Dawn of the Golden Promise (66 page)

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.

E
PILOGUE

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!

THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)

March 1851

T
o 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 piper 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.”

The
Seanchai
straightened, drawing himself up as tall as possible on the crutches that supported him. His eyes seemed to hold a sea of ancient sorrows as he looked out upon the people pressing closer to hear:

“‘Tell your children,' our God said. ‘Let your children tell their children, and their children another generation. Tell them a nation has come up against my land, powerful and without number. Its teeth are lions' teeth, and it has the fangs of a lioness. Tell them my fields are laid waste, the ground mourns, the grain is destroyed.'
Tell
them.”

The great voice quieted, and his listeners strained not to miss a word:

“Tell your children who they are, where they came from, what they mean to you—and to their God. Don't let them forget that they are Irish, yes, or Irish-American—but neither let them forget that they are God's.” He paused. “Peace will never dawn in Ireland until the love of God finally dawns in our hearts.”

There was much flag-waving and cheering, much weeping as well. The
Seanchai
stood quietly, his eyes going over the crowd as if to take in each individual face, while the boys with the shamrock banners sang “My Country 'Tis of Thee,” followed by “Let Erin Remember.”

Tears tracked the faces of those standing closest to the platform as Morgan Fitzgerald braced himself on his crutches and began to strum the ancient-looking harp placed in his arms by the black man. It was an old song he gave them—“The Minstrel Boy”—a song by Tommy Moore that was said to wring tears from the thorn bushes. And as Fitzgerald sang it through, the few dry eyes left in the crowd began to cloud with tears.

After the
Seanchai
and his family had embraced their friends in tearful farewells and walked away to board their ship, some claimed they could still hear the old song echo across the harbor, sounding among the big packets arriving from foreign lands and the ships sailing out, bound for distant countries….

“Land of song!” said the warrior bard,
“Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

When I first began to research the idea for the first book in this series,
Song of the Silent Harp
, I discovered a strong religious thread throughout the history of Ireland. I hope I have communicated to my readers a clearer understanding of how Christianity influenced the lives of some of America's Irish ancestors.

During those years of study and writing, I became aware that it is virtually impossible to separate the past from the present. The struggles and successes, the trials and triumphs of our forebears, make up not only a rich heritage but also contribute in immeasurable ways to what we—and our world—are today. Like young Daniel Kavanagh, I believe that, from God's perspective, yesterday, today, and tomorrow are one vast
panorama
, a continuing epic which our Creator views in its entirety, from the dawn of time through the present to eternity.

Further, history
does
, indeed, repeat itself. Most experiences of the past continue to happen. The horrors of famine and hopelessness that surround many characters in The Emerald Ballad still exist. Month after month, year after year, the innocent victims of war, disaster, political indifference, and oppression go on suffering and dying, just as they did in Ireland during the Great Famine.

Government programs and private charities cannot begin to meet the escalating demand for worldwide assistance. I believe the Christian church should be at the very front of international rescue operations, for it is the
church
that bears the responsibility—and the privilege—of giving love to a world that needs it.

I invite you to join me in finding practical ways to help. There are many organizations that provide an opportunity to put faith and love into action. One person
does
make a difference.

BJ Hoff