by Jack Higgins
Sir George shrugged. “Home Rule is an economic impossibility. We need the power and protection of the British Empire. Ask any of the landowners you’ll meet here tonight for an honest and sensible answer. They’ll all agree with me.”
“I have met those who wouldn’t,” Clay told him.
“The Rogans?” Sir George frowned slightly. “A violent and troublemaking family, notorious throughout the county. The constabulary have been trying to lay them by the heels for years. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll prosecute over this affair on the Galway Road.”
Clay shook his head. “The whole thing turned out to be nothing more than a boyish prank. Full restitution has been made and there’s an end to it.”
“Might I ask why you were visiting the Rogans this morning?” Sir George said.
Some inner caution made Clay reply, “I was merely out for a ride. I arrived at the head of the valley in time to see your men using Mrs. Rogan and one of her sons rather harshly. Naturally, I intervened.”
“But these people are savages.”
Clay started to protest, and Sir George raised a hand to silence him. “No, let me tell you a story and then judge for yourself.”
He sat down in one of the chairs and poured another glass of sherry, his face perfectly calm. “Fifteen years ago, we were going through just such a period as this. Several landowners had been murdered and no man seemed to be safe. I prided myself I had always been fair and honest with my own tenants, and because of that, disregarded the threats on my life made in several letters I received.”
“Who were those letters from?” Clay asked.
Sir George opened a drawer in the table, and taking out a folded sheet of paper, passed it across. “That’s an example of the sort of thing I mean. It was found pinned to the front door the other morning.”
The message was short and to the point and inscribed in neat block letters.
YOUR TURN WILL COME SOON. LOOK FOR ME. CAPTAIN SWING.
“Who is this Captain Swing?” Clay said, handing it back.
Sir George permitted himself a contemptuous smile. “There is no such individual, Colonel. They amuse themselves with their secret societies and romantic names. Captain Swing, Captain Moonlight—such names are used by every disaffected rogue who feels like writing a threatening letter to his landlord.”
“Presumably during the previous trouble, these threats were put into action,” Clay said.
Sir George nodded. “My wife and I had been visiting some friends. Rather foolishly as it turned out, we rode home alone together in a gig. It was a fine summer evening and as I drove, she chatted to me about some improvements she intended to make in the garden.”
He seemed to find some difficulty in speaking, and for a moment there was a pause while Clay waited, guessing what was to come.
Sir George emptied his glass and placed it carefully upon the table. “The assassin was lying in wait in a small wood on the hillside above the bridge, a mile along the Galway Road from the main gates. He only fired once and the bullet, which was intended for me, killed my wife instantly.”
Clay sighed and said softly, “So violence breeds violence.”
“Perhaps it does,” Sir George said. “But you must surely see my point of view, Colonel? The risk that his shot might miss me and kill my wife must have been obvious to the assassin, and yet he took it. Can you really expect me to have any feeling other than hate for these people, after such a deed?”
Clay shook his head. “No, it’s perfectly understandable, but perhaps a more enlightened attitude on the part of the landlords as a whole would go a long way toward stamping out this sort of thing. I visited a dying boy, riddled with consumption this morning. He lives in one of your cottages in the village. I’ve never seen such a pest-hole. How can you expect people who live in such conditions to be anything other than violent and lawless?”
“But the standards one would apply in England cannot be applied here. These people are animals.” An expression of disbelief appeared on Clay’s face, and Sir George went on, “I’ll tell you another true story and you can judge for yourself. Two years ago, a young Englishman— Lord Craig—was left an estate near here. When he arrived to examine the property, he was disgusted to find that most of the peasantry lived in one-roomed cottages without chimneys or any kind of sanitation. He spent a great deal of money in having a model village constructed, and after his tenants had moved into the new cottages, he had the old ones pulled down.”
“What happened then?” Clay asked.
“Within a month, a deputation waited upon him to ask him to have the chimney shafts blocked up. They complained at the loss of heat. When Lord Craig visited the cottages in connection with this request, he discovered to his horror, that his tenants were indulging in all their old habits. Sharing the living quarters with livestock and poultry and using a bucket in the corner of the room in preference to the privies at the end of the garden.”
“What did he do about it?” Clay said.
Sir George smiled thinly. “He sold the estate to me and returned to England a sadder but wiser man.”
“But these things take time,” Clay said.
Sir George shook his head. “I can see that only experience will teach you. You’ll find out for yourself before you have been here for three months.”
“I’m not even sure I shall stay that long,” Clay told him.
Sir George raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You don’t intend to make your home here, then?”
Clay shook his head. “For me, this is merely a sentimental journey I couldn’t resist taking.”
“Then I trust you will bear in mind my offer for your property. I think you’ll find it more than a fair one.”
Before Clay could reply, Sir George’s face was racked by a spasm of pain. He clapped a hand to his mouth and moved quickly toward a stone sink which stood against the wall. As he reached it, a quantity of brown vomit erupted from his mouth and he leaned over the edge of the sink, his thin shoulders working convulsively.
Finally, he straightened up and turned, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “I must apologize, Colonel. Most unpleasant for you.”
“You forget I’m a doctor.” Clay worked the pump handle up and down several times, flushing the vomit away, and filled one of the glasses with water. “Drink this and tell me how often you have such attacks.”
Sir George rinsed his mouth and spat it into the sink. “Come now, Colonel. As a medical man, I’m sure you’ve already made your diagnosis. For my part, I received my sentence from the finest physicians in London last year. The cancer is in the stomach and there is nothing to be done.”
“I would have guessed as much from your appearance alone,” Clay told him. He hesitated and then said, “If there is anything I can do, don’t hesitate to call on me at any time.”
Sir George shook his head and said tranquilly, “I have a very good man in Galway who visits me every couple of weeks. No one could do more. You would oblige me by not mentioning this to my niece, though. I see no reason to distress her unnecessarily.” He smiled. “And now I think we really should be joining the others. My guests will be wondering what has become of me.”
As they moved through the conservatory and out into the passage, Clay considered what had happened, a frown upon his face. He had come here prepared to despise this man and had ended in pitying him.
Life at times could be extremely confusing, he decided, as a footman opened the door for them and they passed into a long, narrow room filled with people.
There was a slight, excited murmur of conversation as heads turned toward them, and he noticed with some surprise that Burke was standing on his own against the wall, conventionally attired in evening wear. Sir George led Clay through the crowd, stopping here and there to make introductions. Finally he excused himself, leaving Clay in the center of an admiring group of extravagantly uniformed Hussar officers from the garrison at Galway.
Someone pressed a glass of champag
ne into his hand, and a young captain called Vale said, “I see you have been wounded, Colonel, and yet we were given to understand that surgeons were treated as noncombatants by both sides.”
“Someone must have forgotten to tell the Yankees,” Clay said and there was general laughter. As it died down he went on, “The situation changed somewhat as the war progressed. Circumstances forced me into becoming a general officer. I had to combine the role of surgeon when it was needed—which was often,” he added ruefully.
There was more laughter and someone said, “We were all under the impression that the South would win the war, Colonel. To what do you attribute her defeat?”
Clay shrugged. “The Confederacy was doomed from the beginning. It’s impossible to march in the face of history or progress, gentlemen. Unfortunately, this usually only becomes apparent in retrospect.”
“Did you command a regiment of cavalry, then, Colonel?” Vale enquired.
“Colonel Fitzgerald commanded two regiments of Georgia cavalry and a brigade at Five Forks, but ten days later the Confederacy had ceased to exist and his promotion to brigadier was never ratified.” The group parted to allow Joanna Hamilton to pass through. “You see, I do know about you, Colonel.” She smiled and took Clay’s arm. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
As they walked toward the dining room, he noticed their reflections in the large, gilt-framed mirror upon the wall. Joanna looked enchanting in a crinoline of white silk, her waist so slender he could almost have spanned it with his two hands.
He himself was conventionally attired in black, his only distinguishing mark the ruffled shirt commonly worn in Georgia on such occasions. No one in all honesty could ever call him handsome, he decided, but by God, they made a presentable couple, and then Joanna’s eyes met his in the mirror. Her mouth quivered slightly, and the fan came up to cover her face as they went into the dining room.
He sat between Joanna and her uncle throughout the meal, enjoying the superb food and listening to the flow of idle chatter on either side. Sir George Hamilton ate sparingly, which was to be expected, and seemed to contribute little to the conversation. Finally, the ladies withdrew and the port was passed round.
Clay lit a cheroot and sat in silence listening to the conversation of others. It consisted in the main of a discussion of the present uneasy state of affairs throughout the country, with various suggestions as to how it might be remedied.
Most of the landowners present seemed to favor a harsher treatment of the peasantry, the strengthening of local garrisons and the introduction of martial law.
One man even suggested that every tenth male in each village might be arrested and held as a hostage against the good behavior of his fellows. The unfortunate wretches chosen were apparently to be hanged if any further lawless acts took place within their own particular community.
Clay had assumed that the man who proposed the idea was speaking lightly, until he heard the murmur of approval which rose on every side and someone said, “Hang one of these swine to every tree between here and Galway. Only way to cure ’em. Wish I could lay hands on the rogue who sent me this.”
A sheet of paper was tossed into the center of the table and someone picked it up. It was passed from hand to hand with angry murmurs, and when it reached Clay, he saw that it was another threatening letter signed Captain Swing, but in a different hand.
The man who had spoken was a gross, evil-looking creature with podgy hands and permanently wet lips. There was something obscene about him, and as they rose to join the ladies, Captain Vale moved to Clay’s shoulder and said, “I see you’re admiring friend Marley, Colonel.”
“Who is he?” Clay asked.
“Owns a large estate about ten miles from here on the road to Galway. A place called Kileen.” Vale made a face. “A revolting individual. I’m surprised Sir George invited him.”
“Presumably he wasn’t joking when he said he’d like to hang a man from every tree between here and Galway?” Clay said.
“Marley never jokes about anything, Colonel,” Vale assured him. “He rules his tenants with a rod of iron and treats them like animals.” They helped themselves to brandy from a salver which was being carried round by a footman, and Vale continued. “He has a penchant for young girls. Anything between thirteen and eighteen suits him. After that they’re too old.”
“Presumably he has a plentiful supply. He seems happy enough with life at the moment.”
Vale nodded grimly. “As I remarked, his tenants have to do as they are told. One of these days, someone will shoot him from behind a hedge and I’ll be called in to hunt the poor devil down.”
“Personally, I’d be inclined to give the man concerned a medal and book him a passage to America,” Clay said.
“Under the circumstances, I’m inclined to agree with you. Marley’s parties are like something out of a nightmare. Only the scum of the countryside will attend. His favorite trick is to have one of the girls stripped and hunted through the grounds by torchlight, the whole drunken mob howling at her heels. You can imagine what the prize is for the first one to catch her.”
Clay took him by the arm and led him toward the buffet table. “After that final slice of information, I really do need another drink.”
A moment later, a small string ensemble, especially brought from Galway for the occasion, struck up a Strauss waltz. Clay excused himself and crossed the room to where Joanna was engaged in giving some instructions to the butler.
“My dance, I think,” he said, with a slight bow.
She consulted her card, brow furrowed. “I’m awfully sorry, Colonel Fitzgerald, but you should have come earlier. I’m afraid I’ve only been able to keep a dozen dances open for you.”
Laughter erupted from his throat, so that people standing near at hand turned as he took her arm and led her onto the floor.
They danced well together, and as they circled the room she looked up into his face and smiled. “You look extremely handsome tonight.”
He grimaced and shook his head. “I have been accused of many things, Miss Hamilton, but never of being handsome.”
She frowned in genuine puzzlement. “Surely you must be aware that every woman in the room is longing to have you dance with her?”
Before he could think of a suitable reply, the music died away and people stopped dancing. There were shocked gasps, and somewhere, a woman stifled a scream in her throat.
The French windows leading out onto the terrace had been opened a little earlier because of the warmth of the evening. Standing just inside the room were two men who had obviously stepped out of the darkness.
The one on the left was Kevin Rogan, and he carried a shotgun under one arm, thumbs hooked carelessly into his broad leather belt. His eyes swept over the crowd and met Clay’s and something like a smile touched his lip.
It was not difficult to guess the identity of his companion. Shaun Rogan was one of the largest men Clay had ever seen. He must have been all of six feet four or five, with a great breadth of shoulder, and his hair was a snow-white mane swept back behind his ears. He wore a felt hat and corduroy jacket.
Complete silence descended upon the room as Sir George walked forward to face him. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Rogan,” he said calmly, “But I’d like to remind you that this is my property. As I have not invited you here, you’re guilty of trespassing. I suggest you leave as quickly as you came.”
Shaun Rogan’s voice was like the tuck of a drum. “Trespassing, is it, George Hamilton? And what was it your men were doing this morning when they invaded my land and assaulted not only one of my sons, but also my wife? Is it a woman-beater ye are now?”
Burke had moved to a position directly behind his master’s shoulder and he now took a quick step forward. Sir George held him back with one arm. “I want no trouble in front of my guests, Rogan. If you have a legitimate complaint, take it to the constabulary in Galway.”
“Would you listen to him?” Shaun Rogan demanded, looking
round the room. “And what chance would I have against the likes of him?” There was no answer and he shook his head. “No, I’ve no complaint to make, but I’ve got a warning for you and your pet lapdog hiding there behind your shoulder. If you as much as set foot on my land again, you’ll get a bullet in you and there’s my solemn promise on it.”
He started to turn away, and Sir George’s anger got the better of him. “By God, you go too far, Rogan,” he cried, face suffused with passion. “I’ll see you rot in Galway gaol yet, you scum.”
Rogan turned slowly. “Scum, is it?” he said softly. “And what name would ye give to a man, who wanting a quarrel, hasn’t the guts to face his enemy himself, but sends his bully boys to manhandle a sixty-year-old woman?”
There was complete silence in the room and Joanna’s breath hissed softly between her teeth. Rogan slipped a hand into his coat and pulled out a pistol which he threw down at his enemy’s feet.
“There, you dog,” he said harshly. “Here’s as good a chance as you’ll ever get to rid the world of me, and ye haven’t the guts to take it.”
He turned his back and, pushing Kevin before him, moved to the French windows. In that same instant, Burke dropped to one knee and reached for the pistol. He thumbed back the hammer and levelled it, still kneeling. As he pulled the trigger, Clay moved. He stamped downward and the pistol exploded harmlessly into the floor. Burke dropped it with a cry of pain and clutched his wrist.
Kevin swung, shotgun levelled to fire, but his father moved quickly to stay him. His eyes met Clay’s and Kevin murmured something softly to him. A slight smile appeared on Shaun Rogan’s grim face, and he nodded and said, “I’m obliged to you, Colonel.” For a moment longer, they stood there in the light and then they melted away into the darkness
Sir George turned to Clay and his face was calm, although a muscle pulled at the corner of his right eye, betraying his inner agitation. “I must thank you for acting so promptly, Colonel. Burke’s action was understandable but ill-advised. You have saved us all considerable unpleasantness.”
