of Michael Burke’s number. A strapping fellow, he appeared altogether hard and sturdy—not brutish at all, in fact, rather dashing, but with an edge of flint about him that clearly said he was not a man to be trifled with.
Morgan’s glance strayed to the others in the fellow’s wake. With his vantage point obscured by the crowds, he could make out very little: two women, a girl with gleaming red hair, followed by a distinguished-looking man, obviously a gentleman, a younger lad, and a thin-faced fellow with spectacles and a beard.
He craned his neck to follow the progress of the approaching train. Only when his gaze lighted on one of the two women did his senses quicken. There was something about the diminutive stature and uncertain tilt of the head…
Morgan tensed, glancing to the others. The bearded man had an empty sleeve, neatly pinned to his jacket, and he carried a babe against his other shoulder. His eyes went to the tall youth with the head of raven curls, then back to the women, one of whom walked with a slight limp. Finally he turned his gaze to the fellow blazing the way for the others—the snapping dark eyes, the roguish good looks, the air of authority.
He gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles cracked. They were almost upon him now, Morgan held his breath.
They stopped, and Morgan snapped his head up, his eyes sweeping the lot of them. At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the small woman step out from the others. At her side was t
he tall youth with the long, handsome face and curly hair.
No…it could not be…she was too thin, had too much silver in her hair…the boy was too tall, too mature, a man grown.
He stared at them both, and recognition hit him like a hammer blow.
Nora squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, grasping Daniel John’s hand before stepping out to approach Morgan. She must not, would not, allow him to see the pain that had seized her when she caught her first glimpse of his once vigorous body now confined to the wheelchair.
Other than the legs that would no longer support him, he seemed to have changed scarcely at all. The great, noble head, the flaming copper hair and darker beard, the soul-piercing green eyes, the aura of strength and power—all the attributes about the man that gave him the bearing of an ancient chieftain, a Celtic prince, seemed to have endured, unchanged.
Yet he sat immobile, a stricken giant, a fallen hero. But he is still Morgan, she reminded herself, and he must never see the pity that wrenched her heart as she drew near to him.
“Nora,” he said softly. “Ah, Nora, ma girsha. ’Tis really you. I am so glad, so very glad to see you at last.”
He held out his hands to her. Nora tried to speak his name, but managed only a strangled sob. She hesitated only for an instant before leaning to press her cheek to his, accepting his embrace for what it was—a kind of homecoming, the welcome of a long-time friend and brother.
Daniel had all he could do not to crumble at the sight of Morgan in the wheelchair. It had been three years since he had last seen the hero of his boyhood, the one man he had respected and loved as much as his own departed father.
For years Morgan Fitzgerald had been a giant in his eyes. He was a powerfully set man, and most of the other youths in Killala had admired him, but Daniel’s admiration and respect went far beyond an appreciation of Morgan’s forbidding stature and breadth of shoulder. Daniel had esteemed Morgan for his intelligence, his wit, his daring, the reckless courage that had helped to keep at least a part of the village from total starvation.
