Sons of an Ancient Glory (10 page)

“Sure, nothing would have happened to the boy? You did say he was close on seventeen.”

Morgan lifted his hands in a gesture of puzzlement. “How can we know? And there's the rub. Where do we even begin to look? The lad could be
anywhere
by now!” He stopped, giving a heavy sigh. “I do not seem to be having much success as a guardian.”

“Whatever do you mean? Why, you're
wonderful
with Annie!”

He looked at her, then turned back to the fire. “I cannot seem to stop thinking of the last time I saw Little Tom and the rest of my family…the night I set them aboard the ship for America.”

Squeezing his eyes shut against the wrenching image, he said nothing for a moment. These past few days had brought back so many painful memories he had tried to put safely away: seeing Thomas, his brother, shot down before his eyes, slain in his attempt to save Morgan's life…the terrified eyes of the children as they were hurried, half-carried aboard ship…Nora's anguish…the loss of her eldest son before the ship ever left the harbor.…

“I can still remember the boy's arms about my neck when he said goodbye…
so
thin, those little arms…he didn't want to let go.…”

When he realized he had spoken aloud, he started, glancing quickly at Finola, who was studying him with undisguised sympathy.

“Your little nephew?” she asked softly.

Morgan nodded, hugging his arms to his chest. “He was scarcely more than a babe then…not even three years yet. He and the little girls were so frightened, with all the uproar on the docks—I've told you most of it.…”

She leaned forward, touching his hand but saying nothing.

“I thought—I was convinced—that I was sending them off to a better life, a land of hope.…”

He shook his head, tormented by the still-vivid memory of wee Tom's enormous green eyes—the “Fitzgerald eyes,” Thomas had always called them. He remembered the fear and bewilderment in that startled gaze when the tyke had first understood that his daddy was dead and would not be going with them to America.

First Katie, now Little Tom, God have mercy on them. Even in America, they had found no hope.…

Finola's soft voice broke into his troubled thoughts. “You did what you thought best, all you could do. You gave them all you could give, Morgan. You must cling to the assurance that, at least for a time, they were surely happier than they would have been if they had stayed in Ireland.” She paused, still touching his hand. “And your memories, Morgan…you will always have your memories. How you must cherish them now—”

At the sound of much throat-clearing outside in the hall, she broke off, and they both turned toward the door.

Artegal appeared in the doorway. The pallid, cadaverous footman stood unmoving, his usual disapproving expression fixed firmly in place.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but there is—” He swallowed with obvious effort, as if a wad of grapeshot had lodged in his throat. “There is a
Gypsy
boy at the back door. He insists on seeing you.”

Morgan stared at him. “A
Gypsy
boy?
Here
?”

“I'm afraid so, sir. Shall I send him on his way?”

“What reason does he give for wanting to see me?”

The footman rolled his pale eyes in contempt. “He
says
he has a message for you.”

Morgan considered this announcement for another moment. “Very well. Bring him in. And send Sandemon to me, please.”

Artegal's eyes widened. He made no reply, nor did he make any attempt whatsoever to mask his disapproval. “Very good, sir.”

As soon as the footman was out the door, Morgan turned to Finola. Unbidden, every old tale he'd ever heard about the Gypsies' penchant for stealing children and settling curses on the unborn came flooding upon him. Impatience with himself for entertaining such nonsense battled with a fierce sense of protectiveness for his young wife.

“Perhaps…it might be best if you go back to Annie and Sister Louisa.”

She looked at him blankly.

He expelled a deep breath, still irked with himself. “One never knows what to expect from the Gypsies, you see. They are a very…peculiar sort of people.”

Her expression was still puzzled as she got up, smoothed her skirts, and left the room.

As it turned out, it was Sandemon, not Artegal, who ushered in the mysterious messenger. The black man towered over a small boy, somewhat ragged and none too clean.

Upon entering, Sandemon's dark eyes glinted with an uncharacteristic guardedness. His usually serene features were drawn taut.

Studying the boy, Morgan would have reckoned him to be no more than ten, perhaps younger. His black eyes were hooded, his narrow face smudged, and about his neck he wore a faded print kerchief. That he was Gypsy was evident. No doubt he came from one of the Romany tribes that often camped in vacant lots about the slum districts, such as the Liberties.

Morgan wheeled himself back behind his desk. “What's this about?” he asked, glancing at Sandemon.

The West Indies black man raised one dark, dubious eyebrow. “This boy claims to have an urgent message for you,
Seanchai
. I asked for proof, but he refuses to show it to me.”

Morgan frowned, turning his gaze on the Gypsy boy. “So, then—what is this urgent message?”

The shaggy-haired youth thrust his chin up in a defiant air. His black eyes snapped with what looked, incredibly, like indignation.

“The message is here,” he said, tapping the front of a very dirty white shirt. With an arrogance Morgan found slightly amusing, the Gypsy boy continued to study Morgan and the wheelchair. “I am to give it to nobody else but the
Gorgio
called Morgan Fitzgerald,” he finally said.

“‘Gorgio'?”
questioned Sandemon.

“That's what the Romany call anyone who's not a Gypsy,” Morgan answered, not taking his eyes off the boy. He had known a few Gypsies over the years, none well. He doubted that any
Gorgio
ever knew a Gypsy
well
. They were a secretive, primitive, insulated people, the Romany—a race of strangers who lived behind a seemingly impenetrable fort of their own exclusiveness. It was a rare outsider indeed who ever managed to breach the wall.

“I am Morgan Fitzgerald,” he said to the boy. “And, now, if you please, I will have this message you claim to bear.”

The black eyes raked over him. Morgan thought this was likely the first time he had ever known the contempt of a green
gorsoon
—and a Gypsy at that. Had the lad not been so young, he might have been annoyed. “The message?” he prompted firmly.

He watched as the Gypsy boy dug inside his shirt and withdrew what appeared to be a piece of material. Without a word, the youth closed the distance between Morgan and himself and handed over the swatch of cloth.

“What—” Morgan unfolded the material, stretching it taut between both hands. His gaze went from the boy to the cloth. For a moment he stared at it blankly, not comprehending.

“Seanchai?”

The worried tone in Sandemon's voice roused him. Finally, he took in the words crudely scrawled across the material.

His throat tightened, and his heart began to drum heavily in his chest. “Where did you get this?” he snapped, looking up at the Gypsy boy.

The boy studied him for a moment, then said curtly, “From my cousin. In the prison. He passed it out through the window of his cell.”

“The
prison
?” Morgan stared at him, dumbfounded.

The Gypsy youth bristled. “My cousin Jan Martova is in gaol—falsely accused!” Drawing himself up to his full height, he added, “He entrusted me with this message for his
Gorgio
cellmate.”

Cellmate…

Morgan groped for understanding. Then, his eyes still on the Gypsy boy, he handed the torn piece of material to Sandemon. “The message,” he said, his voice low, “is from Tierney Burke.” Pausing, he swallowed against the dryness of his mouth. “Apparently, he is in gaol, here in Dublin.”

Sandemon scanned the words on the material. When he looked up, his expression was startled. “This looks as if—”

Morgan nodded, feeling somewhat ill. “As if it were written in blood.”

We fell by each other—though it was senseless,
It was the encounter of two heroes.

N
INTH
C
ENTURY
I
RISH

T
he cell door flew open. Metal clanged against stone, jarring Tierney out of his sleep.

There was no time for his head to clear or his eyes to focus before Boiler Bill and Rankin, one of the other guards, came charging into the cell, curses flying. Red-faced, Rankin went after Jan Martova with his fists doubled. At the same time, Boiler Bill hurled himself toward Tierney.

“What
—” Scrambling to his feet, Tierney ducked the guard's intended blow. Boiler Bill pivoted, coming at him again. Tierney saw the heavy chain wrapped around his knuckles and averted his head just in time to avoid a savage blow. Thrown off-balance, Boiler Bill stumbled against the wall with an explosive oath.

Tierney saw that Jan Martova was taking a pounding from Rankin, a hulking dimwit twice the size of the Gypsy, and poison-mean. But he knew he had no hope of helping his cellmate. He had all he could do to ward off his own raging assailant.

“You conniving Yankee scum!
” The guard was on him again, his beefy hands circling Tierney's throat. Panicky, Tierney felt his breath crush out of him, his windpipe about to collapse. His head reeled. Flecks of light danced in front of him, and he flailed his free arm, lashing out at the guard in blind desperation.

Teeth bared, the guard roared and flung Tierney against the stone wall of the cell. “Sneak your messages out with the dirty Gypsies, will you? You made a bad mistake, you American dog!” He spat in Tierney's face, then drove a fist into his stomach.

Tierney gagged on the pain that slammed through him. Feeling his knees buckle, he fought to retain consciousness. Boiler Bill grinned, spewing his rancid breath into Tierney's face, clearly enjoying the sight of his pain.

Rage gave Tierney one last surge of strength. Bringing a leg up, he plowed his knee into the guard's groin. Boiler Bill's eyes bugged as he staggered backward, screaming in pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tierney saw the Gypsy slip under one of Rankin's punches. Stooping, he withdrew from his boot the same knife that earlier he'd used to draw his own blood. He came up with a flash of steel and a look of hatred. But before he could move, Rankin fell on him, his heavy body throwing the other off-balance. The guard swung a killing blow to the Gypsy's head, and Jan Martova went down with a thud.

As he fell, the knife flew out of his hand, clattering across the floor. Springing forward, Tierney went for the knife. But just then, Boiler Bill rallied enough to lunge clumsily for Tierney, grabbing him in the midsection and holding him fast.

Gasping for breath, Tierney twisted and struggled to throw the guard off, but with his arm splinted in the sling, he was virtually helpless in the giant's clutches. He saw Rankin retrieve the knife, then turn on Jan Martova, who was still sprawled, seemingly unconscious, on the floor.

Tierney cried out a warning, but the Gypsy didn't move.

At his back, Boiler Bill growled. “So the Gypsies sneaked a message to the gentry on the hill for you, did they?” His fetid breath washed over the side of Tierney's face. “Well, precious little good it will do you!”

His beefy arms tightened around Tierney's abdomen, squeezing the breath out of him, making him feel sick and lightheaded.

Somehow, he managed to find the strength to kick back, gouging the guard in the knees with his heels. At the same time he twisted, finally wrenching himself free.

Lurching forward, he whipped around and saw Boiler Bill coming at him. The big guard's hands were clenched above his head, ready to launch a murderous blow.