Song of the Silent Harp Page 12

  At the moment, Sir Roger was using Whittaker’s presence in the library as an audience for his rage. And, as always seemed to be the case these days, the object of his wrath was Ireland.

  “Killala!” Sir Roger spit out, pacing the length of the library. “I have never laid eyes on the squalid little pit—only God knows and cares where it is!”

  His employer’s reference to God made Evan blink and draw a tired sigh, for the man certainly had no acquaintance whatever with the Creator. “I believe it’s located near a bay in western Ireland, sir,” Evan offered, going on with his careful copying of the letter Gilpin had just dictated to George Cotter. “Very remote.”

  “I know that!” Gilpin snarled. Sir Roger had been pacing the room for the better part of an hour as he dictated. At last he stopped and turned to Evan, who lifted his eyes from the letter he was transcribing.

  A tall, gaunt man with long legs, white hair, and large, slightly bulging eyes, Roger Gilpin never failed to remind Evan of an aging, frost-coated grasshopper. Indeed, “Grasshopper” was Evan’s private name for his employer.

  “I asked you your opinion of that fool Cotter’s letter!” Sir Roger crossed his long, thin arms over his chest and fixed Evan with a baleful glare. “Well?”

  Clearing his throat, Evan stared at the pen in his hand. “Ah, w-well, of course, the agent had no right…n-no right at all…to defy your instructions, Sir Roger.” Knowing how annoying the Grasshopper found his habitual stammer, Evan now gave it free rein. “Ah…although I must s-say I can appreciate that an undertaking of this n-n-nature might well contain difficulties we haven’t c-c-considered. P-perhaps, if m-mass eviction is the only feasible solution, we need to give the agent m-more time.” Evan beamed a slightly vacuous smile at his employer from his chair at the desk.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, man, can’t you just say whatever you mean and stop that hemming and hawing?” Sir Roger’s mouth thinned even more. “Can’t you get that fixed somehow, that tic of yours?”

  So now it was a tic. Only last week it had been a plague. Over the years the dreaded stammer had evoked such misnomers as “croak,” “twitch,” and “splutter.” Perhaps the Grasshopper was mellowing.

  “I’m sorry, s-sir, but I don’t b-believe there’s any…f-fixing for it.” Evan did his best to look humiliated.

  Sir Roger grunted and again began to pace. “Well, as to Cotter—he’s supposed to be in charge out there! He’s the land agent, and the land agent’s job is to take charge of the tenants, isn’t that so?”

  Matching his words to his quickening pace, he spilled them out in a frenzy. “I don’t pay him to let those shiftless freeloaders make a monkey out of him! Not that it wouldn’t be easy enough to do—the man is a fool!”

  After one more pass across the room, he stopped in front of the fireplace, where only a thin, feeble flame continued to fight its way between the logs. Reaching for the poker, Sir Roger began punching the fire back to life. When he straightened, he resorted to a mannerism Evan had always found oddly intriguing: after opening his mouth to a wide, gaping cavern, he snapped it shut with a smacking sound. The Grasshopper.

  He now came back to the desk and picked up the letter from Cotter which lay near Evan’s hand. “What were you able to find out about this—Fitzgerald creature?”

  Evan shifted slightly on his chair, fastening his eyes on the book-lined wall across the room. Intense concentration seemed to relieve the stammer somewhat, and at the moment he thought it best to be precise. “Apparently, Morgan Fitzgerald is something of a…an enigma. Part p-poet, part vagabond, and p-part folk hero. He sounds f-formidable: big—very big—with an unruly m-mane of copper hair and, according to Quincy Moore, our c-correspondent, the ‘strength of a Druid oak tree.’” Evan felt a delicious shiver wind its way down his spine; Moore’s description could have been right from the pages of one of his favorite adventure novels.

  Aware of Gilpin’s impatient squirming but entirely unperturbed by it, Evan smoothed the sheet of vellum in front of him, aligning its four corners with those of the desk, just so. Then, fastening his eyes once more on the bookshelves—this time on the brass candlesticks—he continued. “Apparently F-Fitzgerald is a writer held in great esteem—a ‘poet p-patriot,’ Moore says.” Evan glanced from the candlesticks to Sir Roger. “Ah…then there’s the…association with the Y-Young Irelanders, as you know.”

  Sir Roger swore and again waved the letter in his hand. “The man is a common thug! He almost killed George Cotter!” He paused, then added sourly, “Not that it would be any great loss.”

  Evan bristled. Fitzgerald might be a great many things, but he was certainly no common thug. No, indeed. The man sounded anything but common.

  Perversely enjoying his employer’s agitation, Evan warmed to his subject, paraphrasing parts of Moore’s letter as he went on. “Fitzgerald s-seems to be quite well known f-for his writings in the…The Nation.” Oh, dear, now he’d done it. Even the mention of the radical Young Ireland news journal was enough to set Sir Roger’s teeth to rattling.

  Hurrying on before his employer could let fly one of his florid streams of profanity, Evan explained, “Fitzgerald seems to be a highly…educated m-man. Until recently, he was best known for his p-poems and satirical essays, but it seems these days he’s d-dipping his pen more and more into the ink of rebellion.”

  Sir Roger’s eyes bugged out, and his mandible dropped down, presumably preparing for an expression of disgust, but Evan hurried on; he had saved the juiciest morsel for last and was not about to be denied his thunder. “As for this next observation: Moore stresses that it’s p-purely rumor, although George Cotter is apparently convinced it’s so.”

  The letter in Sir Roger’s hand now crumpled as he clenched both fists and waited, his long, homely face set in a terrible scowl.

  Evan drew a long, steadying breath and set his gaze on the list of instructions he’d been copying. “It seems that for months now there have been…s-stories of a mysterious rebel leader and his men who are up to all manner of mischief in C-Connacht, especially in County Mayo.”

  Gilpin’s eyes narrowed, and he looked to be in the throes of some sort of fit. “A rebel leader?”

  “Yes. Well…Mr. Moore says these p-primitive folk in the west have a tendency to imbue their outlaws, as well as their heroes, with l-larger-than-life attributes, even supernatural traits. This rebel leader would seem to be a case in point. They c-call him the, ah, the Red Wolf.” A chill of delight gripped Evan as he uttered the name. What a splendid tale this was!

  “Those who claim to have seen him, this…Red Wolf…say he and his marauders ride only at night. They say he has a head of c-curly copper hair and rides an enormous wild red stallion. Supposedly he and his men come charging down out of the hills when least expected, d-do their dirty work, and then simply…d-disappear back into the mountains and the mist.”

  Really, this would make the most wonderful novel…

  Realizing Sir Roger had asked him a question, Evan blinked, then looked up at him. “I’m s-sorry, sir?”

  “I said, what sort of dirty work?”

  “Oh—well, nothing too violent, actually. They’ve k-killed some c-cattle from time to time—a few head of yours, I’m afraid, Sir Roger. They steal grain, drive horses out of their p-paddocks, provide p-protection to men on the run—that kind of thing. The peasants adore them, it seems, because they drop…b-baskets of food at cottages throughout the villages and do other miscellaneous…good deeds for the poor unfortunates.”

  Evan sighed. An Irish Robin Hood, no less.

  “Is that all?”

  Evan looked at him. “Well…yes…except that there are some, Cotter included, who suspect Morgan Fitzgerald of being this, ah, Red Wolf.”

  Sir Roger actually growled—a choked, phlegmy rumble. For a moment Evan feared it might be the beginning of a seizure, but the Grasshopper was simply grinding his jaws in rage.

  Leaning forward, Gilpin hurled the crumpled letter to
the desk. “I want you to leave for County Mayo at once! At once, do you hear?” He made a jabbing motion with his head to the letter in front of Evan. “You’ll deliver those instructions to Cotter personally, as my emissary!”

  Wagging a long talon of a finger in Evan’s face, he went on shouting. “And you’ll stay in Killala until you see my orders carried out, do you understand? I want those…creatures…off my land and those…bandits…hanged!”

  Good heavens, the man was serious! Evan squirmed. He—go to Ireland? Worse yet, to Mayo? Why, according to Quincy Moore the place was nothing more than a bleak, desolate rock pile, its inhabitants unwashed savages and wild men, most of whom still spoke some ancient, unintelligible tongue! Furious fools, Tennyson called them. Oh my, no—it was impossible!

  “I’m afraid that’s…quite impossible, Sir Roger,” he said as firmly as he could manage. “I have a slight lung condition, you remember”—he cleared his throat—”and I understand the c-climate in western Ireland is abysmal. Besides,” he hastened to add for good measure, “who would assume my responsibilities in my absence? My workload is heavier than it’s ever b-been before.” There.

  That should take care of that.

  “You’ll do as I say or your workload,” Sir Roger snarled, “will be considerably lightened. Considerably.”

  Evan lifted his chin in what he hoped was a gesture of defiance. “S-see here, Sir Roger—”

  The Grasshopper was already hopping to his next thought. “Naturally,” he said in a more conciliatory tone, turning his back on Evan, “you’ll be generously recompensed for your travel expenses and your inconvenience. And of course, once you return you’ll be due a sizable increase in wages.” He paused, then turned back with a somewhat malicious smile to add, “And perhaps a vacation, as well, eh?”

  Evan swallowed. He hadn’t had a vacation in years. Perhaps the climate wasn’t all that wretched. “A vacation, did you say?”

  The Grasshopper showed his teeth.

  “Think of it as—an adventure, Whittaker! Yes, that’s it, an adventure! I should think a young, handsome fellow like yourself would be eager for a bit of travel and excitement.”

  Dear heaven, the man was actually patting him on the shoulder! Evan cringed. An adventure might be well and good, but he hardly thought a forced visit to Ireland qualified as such. Still, it would be a change of scenery. And there was the promise of a vacation…

  “Well, if you’re certain it’s absolutely necessary—”

  “Absolutely!” Gilpin boomed, thumping him solidly on the back. “This is excellent. You’ll be able to give me a firsthand account of the famine conditions, as well.”

  Evan rose from his chair to avoid another bone jarring back pounding. “I thought Mr. C-Cotter and some of our other c-correspondents had already done that, sir. I’m sure they d-didn’t exaggerate—the newspaper accounts c-confirm—”

  “I should hope they didn’t exaggerate!” Gilpin gave a short laugh, crossing the room to the gleaming mahogany sideboard. He poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter and tossed it down in one enormous gulp. “For my part,” he said, wiping his lips on the back of his hand, “I consider these potato blights heaven-sent. Yes, indeed,” he went on, pouring himself another tumbler of whiskey, “a distinct act of Providence, I should think. So do Elwood and Combs and some of the other landlords at the Club. Why, it’s the very solution to the Irish problem!”

  He downed his drink, rolling the tumbler around in the palm of one large hand as he continued. “God knows we need to rid the land of those scavengers, and this famine has got them dropping like flies!”

  Setting the tumbler down, he crossed to the fireplace, backing up close to it and clasping his hands behind him. “Cattle and horses, that’s what we’ll replace them with. It’s Divine Providence, all right, Whittaker,” he said, shooting Evan a pleased smile. “The Irish were starving anyway, dying of their own indolence. Why, the only thing those savages have ever known is poverty! They’re too lazy, the lot of them, to turn an honest day’s work. We landlords have to save ourselves before they bleed us dry! Once we get those papists off the land, we can turn it over to grazing and protect our investment in that wretched island.”

  From what Evan had read, not all the starving Irish were of the Roman Catholic faith, but he doubted that this fact would matter one way or the other to his employer.

  “It’s just as Trevelyan says,” Sir Roger went on in a somewhat sanctimonious voice, “the Irish overpopulation and immoral character are altogether beyond our power to correct. Only God Himself can deal with those idolaters. And it would seem that He is doing just that at last.”

  Trevelyan, assistant secretary of the treasury, had indeed seconded the Prime Minister’s belief that the famine was the work of a benign Providence. And numerous members of Parliament seemed eager to echo that sentiment.

  Evan wasn’t entirely sure just what he thought about the Irish. But he was fairly certain that the God he knew would not share Roger Gilpin’s attitude. He recalled his father—a clergyman for forty-odd years now—making a remark in one of his recent letters about the “suddenly pious Trevelyan is convinced that God has cheerfully set about starving to death thousands of infants and children, simply because their parents placed some statues in their churches.”

  Not being personally affected by the conditions in Ireland, Evan had given the matter little thought. Now, it seemed, he would have the chance—albeit unwelcome—to see for himself whether or not the devastation was, indeed, the judgment of God upon an idolatrous people.

  Sir Roger roused Evan from his thoughts. “Well, then, it’s settled! You’ll leave for Killala right away. By the end of the week at the latest.”

  Evan forced an unhappy smile. “Yes, I suppose I shall.”

  “Good man.” Sir Roger stretched up, poised on the balls of his feet, then dropped down. The Grasshopper preened. “Write up whatever papers you may need, and I’ll sign them in the morning. Just be sure that Cotter understands there’s to be no more delay—they’re all to be turned out, with no exceptions! And if he doesn’t do the job this time, I’ll hire a man who will!”

  A thought struck Evan, and he moistened his lips. “About this Fitzgerald person—”

  “Fitzgerald be hanged! And I’ll see that he is! Cotter says he has family there, in the village, and they’re as destitute as the rest of the peasantry. Perhaps you can use them to bring Fitzgerald into line, eh?”

  Evan nodded vaguely, chafing to get away from his employer. Sir Roger was quite a disgusting man, actually.

  “Come, now, Whittaker, you needn’t look so despondent! Perhaps you’ll find yourself one of those saucy little Irish tarts to brighten up your trip. Make a man of you!” Gilpin gave his loud, abrasive laugh, obviously delighted with himself. “Just see that you don’t bring her home with you. London has quite enough of them scurrying through the sewers as it is.”

  For a moment Evan feared the man was about to cross the room and slap him soundly on the back again. He edged his way to the door and, calling up an immense amount of self-control, managed not to bolt and run.

  When at last he escaped the library, he went directly to the front door, dragged it open, and stepped outside. Pulling in a long, cleansing breath of cold air, he willed the frigid wind to wash away the stench that seemed to have settled over him.

  10

  The Letter

  And my heart flies hack to Erin’s isle,

  To the girl I left behind me.

  THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS(1814-1845)

  New York City

  Not for the first time, Michael Burke found himself wishing for a uniformed police force. The idea of uniforms had been discussed and dismissed any number of times, mostly due to the men’s fierce complaints. Many of the Irish lads, who comprised the majority of the total police force, were virulently opposed to the idea. Equating uniforms with the livery worn by English footmen, they remained adamant in their resistance to being decked out
like “British lackeys.”

  From the beginning, Michael had disagreed, seeing the uniform as a means of gaining a bit more authority on the street. He was convinced that the instant recognition afforded by a uniform would automatically give a man greater influence, and thereby more control, among the rabble—at least a good deal more than their present copper badges could provide. From what he had seen in the streets of New York, Michael would have welcomed the edge of intimidation a mass of blue uniforms could effect.

  He sighed and donned the blue woolen shirt lying on the bed, rubbing a calloused thumb over the copper badge affixed to his chest. For now, this makeshift uniform would have to do.

  Michael headed for the kitchen, tucking in his shirttail as he went. Tierney, standing at the door, was just stepping aside to admit a stranger.

  “Someone to see you, Da,” Tierney said, studying the stranger with obvious curiosity.

  “Sergeant Burke?”

  Michael gave a short nod, taking in the stranger’s appearance. Although he was dressed decently enough in the clothes of a working man, a furtive look filled the hooded dark eyes, and a hard set to his mouth immediately put Michael on guard.

  “I’ve a letter for you,” the man said without preamble.

  Irish. There was no mistaking the accent.

  Michael frowned. “Have we met, then?”

  The man shook his head, volunteering nothing further as he pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Michael.

  “I was to see this safely into your hands,” said the stranger. He paused, then added, “And I was asked to collect your reply as quickly as possible.”

  Michael recognized the large, untidy scrawl across the front of the envelope immediately. “Morgan,” he said, surprised. “Morgan Fitzgerald.”

  The stranger gave a brief nod.