Song of the Silent Harp
Song of the
Silent Harp
This popular novel of the Famine period glows with love and faith amid the hardships, and even cruelty, of life under absentee landlords in nineteenth-century Ireland.
The author has created a cast of complex characters in a panorama that stretches from County Mayo to Dublin, London, and eventually New York, where the Kavanaghs are to work out their destiny.
All the color and imagery of a film enliven this story as it unfolds against a background of aborted revolution, disappointed love, the elemental struggle for life fulfillment in a harsh society.
Rarely has a novel captured so authentically the enduring faith of the Irish peasant that sustains Nora Kavanagh through the tribulation and struggle of that harrowing period.
A compelling and uplifting read that adds to an understanding of Ireland in the last century.
DR. EOIN MCKIERNAN,
FOUNDER IRISH AMERICAN CULTURAL INSTITUTE
The Emerald Ballad Series
BY BJ HOFF
Song of the Silent Harp
Heart of the Lonely Exile
Land of a Thousand Dreams
Sons of an Ancient Glory
Dawn of the Golden Promise
Song of the
Silent Harp
THE EMERALD BALLAD
BJ HOFF
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973,1978,1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
Verses marked AMP are taken from The Amplified Bible, Copyright © 1954,1958,1962,1964,1965,1987 by The Lockman Foundation. All rights reserved. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)
My Child by B.J. Hoff used by permission of Abbey Press. Reproduction prohibited except by written consent of Abbey Press, Saint Meinrad, Indiana.
With the exception of recognized historical figures, the characters in this novel are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The village of Killala in County Mayo, Ireland, does exist. The suffering that took place there during the Great Hunger of the 1840s was all too real, and has been documented in numerous journals. Nevertheless, it is depicted herein by fictional characters.
Cover by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota
Cover photos © iStockphoto; Thinkstockphotos; Shutterstock; Dreamstime; Stock.xchng
BJ Hoff: Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.biz.
Previously published as Song of the Silent Harp, book one of An Emerald Ballad series, Bethany House Publishers.
SONG OF THE SILENT HARP
Copyright © 1991 by BJ Hoff
Published 2010 by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hoff, B. J., 1940-
Song of the silent harp / BJ Hoff.
p. cm. — (The emerald ballad ; bk. 1)
ISBN 978-0-7369-2788-8 (pbk.)
1. Families—Ireland—Fiction. 2. Irish Americans—Fiction. 3. Ireland—History—Famine, 1845-1852—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.O34395S6 2010
813’.54—dc22
2010004618
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 / RDM-SK / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Jim—My Hero…
My Husband…My Best Friend.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My warmest thanks and appreciation to Harvest House Publishers for publishing this new edition of Song of the Silent Harp, the first book of The Emerald Ballad series, and for their ongoing support and encouragement of my work.
Much gratitude is due the late Dr. Eoin McKiernan for the information and assistance he so kindly and patiently provided throughout the development of this series.
Thanks also to the following: Ivor Hamrock of the Mayo County Council, Castlebar, County Mayo, Ireland; John R. Podracky of the New York City Police Museum; and the late Thomas Gallagher of New York City.
A special note of appreciation to the librarians at the Fairfield County District Library, Lancaster, Ohio, for their continuing and always cheerful assistance.
ABOUT BJ HOFF
BJ Hoff’s bestselling historical novels continue to cross the boundaries of religion, language, and culture to capture a worldwide reading audience. In addition to The Emerald Ballad series, her books include such popular titles as Song of Erin and American Anthem and bestselling series such as The Riverhaven Years and The Mountain Song Legacy. Her stories, although set in the past, are always relevant to the present. Whether her characters move about in Ireland or America, in small country towns or metropolitan areas, reside in Amish settlements or in coal company houses, she creates communities where people can form relationships, raise families, pursue their faith, and experience the mountains and valleys of life. BJ and her husband make their home in Ohio.
For a complete listing of BJ’s books published by
Harvest House Publishers, turn to page 429.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
About BJ Hoff
A Pronunciation Guide for Proper Names
Prologue: Eoin
PART ONE
SONG OF SORROW • THE HUNGER
1 Daniel
2 Morgan
3 Nora
4 Michael
5 Do You See Your Children Weeping, Lord?
6 And the Fool Has Condemned the Wise
7 A Gaunt Crowd on the Highway
8 Winter Memories
9 Evan’s Adventure
10 The Letter
11 The Sorrowful Spring
12 Night Voices
13 A Starless Night
14 Choices and Wishes
PART TWO
SONG OF SILENCE • THE WAITING
15 Night Watches
16 So Many Partings
17 A Most Unlikely Hero
18 Dan Kavanagh’s Lament
19 An Encounter on the Road
20 The Wind Is Risen
21 A Gathering of Heroes
22 Undertones
23 As the Shadows Advance
24 Flight of Terror
25 To Stand with the Gael
26 One Last Goodbye
PART THREE
SONG OF FAREWELL • THE PASSAGE
27 Erin, Farewell
28 Changes and Challenges
29 A Visit to Five Points
30 Nora’s Turning
31 The Most Fearful Dread of All
32 Secrets Aboard the Green Flag
33 Where Is God?
34 The Keen Comes Wailing on the Wind
35 To Set the Captive Free
36 Whisper of Darkness
37 Afternoon Encounters
38 A Clashing of Swords
39 A Tale of Deception
40 How Far the Shore
41 A Meeting in Dublin
42 Survivors in a Strange Land
43 People in the City
44 A Reunion
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
Other fine BJ Hoff books published by Harvest House
Publishers
Great reviews for BJ Hoff’s Mountain Song Legacy trilogy
A Pronunciation Guide for Proper Names
Aidan
Ā´den
Aine
Än´ya
(Anne)
Caomhanach
Kavanagh
Conal
Kôn´al
Connacht
Kôn´ot
Drogheda
Draw´he guh
Eoin
Ōwen
(older form of John)
Killala
Kil lä´lä
Padraic
Paw´rig
(Patrick)
Sean
Shôn
(form of John)
Tahg
Tīge
Tierney
Teer´ney
On the willow trees in the midst of Babylon we hung our harps.
For there they who led us captive required of us a song…. Our
tormentors and they who wasted us required of us mirth.
PSALM 137:2-3 (AMP)
PROLOGUE
Eoin
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye:
The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,
Till that be tumbled that was lifted high.
W. B. YEATS (1865-1939)
Drogheda, Ireland
1649
Eoin Caomhanach, your harp will sing no more until the evil of Black Cromwell has been forgotten in the land and the survivors of his butchery return from exile.”
Eoin’s harp rode his shoulder in silent obedience as his grandfather’s command echoed throughout the dim upstairs room. For a moment the old man looked as if he would say more; instead, he turned and went to stand at the narrow window, where a pale blade of late evening light struggled to pierce the gloom. Like a shadowed statue, Conal stood gazing down upon the ruins below.
Drogheda had finally fallen. After a seemingly endless siege and a three-day orgy of savagery and slaughter, the town’s destruction was complete. The massacre of its defenders had been swift and thorough, the slaying of its innocent people brutal and merciless. The streets, now virtually deserted, were haunted by the eerie hush that follows disaster. The only sounds to break the silence were the cries of the wounded, an occasional angry shout between soldiers, and the screaming of the gulls over the River Boyne.
Yesterday, Eoin had crouched on one of the breastworks with his bow, watching as the wall around the town was breached by the hordes of Cromwell’s New Model Army. He had stared in stunned disbelief as the first wave of shouting, blood-crazed troopers came pouring through the break. Today his heart raced and pounded in his ears as he remembered the surging tide of round black helmets and rust-red doublets exploding on the town in demented fury, chanting psalms and screaming curses in the same breath. On foot and on horseback, with muskets cracking and swords clanging, they hacked and shot and stabbed until the breach was soaked with blood and littered with fallen soldiers.
Losing his bow, Eoin was quickly swept up in the wave of retreating men, then stalled in the chaos and press of the massacre. From there he gazed in sick horror as Sir Arthur Aston, the defending commander of the city, was upended by a mob of jeering troopers, then bludgeoned to death on the bridge with his own wooden leg. As if in a daze, the lad watched the brightly colored feather from Aston’s hat wave bravely in the warm harvest breeze before sailing to the ground in final defeat.
Eoin could no longer remember his route of escape. He vaguely recalled hearing the voices of the people at St. Peter’s singing the Gloria just before the wooden steeple roared to a blaze; within seconds the church’s shelter became a funeral pyre. He dimly remembered trying to avoid stepping on the dead bodies as he raced toward home. His ears still rang with the ominous drum of marching boots on cobblestones, and his nostrils still burned with the stench of smoke and gunpowder and death.
Somehow he made his way through the alleys and back streets to his house, only to find his mild-natured father slain just outside the open door, his young mother and two sisters savaged and mutilated within.
Blood…his home had been a river of blood.
Half-crazed with shock and grief, he had stumbled blindly down St. John’s Street, deep into the Irish quarter to the home of his grandfather. Now the two of them waited, as did the other survivors of Drogheda, to learn their fate. Already lands had been seized, the garrison destroyed, their clergy and scholars humiliated, then slain alongside the town’s defenders.
They would be driven from their home, his grandfather said, then either killed or taken prisoner. Rumors ran wild, but most believed that survivors would be sent to Barbados as slaves or relocated to barren Connacht in western Ireland. Eoin thought he would prefer death to being a slave or a prisoner—not that he would have a choice.
“Did you hear me, lad?”
Eoin blinked, forced back to his surroundings by his grandfather’s voice. Conal had left the window and stood watching him. “I did, Grandfather. But—”
“I am charging you with the custody of the Harp of Caomhanach. You have been taught the covenant.”
“Aye, sir,” Eoin said softly. The harp was the symbol of a generations-old covenant between the Caomhanach family and their God. A clan chief in the time of the kings had decreed that the harp was to remain silent in time of exile, that it should sing only for a free people.
“So it has ever been with our ancestors,” Conal now intoned, “and so it is to be with you, Eoin, the eldest and only surviving son of Dermot.”
A fierce conflict of emotions flooded Eoin. He was still raw with pain at the loss of his parents and sisters, still bewildered by the enormity of what had happened to him and his neighbors, and while he loved Conal deeply, he resented the old man’s stern directive, especially at this moment.
Lifting his eyes to the ruins of his grandfather’s craggy face, Eoin realized that the old man would be woefully unprepared for the rebellion of his only surviving grandson. No less than the fullest measure of respect would be anticipated, for no less had ever been given.
In his prime, the old warrior, like past generations of male Caomhanachs, had been a giant of a man. Year after year of battle and bloodshed, however, had finally defeated him, leaving him shrunken and wasted, a scarecrow whose flesh draped his once mighty frame like the useless folds of a tattered cloak. Now his hair and beard were purest white, his eyes faded, his hand unsteady. His tunic and breeches hung loosely on his bones.
Eoin answered Conal carefully, denying the pity that rose deep within him. Such an emotion in the face of a chieftain would be an unforgivable insult. “I’m sorry, Grandfather, but I cannot abide by the old ways. The Harp of Caomhanach will no longer be a silent harp of exile. I intend to let her have her voice.”
“No!” Conal pounded a fist on the wooden table in front of him, causing Eoin to jump back into a large Venetian vase. It tipped, crashing to the floor. Mindless of the broken vase, the old man went on shouting. “It is forbidden! The harp is to sing only in its own land, to its own people! You would not dare break the covenant.”
Anticipating his grandfather’s opposition to what he was about to say, Eoin nevertheless longed for the old man’s understanding. “Grandfather, please, hear me. I can no longer be faithful to the old order, don’t you see? To remain silent is to ignore all that has gone before. If we allow our past to be forgotten, we lose not only our land, but our hope as well. Surely you would not have it so. God would not have it so.”
Ashen-faced, Conal stared at Eoin in breathless silence. “And so, do you now speak for God, Eoin?” he questioned softly. “Would you truly break a vow with our Lord?”
“But don’t you see, Grandfather, I wouldn’t be breaking the covenant! The vow between our family and God was that the harp would sing for our people as long as the Lord is among us and freedom is ours. If—”
Shaking his head like an ang
ry lion and pointing a thin, accusing finger, Conal leaned toward Eoin. “You forget the rest of the vow! We are about to be an exiled people—perhaps even a people enslaved! Whether we flee to the west or go to the islands in chains, we will be slaves. The devil Cromwell and his demons will have our freedom and our faith at their feet.”
“No, Grandfather, they will not,” Eoin said quietly. “Wherever they send us, we will take our memories. And our faith. And as long as we have our past and our faith, do we not also possess at least a remnant of dignity and freedom—and a future? The Lord promised us ‘a future and a hope,’ did He not?”
Conal’s disdainful glare made Eoin rush to defend his own words. “We will not be leaving God behind, after all, will we? Nor will God desert us. Has He not promised that He would never forsake us?” Forcing a strength into his voice he did not feel, Eoin pressed on. “As long as our God is with us, Grandfather, I say we are free. Free, and at liberty to allow the harp to declare our freedom, to call to mind our heritage and our hope of what God in His mercy will do for us in a new day.”
“You rave like a roaming minstrel! An unseasoned child of fourteen years, and you dare to break the pledge of centuries between a people and their God?”
With a stab first of uneasiness, then anger at his grandfather’s words, Eoin hesitated, struggling to control his feelings. “I am no child,” he answered harshly. “I have seen my family butchered, my townsmen massacred, my land stolen. I have seen evil of a kind that men three times my years have not witnessed.”