Heart of the Lonely Exile (30 page)

The way Annie had it figured, by the time she arrived in Dublin City, the two of them would have had time enough to see things in a different light.

If not, well, then, she would simply find a way to get around their resistance. She would somehow have to make herself indispensable to the both of them.

She had no doubt but what she could manage. When Annie Delaney set her mind to a thing, wasn't it as good as done?

His grandfather died just before midnight. It came sooner than Morgan had expected, despite the doctor's caution earlier that evening.

Morgan was alone with him when he awakened for the last time. Dozing in the wheelchair beside the bed, Morgan jumped when the old man spoke his name.

“Aye, Grandfather,” he said, taking his hand, “I am here.”

Sir Richard's eyes were surprisingly clear as he turned his face toward his grandson. But his words chilled Morgan to the very center of his being. “This is the last time I will speak with you, Morgan,” he said in a frail whisper.

When Morgan squeezed his hand and would have protested, the old man gave an impatient shake of his head. “I am going. And I am ready. Indeed, I am
eager
to go! Your grandmother is waiting for me, and I long to be with her…and with my Lord. But—” His voice faded, and for a moment Morgan thought he was already gone.

But with a ragged breath, the old man rallied. “My only regret is for you. I lack peace for you, Morgan—a peace I long to have before I go.”

Clasping the old man's frail hand between both his own, Morgan choked on the grief welling up in his soul. “I will be all right, Grandfather,” he assured him in a hoarse whisper. “I will.”

Again the old man shook his head. He twisted as if to sit up, but fell back, depleted. “Listen to me, Morgan…you must promise…”

“What, Grandfather?” Morgan swallowed, his unshed tears scalding his throat.

“You must not…give up.” His grandfather's gaze pleaded with Morgan, who had yet to understand what it was the old man wanted from him.

“Closer,” Sir Richard whispered. “Come…closer…so you can hear.”

Leaning forward as far as he could, Morgan continued to grip the old man's hand between his own. “Aye, Grandfather. I can hear you.”

“Two things…you must promise me.”

A fierce spasm of pain seized Morgan, rocking him with such a force he thought he would pass out. Pain in his back…pain in his heart. He could not tell which of the two would tear him apart first.

Somehow he forced the words out. “Promise you what, Grandfather?”

“Promise me—”

“Whatever you say, Grandfather—”

Morgan ground his teeth against the pain so he would not scream.

“You will build your school.”

Morgan lost his breath in the furnace of pain. “My school?”

“It is a worthy dream, Morgan…young minds and young hearts…that is where the healing must begin…promise me, then, that you will build your school….”

Dazed by the pain, which was now receding, Morgan managed a nod.

“Morgan? I can't see you…do you promise…”

Morgan's face crumpled as his last thread of control broke. His tears fell over the old man's hand, and a sob tore from his throat. “Aye…I promise, Grandfather…I promise.”

“One other promise, Morgan…”

“What is it, then, Grandfather?”

“Promise me…you will let nothing silence your voice—”

“I don't understand—”

“Listen…listen to me, Morgan…you are a voice for God in Ireland… you must allow nothing to silence that voice.”

“Grandfather—”

“There will be no hope for our poor, lovely land…or its people…without God's voice, Morgan…do you understand?”

No…no, I don't understand, and it is beyond me to care
—

“Morgan!”

“Aye, aye, Grandfather! I will try.”

“You will speak for God in Ireland?”

“I will try—”

Sir Richard smiled and closed his eyes. “Yes…you…you will try. Sing for me now, Morgan…please, would you sing for me?”

God in heaven, I can't…I can't…

“Sing an Irish lullaby for your grandfather, Morgan. Sing me to sleep, son of my heart….”

Morgan Fitzgerald kissed the palm of the old man's hand, the hand of his English grandfather who had loved him so well for such a brief time. Then he dried his tears on his sleeve.

He would have time for weeping later. For now, he would sing an Irish lullaby. He would sing his grandfather to sleep.

PART THREE

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the L
ORD,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

JEREMIAH 29:11

30

'Tis uselessness that slays the heart,
And loneliness the soul….
'Tis love Divine and purpose pure
That heal and make man whole…

MORGAN FITZGERALD

February 1848

I
t had never occurred to Annie Delaney that Dublin would have its slums.

All her life she had pictured the grand capital city as one majestic scene after another of graceful bridges, noble mansions, towering steeples, and sprawling castles—all set around the picturesque River Liffey and Dublin Bay. It may have had all these and more, but so far she had seen little that resembled the Dublin of her dreams.

She should have realized the city would host ugliness as well as beauty. But she had yet to see the beauty; instead, she had ended up in this sordid, mean district. Sure, and it must be the very dregs of Dublin City!

She had entered the city long past sunset. Much to her dismay, she had immediately gotten herself lost, stumbling into a vast maze of desolate streets lined with decaying old houses. The large, moldering structures looked as if they might have once been fine homes. Now they appeared to be crowded with derelicts who peered furtively out the broken windowpanes or shouted drunkenly from doorsteps and hallways.

Annie would have thought the slums of Belfast had steeled her for Dublin's dark side. But she was finding out that a strange city at night, wrapped in fog and unknown dangers, was a great deal more frightening than the familiar squalor of Belfast.

Her heart thudding, she appraised her surroundings. Obviously, this was a disreputable—and more than likely dangerous—area. She hadn't a thought where she was or how to find her way out.

Sure, and she would not dare to ask directions of any of the dwellers in this place! What she must be doing was to get away as swiftly as possible and find a decent neighborhood. Yet the longer she walked the wretched streets, the more she began to feel as if she were traveling in meaningless circles. It seemed as if she'd been wandering for hours, yet always she ended up back at the docks or in a tangle of dark alleys.

Cold mists draped the squalid buildings, obscuring most of their fronts and gaping doorways. In the deep, heavy fog enshrouding the streets, the gaslights were virtually worthless. Anything could be lurking nearby, entirely unnoticed.

When a voice hissed from what appeared to be an empty doorway, Annie nearly jumped out of her skin. Holding her breath, she quickened her pace.

“Hey
—
Lassie! We've a drop for sharing! Come in out of the cold, why don't you? Come in and warm yourself!”

The rough, sneering voice raised the hair on the back of Annie's neck. Her shoes smacked the cobbles as she took off at a full run, praying the owner of the voice was too drunk to catch her.

As she ran, she kept glancing back over her shoulder. The fog-webbed streets teemed with stalking shadows, invisible pursuers laughing at her futile attempts to escape them.

Desperately, Annie turned into an alley. Seeing nothing but blackness ahead, she slowed her pace. Was there no outlet?

She held her breath. Every building became an evil presence, every doorway concealed some terrible unknown. Watching her. Mocking her.

Annie stopped, stood still, listening. She whirled around, then turned and started running again.

Please, Lord…sir…please get me away! I seem to be in a fix here, sir! Please come and help me!

Every nightmare she had known as a child, every dark fear she had
thought buried, now swept over her. Someone…
something
…would reach out any moment from one of the dark, sinister doorways to seize her and wreak terrible things upon her! She could almost feel the cold touch of evil at her back.

Running harder, she prayed incoherently. Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back. Once she stumbled, righted herself, and lunged forward. Fear totally overcame her now, a different kind of fear than she had ever known before tonight. Not the fear tempered with anger that had given her the strength and courage to defy Tully. No, this fear was an all-consuming, shattering thing that left her breathless and weak.

Her lungs felt on fire, near to exploding, as Annie careened around the corner between two warehouses. Then she saw the faint hint of light just ahead.

Safety!
Thanks be to God, she would be all right now!

Gulping for breath, Annie shot a look behind her, then quickened her run still more. She was almost at the end of the street, within full view of the gaslight, when two figures stepped out of the shadows, blocking her path.

Annie stumbled, pitching forward. Flinging her arm out, she slammed her hand against a brick wall to keep from falling. A man and a boy stood watching her, their faces leering in the glow from the streetlight.

Annie cried out, then whipped around to run back the way she'd come. She screamed at the sight of another boy, this one older, moving in on her.

Her legs shaking under her, Annie braced herself. Her mind spun, groping wildly to think of a way to escape the three. They closed ranks now, moving in on her, backing her up against the brick wall.

“Why, the lass is afraid, Con,” said the man to the boy at his left. “Sure, and we've come upon her unexpected. It's only natural she might be thinking we mean to harm her.”

The man smiled, and Annie's stomach pitched. Dressed in a tattered seaman's coat and cap, his leer revealed a mouth of rotting teeth. An angry gash split his face in half, running from ear to ear just above his mouth—much as the River Liffey cut Dublin City right through in the middle.

The boy called Con looked to be not much older than Annie—until she saw the wickedness in his eyes. This one would have been born old. And mean. Yet, she faced them, chin up, furious at the way her body was betraying her with its weakness and violent shaking.

“You need not be afraid of us, at all, wee lassie,” the man said, his terrible smile still in place. “We've only come to see you safe home. No decent lass, as you obviously are, should be on the streets alone in the Liberties. 'Tis a wicked, dangerous place, don't you see?”

“Might be she doesn't have a home, Da,” jeered Con. “Might be she's just a poor orphan girl on her keeping.”

Ach, and wasn't he an ugly brute!
Even the man's grizzled, divided face was a credit to this one, with his pudding gob and runny eyes. If this was a family, sure, they must have been bred in the sewers!

Annie willed her lip to stop its trembling as she faced the ruffians. The other boy, the one at the man's right, stepped up now, and for the first time Annie got a clear look at his face.

Chilled, Annie recognized the fixed, vacant stare, the foolish grin of an imbecile. This one had little mind, if any. She shuddered. Undoubtedly, he would do whatever he was told.

“Might be at that. Still, she has herself a purchase.” He jabbed a finger at Annie's knapsack. “And a poke. Just be handing those over to Con, why don't you, lassie? A wee thing like yourself should not be carrying such a burden.”

“Can't we just take her home with us, Da?” Con's hard eyes mocked her. “Sure, and I'd fancy a little sister.”

The three laughed as if he'd made a great jest. Annie knew she had one chance, and only one. As the man reached to take her knapsack from her, she brought the stick down as hard as she could on the crook of his arm, at the same time kneeing him hard in the groin.

Caught by surprise, the man yelled and bent double, groaning with pain. Annie whipped her da's carving knife from inside her shoe.

Slicing the air with the knife, she backed off from the three in a crouch. “Leave me be, now, you scum, or I'll cut you, I swear I will! When I'm done, you'll be even uglier than you are now!”

The man was still howling with the blows she'd inflicted, but he lunged for her, and Con, eyes blazing, came at her, too. The idiot with the runny nose simply stood staring.

Brandishing the knife, Annie jabbed at the two, all the while growling at her attackers like some sort of berserk. The man fell back, but Con kept stalking, ducking, and lurching as he watched his chance to go for her.

“You're dead, you skinny little
—”

He was close enough to slice. Annie slashed the knife at his ear.

He let out a shrill scream. Blood gushed, and Annie took off, sobbing as she bounded down the street. The sound of her feet slapping the cobbles echoed in and out of the abandoned buildings.

She heard shouts behind her, and cursing.

How many? All three? Or just Con with the cruel eyes?

The thundering pulse in her ears rose above the sound of running feet. Wheezing, gulping for air, Annie ignored the hot pain in her chest. Once she dared to shoot a glance over her shoulder. Only Con seemed in pursuit, but that was enough to give her an extra surge of speed. As she ran, she kept the knife at ready.

Without realizing it, at some point in the chase Annie had broken out of the mean slum streets. The residences around her were still old, but the neighborhood looked a bit more decent and cared for.

A steeple rose through the fog and Annie first thought she was seeing a vision. But when she was close enough to make out the granite spire of the tower, she prayed fervently that this was no vision but deliverance.

Just after daybreak, Morgan sat at breakfast, his newspapers spread out in front of him.

He had made the mistake of picking up the London
Times
after exhausting
The Nation.
His head throbbed with growing anger. From
The Nation,
he'd learned that one Young Irelander had recently been shot, two others arrested, while raiding a food convoy on the way to a loading port. Before taking them prisoners, the troops had beaten the offenders unmercifully.

The Times,
of course, reported a slightly different version of the “atrocities of the Irish outlaws.” In addition, there were more of the usual remarks about the “aimlessness and laziness” of the Irish people.

With mounting rage, Morgan ignored his plate as he went on reading. Predictably, there was no mention of the fact that those same worthless Irish had been deprived of even the most basic rights of free human beings, and were now starving to death on land rightfully theirs while growing an abundance of food for England to export.

To lay a hand on these “designated” food provisions would automatically
mean prison, exile, or even execution. Not long ago, two little lads were transported to Australia for a term of seven years—this for stealing a bit of corn to fill their hungry bellies.

At least
The Times
could no longer ignore Ireland's disaster altogether. With the growing international awareness that the Irish famine was reality, not rumor—and with increasing protests from both clergy and laity that England's handling of the catastrophe was nothing short of criminal—
The Times
had recently been forced to address the situation.

It was no longer enough to acknowledge the Queen's observation that there did indeed seem to be a “dearth of provisions in Ireland.” The working people of England—and even a few members of the nobility—had begun to add their voices to those of other nations. The world was beginning to take note of Ireland's plight. Along with donations from a multitude of countries came demands that England institute a relief program appropriate for the Christian nation she claimed to be.

But Morgan knew with sick certainty that it would be a very long time before the worldwide aid, no matter how significant, could be channeled and dispersed to make an appreciable difference.

In the meantime, the people were still dying.

He let out a long breath of disgust, crumpled
The Times,
and tossed it to the floor. Glancing up, he saw that Artegal, the new footman, had come into the room.

Morgan sat watching the man with a mixture of mild disdain and irritation. Artegal was quietly and efficiently arranging calling cards and correspondence, presumedly separating those cards he deemed worthy of Morgan's notice from the rest.