Sons of an Ancient Glory (24 page)

When I remember all
The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!

T
HOMAS
M
OORE
(1779-1852)

Dublin

Late July

M
organ enjoyed these early morning sparring sessions with Tierney, although he found that he often neglected his breakfast in favor of their lively conversation.

He had not been surprised to find the lad sharp-witted, even mercurial. In his letters, Michael had often referred to his son as a “shooting star,” and Morgan thought it an apt description.

The boy had a keen intelligence, though probably not a bent for scholarship. Tierney, Morgan suspected, was the sort who learned more by doing, preferring action over academics. He had already discovered vast holes in the lad's education, but he wondered just how eager the young scamp would be to fill in the gaps if given the opportunity.

This morning, most of the brisk exchange across the table was taking place between Tierney and Annie. Morgan found himself too distracted to participate, other than in a vague, preoccupied fashion. There was a great deal on his mind, most of it unpleasant.

Today he would go to Richmond Prison to bid William Smith O'Brien farewell. Exiled to Van Diemen's Land by the Crown, the former Young Ireland leader had lost his protest against being transported. Although the law was clear that one convicted of high treason be either executed or granted a full pardon, British officials had, with customary efficiency, simply hurried into passage a
new
law. As a result, in a matter of days Smith O'Brien would be leaving his country—the country to which he had devoted his entire adult life.

O'Brien's demand for execution instead of exile had been denied, God be thanked, although Morgan thought he understood his friend's preference for death over banishment. Still, as long as William was alive, there was hope, no matter how slight, for a pardon.

It was believed among the former members of Young Ireland that O'Brien was hoping to resume his leadership role one day. Morgan disagreed. William certainly knew that his exile would mean political oblivion. O'Brien would have stood more of a chance to become Ireland's hero if he
had
been executed. The nation had a long list of Irish martyrs who had died for their country. But it would be far more difficult, if not impossible, to assume the role of hero after leading a failed revolution and being sent into exile for life. Especially for a leader whose reputation had been blackened by the ugly stain of ridicule.

It was with a keen sense of loss that Morgan considered O'Brien's leaving. With Joseph Mahon passed on and William exiled, he would virtually be without close friends, other than Sandemon. There was Michael, of course, his oldest friend—but he was an entire ocean away.

Morgan found such encroaching isolation more unsettling than he would have expected. There was something about friendship, he had come to realize, that gave one a sense of permanence. In some inexplicable way friends helped to affirm the importance of one's life—a gift not to be taken lightly when everything else seemed uncertain.…

“What do we think about the Queen coming to Dublin,
Seanchai
?”

Morgan glanced up, momentarily at a loss to comprehend Annie's question. “The Queen?”

“Aye. How do we feel about her visit to Ireland next week?”

“Ah, yes…the Queen's visit.” Recovering, Morgan restrained a smile at the girl's ingenuousness. “Why, I can only speak for myself, of course, but it seems to me that if‘our darling little Queen'—to quote the O'Connell—feels compelled to accept the tributes of her Irish subjects, then why not?”

Annie gave him a blank look, obviously not satisfied. “But what is our
opinion
on Queen Victoria's visit,
Seanchai
?'“ she pressed.

Morgan leaned back, still smiling at his precocious daughter. “You must think for yourself,
alannah.
Suppose you tell
me…‘
Our opinion,' eh?”

Obviously warming to the opportunity, Annie plunged in with her usual energy. “I expect we might be wondering why the Little Queen is coming just
now.
It wouldn't seem the most…propitious moment for a royal visit.”

Not for the first time, Morgan found himself struck by Annie's insight. “Aye,” he answered thoughtfully, “your question is well-taken.” Indeed, he thought grimly, why
was
the Queen coming to Dublin at this particular time? The country was altogether devastated, had come through yet another year that was nothing but one long night of sorrow. Almost all of Britain's relief effort—if
effort
was the word—had ceased. The people were fleeing the land by the thousands, and the masses were forsaking Dublin to escape the cholera epidemic.

Even as he spoke, Morgan felt the old indignation and bitterness rise up in his chest. “An incisive question, indeed,
alannah
” he grated out. “The Irish people might well ask why the Queen is coming to Dublin in the midst of a cholera epidemic.”

Not quite meeting his gaze, Annie frowned. “Are you fearful of the cholera,
Seanchai
?”

“That man is a fool who does not fear a cholera epidemic, child. That's why I have asked the entire household to avoid the city as much as possible, until it passes. We cannot afford to take risks.”

Annie nodded. “Especially with Finola's babe about to be born.”

Another fear
. Morgan swallowed, managing only an agreeing murmur. “So, then,” he returned, “you could say that my opinion.
our
opinion, if you will…about the Queen's visit is somewhat skeptical, at the least.”

“Perhaps,” Annie ventured slowly, “she only means to help the Irish people.”

“A noble sentiment on her part, though somewhat belated, I fear,” Morgan said, struggling to keep the full force of his resentment under control. “Unless, of course, she intends to decorate the common graves about the land.”

“I think it's obscene!” Tierney's outburst didn't surprise Morgan in the least. During the few weeks in which the boy had been a guest at Nelson Hall, he had proved himself to be nothing if not assertive.

“She has the gall!” he went on, snapping his knuckles as he rose to his tirade. “Coming here with her decadent pomp, while the country is starving! All this fuss about ‘illuminations' throughout the city and the need to redecorate the Vice-Regal Lodge for her stay. I think it's a disgrace!”

Morgan let him go on for a moment. Tierney seemed to feel compelled to establish his loyalties to Ireland at every opportunity.

Finally, when the boy stopped for a breath, Morgan offered an observation. “The Queen isn't altogether responsible for the foolishness of her officials. They seem to be the ones calling for all the expense.”

He ventured no comment on the fact that Victoria and her prince were bringing their four children and a host of servants—a party of some thirty-six people altogether, according to the papers. An entire army of workmen had appeared in the city weeks ago to begin preparations for the royal visit. Triumphal arches, platforms, and the like were being hastily erected, St. Patrick's Hall redecorated, and Dublin Castle thoroughly cleaned and repainted.

He was surprised at Annie's next remark. “Well, I expect my opinion is the same as the
Evening Mail's
” she said solemnly. “‘If we have funds to spare, let them be spent not on illuminations, but on Her Majesty's starving subjects.'”

Morgan smiled at her. “Aye, lass, I concur. For once—although it's rare—I, too, agree with the
Evening Mail.”

Folding his breakfast napkin, he turned his attention to Tierney. “I am going to Richmond Prison today, to bid William Smith O'Brien farewell before he sails. You may accompany me if you'd like to meet him.”

The boy was eagerness itself. “I would, sir, thank you! What time shall we leave?”

Annie interrupted before Morgan could answer. “And shall I be going too,
Seanchai
?” she asked eagerly.

Morgan looked at her. “Why…no, lass. Not today. The prison is no fit place for you.”

Immediately, her features darkened. “I don't see why I can't go. Mr. William Smith O'Brien is a hero. I would like to say goodbye to him, too.” That said, she favored Tierney with a fierce glare.

Ignoring her petulance, Morgan shook his head firmly. “I'll not take you to the prison, and that's that. Aside from the fact that it's a mean place for a man, much less a lass, I want you here with Finola.”

One eye narrowed, just slightly, and the pouting mouth pursed still more. But finally she yielded. “I suppose that's best, then.”

“Thank you, lass.” Morgan reached to squeeze her hand. “You
will
keep a close eye on Finola?”

“You know I will,” she said, leaping up from her chair. “Is Sandemon going with you to the prison?”

“Of course. And before you go upstairs, would you remind him that I'd like to leave within the hour?”

“He needn't go,” said Tierney. “I can help you manage just as well.”

Morgan looked at him. Even before today he had sensed something vaguely disturbing about the lad's attitude toward Sandemon—a certain coolness, a subtle undercurrent of resentment that almost seemed to border on jealousy. On occasion he had the distinct feeling that Tierney only condescended to Sandemon out of deference to Morgan's obvious affection for the man.

Morgan found the boy's bearing toward Sandemon unsettling. At times, he thought he sensed a disturbing streak of cruelty—or at the least, a certain pettiness—in Tierney. Most often, it would manifest itself as arrogance or even rudeness. Whatever it was, Morgan found it troubling, for it seemed in stark contrast to the boy's other, finer character traits.

Often, he could almost feel the conflict going on in that restless young spirit. He was quickly learning that Michael's son was every bit as complicated—and as difficult—as he had been heralded to be. Tierney could be generous to a fault, yet displayed an occasional spark of malice toward the younger scholars. He was charming, capricious, and engaging—yet quite capable of withdrawing and turning cold as a snake.

Even with Sister Louisa, the boy could be impudent—no easy feat, to Morgan's thinking. Toward Sandemon, he showed no hint of emotion or respect. Yet, with Annie, he seemed to be fitting into the mold of the proverbial elder brother and comrade. And, though he teased her unmercifully, the lass did seem to dote on him—most of the time.

Besides Morgan himself, the one person in the household toward whom Tierney showed a genuine respect was Finola. Though seldom in her company, for Finola rarely came downstairs these days, Tierney was every bit the gentleman when they chanced to meet.

But, then, Morgan reasoned with a faint smile, didn't Finola hold virtually the entire household in the palm of her slender hand?

The very thought of his delicate young wife and the imminent birth of the babe made Morgan's hands tremble slightly on the table. To avoid Tierney's probing gaze, he straightened and said firmly, “Sandemon will go with us.”

He did not miss the flicker of impatience that passed across the boy's face.

“I would like the two of you to become friends,” he went on, as if he hadn't noticed. “Sandemon has much to offer a young man like you. You would do well to seek his company.”

Tierney made no reply, but his insolent stare spoke enough to make Morgan uncomfortable.

Deciding to confront him now, before things went any further, Morgan braced both hands on the edge of the table. He studied the boy for a moment, then said, “What, exactly, is this problem you seem to have with Sandemon?”

Tierney looked down at his plate. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” Morgan returned, more sharply than he had intended.

The boy lifted his head. Those unnerving blue eyes met Morgan straight on. “He's arrogant. For a Negro.”