Dawn of the Golden Promise

by BJ Hoff

  Tierney would come home. And when he did, he would find his family waiting.

  46

  Morgan’s Star

  You are God’s smile upon my life,

  My soul’s bright star, my joy…my wife.

  MORGAN FITZGERALD (1850)

  The late Christmas Eve supper had proved to be a splendid idea, everyone in attendance agreed.

  Seated at the long dining table in the vast hall, each family member and friend seemed relaxed and aglow with the season’s cheer. A profusion of evergreens, berries, and dried flowers sprayed seasonal colors about the room. Daniel Kavanagh’s Christmas harp, which by now had become an annual tradition, rested proudly at the front of the hall, its frame decorated with colored ribbons, Christmas greens, and tinsel.

  The food was lavish—baked hams and roasted turkeys, scalloped corn and candied sweet potatoes, oysters and dressing and an endless assortment of baked goods. A feast!

  Gifts were abundant. Smiles were bright. Hearts were warm.

  It was Christmas.

  Morgan felt as if he might have been seated at his own table, back home at Nelson Hall, so good and natural was it to be in the midst of these loved ones this night, after so long a time. Beside him, Finola was radiant, her skin aglow, her eyes reflecting the light of the candles that blazed throughout the spacious room. Each time their eyes chanced to meet, she would smile and discreetly slip her hand into his beneath the table.

  The last dessert had been cleared away, and gifts were now being exchanged in earnest. Both table and floor were strewn with bright wrappings and ribbons. There was much reminiscing between the opening of packages, much laughter as well.

  All of them were here tonight: the Fitzgeralds, the Burkes, the Whittakers, the Farmingtons, Sara’s grandmother. Sandemon, who, to Morgan’s relief and satisfaction, had been specially invited to join in the circle of friends and family. Only wee Gabriel and his new friend, Teddy, after having an early meal and the Nativity Story read from the Scriptures, had been put to bed in anticipation of Christmas morning.

  With so many gathered in one room, noise and confusion naturally reigned, but nobody seemed to mind. As Morgan sat, allowing his gaze to travel round the table, taking in each smile, each bright expression, he knew an almost overwhelming sense of well-being. His only disappointment had been the absence of one invited guest: Jakob Gunther.

  Strange, how keenly he felt the absence of the physician. With Sara and Michael’s permission, he had issued an invitation to Gunther, knowing full well the man might laugh in his face. The holy significance of Christmas Eve would mean nothing to the unbelieving surgeon, of course. Yet he genuinely wished Gunther had come.

  He had prepared himself for the surgeon’s rejection; he would not have blinked if the man had openly mocked him. What he had not been prepared for was Gunther’s awkwardness in the face of the invitation.

  The man had appeared ill at ease entirely, even embarrassed, his eyes darting every which way, his reply mumbled. “Most kind of you, I’m sure, but I doubt that I can manage it.”

  Morgan had not pressed, but had simply reminded Gunther that he would be more than welcome, and that Morgan personally would be gratified by his presence.

  The fact that Gunther had not come was certainly no surprise, but it was a disappointment. Yet the night was far too merry, too special, to allow himself to dwell on the surgeon’s absence.

  He glanced at Finola, beside him. She was dressed in an ice-blue gown, and she wore the ivory swan pendant that had been his wedding gift to her. On her right hand was the sapphire and diamond ring which he had presented her earlier in the evening. The ring had belonged to his great-grandmother and had been passed down through the family over the years. Morgan had brought it all the way from Ireland in anticipation of giving it to Finola at Christmas, in the event they remained in the States throughout the season.

  He leaned close to her, squeezing her hand. “You are the only woman I have ever known,” he murmured for her ear alone, “whose beauty makes even a sapphire go begging. You are a star, the brightest star of my world.”

  She smiled into his eyes. “The gift is too much, Morgan. It takes my breath away.”

  “As you do mine, macushla. But I have one more gift for you, one I saved for last.”

  Giving her no time to question him, Morgan glanced across the table to catch Sandemon’s eye. The black man gave a brief nod, then rose and left the room.

  Morgan watched him all the way out the door. When a figure appeared in the doorway a moment later, he was surprised to see, not Sandemon, but Robert, the elderly butler, ushering Jakob Gunther into the dining hall.

  The lean-faced surgeon stood, visibly uncomfortable, his gaze scanning the room. Under one arm he held a parcel, while with the other hand he nervously stroked his chin.

  A rush of pleasure swept over Morgan, and he lifted a hand to hail the surgeon. “Gunther! A grand surprise, this! Come in, come in!”

  At the same time, Lewis Farmington and Michael rose to receive Gunther and escort him to the table, where a maid hurried to add a place across from Morgan and Finola.

  “You have missed the meal,” Morgan said when the surgeon reached him. “But no matter. You will have a dessert, at least.”

  “No, please, don’t trouble yourself for me,” Gunther protested. “I intended to arrive earlier, but was delayed by an emergency at Bellevue. I apologize for the lateness of the hour.”

  Morgan somehow believed the surgeon was sincere, that he had in fact intended to come earlier. He quickly moved to reassure him. “’Tis not late at all. And I am delighted you’ve come. This is an informal gathering, to say the least, Gunther. You will feel like family in no time.”

  The surgeon looked at Morgan steadily. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know much about that sort of thing,” he said, “having never had a family.” He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with the exposure of this human facet of experience.

  Oh, the questions Morgan could have asked, had the time and place been right! As it was, he only managed to restrain himself with effort. “Well, then,” he said heartily, “our family is as good as any to take up with, I expect.”

  Gunther turned to Finola then, giving a stiff little bow. Morgan would not have been surprised had the man clicked his heels. “With your permission, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” the surgeon said formally, handing her the parcel he had brought with him into the room.

  Finola made a great fuss upon unwrapping the delicate French figurine. The surgeon seemed pleased by her delight, although at no time did he actually meet her eyes.

  Suddenly a thought struck Morgan. Perhaps Gunther was socially inept not because he was mean-spirited, but simply because he was unaccustomed to being with people. Perhaps the man was lonely. Morgan had no time to pursue that surprising thought, because at that moment he turned to see Sandemon coming back into the room, a sturdy pair of crutches in hand.

  The room seemed to hush all at once as others became aware of Sandemon’s entrance. Morgan felt Finola’s questioning eyes on him and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “The gift I promised you, Finola aroon. A gift especially for you.”

  He left her then, pushing away from the table and wheeling himself down the length of the dining hall to where Sandemon stood waiting.

  He brought the chair to a stop, and Sandemon bent to lock the wheels in place. The black man straightened and, as if he sensed Morgan’s sudden uncertainty, met his eyes and held them.

  “Remember, Seanchai, that you have already accomplished this many times before tonight. All the other times were for you. Tonight—tonight is for those who love you.”

  Morgan swallowed, then took a deep, steadying breath and gave a nod. “I am ready.”

  Sandemon’s strong hands grasped his, supporting him as Morgan slowly struggled to his feet.

  He was aware of the stirring in the room, the collective intake of breath, as he hauled himself upright and waited while Sandemon helped to adjust the
crutches under each arm.

  The braces concealed by his trouser legs felt heavier than they had during the practice sessions. His head was light, almost giddy, from the anxiety that had been driving him most of the evening.

  After one more long breath, Morgan slowly lifted his head to take in the crowded room. He saw the expressions on the faces turned in his direction, the mixture of shock and incredulity.

  He reminded himself that, as Sandemon said, he had done this many times, in the privacy of Sandemon’s bedchamber. Ever since the day some weeks before when he had known for certain that he had some control of his legs, he had strained and struggled and pushed himself beyond all limits. He had refused to tell anyone—other than Sandemon, of course. Not Finola, not Michael. No one. He was determined to be absolutely certain before revealing his secret.

  But now it was time. Finally, he took a step. Then another. He heard a soft cry, saw Finola come to her feet at the far end of the room. He stepped out again, now almost mindless of the weight of the braces on his legs, intent only upon setting one foot in front of the other as he began his slow walk to Finola.

  Finola stood, weeping as she watched him make his arduous way down the room.

  He wore a suit of soft fawn hue, much like his wedding suit. The coat strained at the seams with the effort of his massive shoulders as he applied the crutches. His steps were heavy, labored…but firm.

  He had thought she didn’t suspect. And at first she hadn’t. All those early mornings when Sandemon came to help him from the bed, then wheeled him quietly from the room, he had explained as “therapy.” And she had believed him, in the beginning.

  Only later, when in the night he would grow restless beside her…and move his legs…or when she heard the thumping noises in the next room…only then had she known.

  But she had also known it must be desperately important to him that he surprise her, and so she had kept her silence. She wanted this surprise for him as much as he apparently wanted it for her. And tonight, watching him strain toward her, seeing the blaze of determination and exultation in his eyes, she was infinitely grateful that she had protected his secret.

  Only in the vaguest sense was Morgan aware that, as he walked on, those seated at the table had risen to their feet. At the back of his mind, he recognized the sounds of soft weeping, the whispered cries of surprise, but so intent was he upon his journey that everything else in the room seemed to recede.

  He caught a glimpse of Annie, tears flowing from her dark eyes, both hands clenched to fists in front of her mouth.

  Aine, my daughter…this is for you…

  Michael stood, legs apart, both hands extended palms out, as if to catch Morgan if he chanced to fall. Morgan smiled, remembering the ever-watchful eye of the young Michael, who even as a lad back in Killala had looked to the safety of the younger children in the village.

  Michael…ah, Michael, friend of my boyhood, friend for a lifetime…this is for you…

  He passed by Nora and Evan, who looked as if they were locked together, weeping unabashedly, their smiles shining through their tears. With them, Johanna, her bright green eyes—so much like his own—shining, even as she sobbed.

  God bless you, my dear ones…friends, family, each precious one of you…this is for you…

  Everyone seemed to have moved back from the table, and he passed among them unhindered, heading for Finola. Unbelievably, they hailed him, cheering him on with their applause as he dragged one leg after another. Perspiration wreathed his forehead, and his heart thundered with the exertion, but he went on, setting each foot down with great care and determination.

  He looked at Jakob Gunther, and what he saw almost made him stumble. Gunther was on his feet, bringing his hands together slowly and deliberately in applause. Morgan was close enough now to see that the surgeon’s eyes, usually devoid of all emotion, were ablaze with what might have been a combination of pride and elation—and something else. Something indefinable, but which looked suspiciously like a kind of fierce admiration.

  As Morgan passed by him, the surgeon caught his eye and spoke one quiet word: “Bravo.”

  To Morgan, that one word of acclamation was a gift.

  He had almost reached Finola now. He saw her hands clasped tightly together over her heart, the flush upon her lovely face, the tears streaming from her eyes.

  She stepped out to meet him, and Morgan began to smile. He smiled, indeed could not stop smiling, as he finally reached the end of his long trek and came to a stop directly in front of her.

  Only once had he stood with her. On their wedding day. Sandemon had trussed him in iron to allow him to stand for the exchange of vows. But on that occasion, he had known that the moment was but a temporary grace, that he would return to the wheelchair as soon as the ceremony came to an end.

  Not so today.

  He spoke to her in the Irish, softly, for her alone. “This is for you, Finola aroon. Especially for you. Without you, it would never have been. You are my soul’s bright star, my joy.”

  “Oh, Morgan…” Her face as she lifted it to him was as radiant as if she had been painted by the sun. “My love, my life…”

  The applause had ended. The room was quiet again, except for a muffled sob here and there. Finola moved to embrace him, dampening his suit coat with her tears.

  Next came Annie, laughing and crying as she threw her arms about his waist.

  And then Morgan found himself surrounded, as they all came…Michael and Sara, Nora and Whittaker, Daniel John and Johanna…all of them, one after another, to embrace him in love, to share his joy, to wish him long life and good health and God’s grace.

  Through it all, Morgan stood beside his wife, stood as tall as he could manage, which felt very tall indeed.

  EPILOGUE

  One Faithful Harp

  One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

  One faithful harp shall praise thee!

  THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)

  March 1851

  To those passengers arriving in New York Harbor, as well as the countless numbers waiting to depart, the large party massed on the dock seemed to be individuals of some quality and influence—perhaps even royalty.

  Only upon closer appraisal could an alert bystander detect that the assembly responsible for the ceremonial fuss and flourish was made up, at least in part, of Irish persons. The ancient flag of Ireland, the gold harp on green silk, as well as the newer tricolor of green, white, and orange, waved in the morning breeze, along with America’s Stars and Stripes. A kilted piper stood off to himself, playing a number of the strange, droning tunes associated with the Hibernians.

  Odder still was the sight of two rows of young boys—a number of whom were black—mixed in with the respectably attired members of the assembly. Each boy held a banner of white silk, on which had been embroidered green shamrocks. Beside them stood a meek-looking, bearded man wearing spectacles—and with one empty sleeve where his left arm should have been.

  The unusual group had drawn close around a platform decorated with green bunting, while just outside their circle massed what looked to be a crowd of hundreds. Unsavory looking characters—immigrants, no doubt—pressed in among those of more reputable appearance.

  The focus of every eye was obviously the man on the platform—a rather rough-hewn sort, despite an adequately tailored brown suit and watered silk neckcloth. Even on crutches, the fellow looked to be a colossus of a man. With his wild copper hair blowing free in the morning wind, he was the embodiment of the bronze-bearded, craggy-faced chieftain sometimes portrayed in the history books.

  Behind the tall man on the platform stood a statuesque young woman, whose cloud of flaxen hair highlighted a face of breathtaking beauty. She held a child in her arms, obviously her own: a lovely, golden-haired boy who was the image of his mother. Beside them towered an impressive-looking black man in a seaman’s cap, and a young girl of saucy appearance, whose dark eyes fairly crackled with energy.

  The pi
per concluded his selection, and the copper-haired giant on the platform commenced to speak to the crowds milling about. He possessed a strong, robust voice of obvious Irish cadence, but—at least to the discerning ear—a voice which held a distinct note of educated refinement.

  Onlookers agreed that this was a very strange gathering for such an early hour, even in New York Harbor.

  Those in the crowd teeming about the platform had heard it said that Morgan Fitzgerald was not a man for speeches, although he had been known to hold forth in his younger years. But when word got out that Ireland’s most illustrious poet and Seanchai was about to leave New York for home, a number of representatives from the Irish and Irish-American communities had prevailed upon him to at least offer a word of encouragement to his people before departing.

  He spoke for a few moments about his impressions of New York. He went on to remark on what was coming to be called the “Irish contribution” to America. He talked about peace—and the lack thereof—in Ireland, his tone surprisingly free of anger or bitterness as he bluntly indicted the English Crown for the “policy of oppression and colonization which had victimized Ireland for centuries.” Even when he laid the blame for the Great Famine squarely at the feet of the British Empire, no resentment could be detected in that magnificent voice.

  At the end, as the Seanchai stood looking out over the vast ocean of faces lifted toward him, his final words rang out across the harbor like an anthem:

  “You ask me how your children and your children’s children can hope to avoid the same brutality, the same deprivation, the same bitter loss that you yourselves have endured…and survived. And I tell you that the hatred and division among all peoples—not only between Ireland and England, but in nations throughout the world—will never end until we finally come to understand that we are all children of one God—one Creator—whose heart breaks every time one of us wounds another.”