Heart of the Lonely Exile (23 page)

23

The buoyant step and the cheerful air
Will be reckon'd amongst the things that were;
The joyous shout and the thrilling strain
Will only meet a response of pain….
Tho' the heart be heavy, and dim the eye,
On Him, on Him we still rely.

F
ROM
L
AYS FOR
P
ATRIOTS,
PUB. BY
SAMUEL B. OLDHAM, D
UBLIN
(1848)

Belfast, Ireland

J
oseph Mahon the priest arrived at the hospital in Belfast two days after Christmas. There he found Morgan Fitzgerald bundled in a wheelchair by the room's only window. Vaguely, Joseph noted that the window looked out on a stone wall.

Morgan turned as Joseph entered the room. The change in the young giant struck Joseph like a blow. The wind-whipped bronze of the younger man's skin had paled. His strong features were gaunt, sunken. The unruly copper hair had grown longer and wilder, framing the pain-ravaged face in an angry blaze of fire.

But it was the winter in Morgan's stare that seized Joseph's breath and brought the sudden sting of tears to his eyes.

God have mercy, what would it take to warm such a desolate spirit?

The room was as grim as a gaol cell, and the weak afternoon light scarcely relieved its gloom. As Joseph drew closer, Morgan's eyes registered surprise for just an instant. He gave a brief parody of a smile that
did nothing to relieve the bleakness of his gaze. “Ah, but you are too late, Joseph. I have decided to live, as you can see.”

Joseph stopped directly in front of him. “And aren't we all glad for that?” was all the retort he could manage.

With effort, he concealed his dismay at Morgan's appearance. Gray of face and too lean by far, the lad had a plundered, defeated look on him that chilled Joseph's heart. Ever burdened with the Celtic curse of occasional melancholy, Morgan now looked more devastated than morose, more vanquished than disconsolate.

“Grandfather sent for you, I suppose.” Morgan's voice was flat and lifeless.

“He did, thanks be to God. How else would I have heard about the fix you have gotten yourself into this time?”

“And have you come as priest or friend, then, Joseph?”

Ah, Lord, such pain…such bitterness! Where to start praying for the lad… how to speak?

“I would hope I could be both, lad, but it is your choice,” Joseph replied gently.

Morgan lifted a hand in an idle motion. “Only a priest would come so far to see a fool.”

Joseph was not deceived by the quiet voice, the slightly mocking smile. Morgan Fitzgerald was in pain—and not the worst of it physical. “He is no fool who risks his life to save another. I am told that Smith O'Brien is alive because of you.”

Morgan turned his face toward the window. With his broad shoulders slumped against the back of the wheelchair, his long, once powerful legs hidden beneath the lap robe, he looked ten years and more past his age.

An aging Irish warlord.
Joseph could have wept for the once mighty oak, now felled.

Yet he would not show pity. God forbid that a man such as Morgan Fitzgerald ever think himself to be pitied!

“So, then, where is your grandfather?” he asked casually. “And how is his health?”

“He went back to the inn earlier, to rest.” Without turning, Morgan went on. “He's worn himself out entirely, sitting with me. Even now, he has it in his head that he dare not leave me for a moment.”

“He was badly frightened, Morgan, and worried. He does dote on you, you know.”

“Aye,” Morgan said dully. “He does.” He turned now to look at Joseph, a weary, not altogether focused stare. “He should not have sent for you, Joseph. You look exhausted entirely.”

Joseph shrugged. “At my age, there are worse things than exhaustion.”

“You are not old, Joseph.” Morgan's words were perfunctory, flat. “But you must be tired. How did you get here?” he asked after a moment, leaning his head against the wall behind the wheelchair.

“Why, your grandfather sent a fine coach for me! I traveled in great style, don't you know?”

There was no answering smile to his attempted lightness, merely a small nod. The green eyes that once danced with roguish humor or the glint of intrigue were now dull; the wide mouth, always so quick with a smile or a good-humored taunt, had gone slack. Only a faint shadow of the rebel of Mayo hovered about the wasted man in the wheelchair.

“Tell me of the village,” Morgan said woodenly.

Clearly, his thoughts were on anything else but Killala. Yet Joseph seized the slightest opportunity to draw him out of himself. “Why, nothing has changed, except to grow worse. With another winter upon us, there is great despair. We will be wiped out entirely if more help does not come, and come soon.” He paused. “The generous gifts from you and your grandfather have saved more than one family, Morgan. We are grateful. You do receive my letters?”

Morgan nodded, then pressed the fingers of one hand against his forehead, as if to still a dull ache.

“Morgan?”

Dropping his hand away, back to his lap, Morgan looked at him.

“What are the doctors saying?”

“Sure, and you know what the doctors are saying, Joseph,” Morgan replied, looking directly at him. “I don't believe for a moment Grandfather sent a coach for your journey without a letter of explanation. You have already been told I will not walk again.”

Grieved, Joseph sank down heavily on the edge of the bed. “I thought perhaps there might be some new word by now,” he murmured. “Some change…”

A ghost of a smile touched Morgan's lips, then faded. “Just like a priest.
Ever expecting the miracle. Ah, Joseph, don't we both know that old Belfast is not the city for miracles?”

Joseph leaned forward, keenly mindful of the shattered dreams behind that marble mask. “When will you be able to travel—to go home to Dublin?”

“Soon, I imagine. There's little else they can do for me here, except ply me with laudanum and their bad Ulster jests.” In that moment he seemed to falter. He glanced down at the floor. “The problem isn't so much the journey to Dublin,” he said tightly. “It's more a question of…how I will manage once I get there. I will need…care, you see.”

Morgan lifted his eyes. The look of agonizing humiliation that had settled over that once proud and noble face went straight to Joseph's heart. He wanted to weep. “Why…why, your grandfather will arrange all that, lad. He will see to excellent care for you, of course.”

Morgan looked away. “Still, I am a great ox. Too big and ungainly to be easily managed. It will no doubt take some doing to find somebody capable of…handling me.”

Joseph thought he would choke on his suppressed pity! Wringing his hands until they ached, he groped for words. “Morgan? The pain—is the pain very bad?”

The mask seemed to slip even more. “I will tell you the truth, Joseph,” Morgan bit out, his voice hoarse, “some days I think I will go
mad
with it.”

The unexpected, blunt reply pierced Joseph's heart. “But the laudanum—doesn't it help at all, lad?”

Morgan met his eyes. “Aye, it helps.” One long-fingered hand went to his head, then raked down the side of his bearded face. “I had some a short while ago. But I'm afraid to take more than a bit of the stuff, don't you see?” He stopped, again glanced toward the window. “I'm afraid I'll reach the point I cannot do without it.”

Joseph looked at him. For one frozen instant, he saw what the other had doubtless allowed no one else to see—even his grandfather. He saw the raw, unrestrained fear of a man who had seldom in his life been without power, the power of robust good health and a strong, mighty body.

A remnant from one of Morgan's own poems suddenly slipped in among Joseph's sorrowing thoughts:
I have become a man whose soul, like Eire's, is ever trapped between destiny and despair
….

Joseph rose slowly, staggering for a moment with weakness. He grabbed the bed railing to steady himself, then moved to Morgan.

He could not think what to say to his stricken young friend, and so he did the only thing he knew to do. Wrapping both arms around Morgan's wide, sagging shoulders, he pressed the great head against his chest and held him there, next to his heart, while he prayed for him.

Outside in the hall, Annie Delaney listened to the exchange between the two men. Obviously, the frail-looking priest and Morgan Fitzgerald were old friends, for the Fitzgerald had referred to him as
Joseph
, rather than
Father.

When a long silence fell between the two, Annie risked a peek inside the room. Creeping closer to the door that stood ajar, she inched her face around the opening, just enough to have a look.

A lump swelled in her throat. The priest was cradling that grand copper-crowned head against his own chest. And he was praying. Praying for Morgan Fitzgerald.

This was a strange thing entirely! Annie could not imagine, try as she would, the hawk-faced Father Daly showing such gentle affection to even a wee child of the parish—much less a man grown!

She found it sad and yet strangely comforting, seeing the great Fitzgerald finally surrender to his pain. Through the weeks of his confinement, Annie had shadowed the man, evading the nurses in the hallway, sneaking in and out of the small alcove near his room. Not once had she seen the Fitzgerald's weary composure slip, even a little. Yet now he clung to the aging priest like a frightened boy.

Shrinking back into her hidey-hole, Annie pressed her lips together, thinking. He was fretting about going home. Humiliated, no doubt, that he would be dependent on others for his care. Sure, and couldn't she understand that? What was worse than feeling trapped by your own helplessness? And wouldn't it be an even harder thing for a man like the Fitzgerald than it had been for her? He was a great, powerful man. Probably he had never depended on another soul for a thing before this trouble had come upon him.

And now, just see the fix he was in! Sure, and the old man—the grandfather—would be of no help. Why, 'twas all he could do to make his way down the hall without stumbling! He looked to be a very old man. And
ailing as well. Still, he was obviously rich, and so could afford the best of care for his grandson.

His grandson. Who would have imagined such a thing? Morgan Fitzgerald himself, grandson to an Englishman! What would her da have thought of
that?

Annie sat very still, gnawing on her knuckles. It sounded as if he would be leaving soon. Leaving the hospital and going back to Dublin with his grandfather.

She let out a long breath. There was no accounting for the way she had grown attached to the big fellow. Why, she had never laid eyes on the man until a few weeks ago! Yet ever since that awful night outside the Music Hall, when he had fallen to the street with a bullet in his back, Annie had sensed in some strange, unaccountable way that he was to be a part of her life—and she a part of his. An important part, at that.

Perhaps because it was by his poetry that she had learned to read, had grown from a child with his words engraved upon her heart.

Or perhaps, she thought with a faint smile, she might be a bit fey, just as her grandmother Aine had been. Some had said she was purely daft, but Annie had thought her a wonder. She still missed her sorely, even though the old dear had been dead going on four years.

Grandmother Aine had known things. When the
banshee
would wail. When the cow would go dry. When disaster was lurking but a breath away.

Whatever accounted for it, Annie
knew
Morgan Fitzgerald. More than
knew
him—she
needed
him. And he needed her, though of course he could not know that as yet.

She did not intend to let him simply walk out of her life and—Annie pressed her fingers to her mouth in dismay. Fitzgerald could not
walk
out of her life, any more than he could
walk
anywhere else! Morgan Fitzgerald would never walk again—hadn't she heard it for herself?