by Jack Higgins
They crossed the moor at the back of Claremont and skirted the village, coming down to Drumore House through the orchards. Clay and Dennis dismounted and were hustled through a door and along a stone-flagged passage, finally stopping outside the conservatory door.
Burke went in and they waited. After a while, he came out again and led the way through the hall into the long room with the French windows, in which the reception had been held.
One of the men closed the door and another pushed Dennis into the center of the room. Burke said carelessly over his shoulder, “Watch the colonel,” and as he advanced on the boy, the men closed in around Clay.
Dennis had turned bone-white and suddenly looked very young. As he watched him, Clay thought of that first day on the Galway Road and of the dash and bravado that had faded so quickly when the youth had been faced with the harsh reality of violence.
Burke said calmly, “I want to know where that brother of yours is hiding.”
Dennis licked his lips, and Clay said quietly and clearly, his words cutting through the stillness, “Remember your name and nation, lad.”
Dennis drew himself erect, nostrils flaring, a new expression appearing on his face. “Yes, by God, I’m a Rogan, but I’m an Irishman first and I’ll not betray my own kind like you have, ye scut.”
Burke hit him in the stomach, and as the lad keeled over, a fist of iron smashed into his mouth, lifting him backward.
Dennis groaned and tried to get up. Slowly and painfully, he pushed himself onto one knee, his mouth ragged and bloody. Burke hauled him easily to his feet with one hand. “Has your memory improved?” he asked calmly.
Dennis seemed to be trying to speak. His mouth worked and a ghastly grin appeared and then he spat into Burke’s face. The land agent felled the boy with one blow and lifted back a boot to strike. Clay ducked under an arm and, flinging himself forward, caught Burke by the shoulder and sent him staggering across the room. There was a growl of rage from the men behind, but as they moved forward threateningly, the door opened and Sir George entered.
He surveyed the scene calmly and, ignoring Clay, crossed the floor and examined Dennis. “Did he tell you?” he asked Burke.
The agent wiped blood and spittle from his face with a handkerchief and shook his head. “I’d only just started, but he’s stubborn.”
Sir George nodded. “There are surer ways. Have two of the man take him upstairs. Clean him up and make sure he’s sensible when I need him.”
Burke gave the necessary order and Dennis was escorted from the room. As the door closed, Sir George turned and regarded Clay coldly for several moments, and then he walked slowly forward and struck him in the face. “You made a fool of me, Colonel, but it’s my turn to laugh now.”
He snapped his fingers and one of the men opened the door and went out. A moment later, he returned with a bundle, which he handed to Burke. Burke opened it slowly and dropped onto the floor at Clay’s feet, one by one, his old felt campaign hat, the black scarf, and the Confederate cavalry greatcoat.
Burke said, “The fact that Kevin Rogan was rescued after your visit to the Rogan farm yesterday set me thinking, Colonel. I should have guessed it before. Several people described how the moonlight glinted on the brass frame of Captain Swing’s Colt, but a Navy Colt doesn’t have a brass frame.”
“How very interesting,” Clay said.
“Oh, it was,” Burke told him. “You see I remembered reading somewhere how the Confederates were short of metal during the war. They melted down the brass church bells at a place called Macon in Georgia and manufactured a copy of the Navy Colt, using the brass for the frame of the weapon. They called it a Dragoon Colt, I understand, and it was issued extensively to Confederate cavalry units.” His hand came out of his pocket and he was holding Clay’s pistol.
“Even when Burke told me of this, I still found it difficult to believe,” Sir George said. “That’s why we played our little game this morning.” He took Joanna’s letter from his pocket and held it up, hand shaking. “I’ve been kept well-informed of my niece’s attachment for you, believe me, sir. This morning I was testing her as well as you when I allowed her to overhear Burke and myself discussing the new turn that events have taken with the death of James Fitzgibbon.”
“Miss Hamilton was carefully watched,” Burke said. “We wanted her to get in touch with you. When she did, she unknowingly played right into our hands. You rode straight to the Rogans to warn them, as I had expected, leaving only your servant at home, which was something else I had hoped for.” He stirred the clothing on the floor with one foot. “The final proof, Colonel Fitzgerald.”
“The proof that will hang you, by God, you damned rebel,” Sir George said, and there was a slight trace of foam on his lips.
Clay shrugged and said lightly, “There must be other ex-Confederate officers in Ireland, more than one Dragoon Colt. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Burke moved close to him, a pale smile on his face. “We do indeed, Colonel. How is your arm this morning, by the way? Not too painful, I trust?” He gripped Clay’s left arm slightly above the elbow and squeezed for a moment, and Clay’s eyes closed as the agony flooded through him.
Sir George laughed coldly. “I think perhaps the colonel would like a seat.” Someone pulled one forward and Clay was thrust down into it. The baronet continued. “Half an hour ago, I sent a special messenger mounted on my best horse to the constabulary headquarters in Galway. I’ve told them that I’ve captured Captain Swing. I’ve pointed out that the situation in this district is bad and have asked them to send an escort of cavalry to take you into Galway. I have also said that I expect to have Kevin Rogan in my hands by the time they arrive here.”
Clay looked up and said grimly, “You’ll never take Kevin Rogan alive again.”
“Ah, but I’m afraid you underestimate the strength of brotherly love,” Sir George said. “I’ve sent the stable lad, Joseph—you’ve met him already, I understand—with a message to Shaun Rogan. I’ve told him that Dennis Rogan is in my hands, that I’ll exchange him for his brother Kevin. If he refuses, I’ll hand Dennis over to the cavalry as a confederate of Captain Swing. No judge in the land will believe the lad wasn’t, by the time Burke and I have given our evidence.”
He laughed, and the foam on his lips was more apparent. Some of the men shuffled nervously and Sir George said, “Take him away. Lock him up securely with the other until I send for him again.”
Burke pulled Clay up from the chair and pushed him roughly toward the door. One of the men opened it and they passed out into the hall. As Burke led the way up the great staircase, Clay said, “What happened to my servant?”
Burke shrugged carelessly. “A crack on the head. No more than that. I’ve heard tell black men have hard skulls.”
They passed along a wide corridor in silence, mounted a narrower flight of stairs and then another until they were on the third storey.
The two men who had originally left with Dennis lounged outside a stout door bound with iron bands, and Burke said, “Is he all right?”
One of them nodded. “Still in the land of the living, more’s the pity, Mr. Burke.”
The key was in the lock and Burke turned it and opened the door. “In you go, Colonel, and I wouldn’t waste your time in trying to find a way to escape. It doesn’t exist.”
Clay moved forward and paused, looking directly into the man’s face. “He’s insane,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
Burke shrugged. “I don’t get paid to think about things like that.”
“Then tell me one thing,” Clay said. “What’s happened to Miss Hamilton?”
Burke laughed harshly. “Don’t you worry about her, Colonel. Whatever she’s done, she’s still a Hamilton. Sir George will think of something suitable, I suppose. For the moment, she’s confined to her rooms. A slight indisposition. Nothing to worry about.”
He pushed Clay forward into the room, and as the door closed, his laughter ec
hoed through the heavy oak planks and then it faded into the distance as he moved away along the corridor.
11
Clay leaned against the window, a cheroot between his teeth, and gazed out through the iron bars to the park, sixty feet below. For more than an hour he had watched the road, waiting for something to happen, but nothing stirred.
Smoke rose into the air from the cottages of Drumore hidden by the trees, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked as it chased a rabbit through the undergrowth. He turned as Dennis groaned. The boy sat on the edge of the narrow bed, head in hands, shoulders hunched dejectedly. “God save us, Colonel, but me head’s going to burst into a thousand pieces at any moment.”
Clay patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. “He packs a hard punch, lad, there’s no denying that.”
Dennis tried to smile and touched his smashed and swollen mouth gingerly with the tips of his fingers. “What’s going to happen to us, Colonel? Will we hang?”
“Having had no previous experience of English justice, I can’t say, but I understand rebels against the Crown have been known to come to that end.” Clay smiled down at him. “No sense in worrying about it yet. There’s always hope. Perhaps Kevin will come to put himself in your place?”
“To burn the house down is more likely,” Dennis snorted. “And there’s plenty would follow him. He’s had enough troubles as it is, trying to hold some of them back until the day fixed for the general rising next year.”
“So you don’t think he’ll come?” Clay said.
“I’ll see him in hell before I let him take my place.” There was a new firmness in the boy’s voice, indicating that at least he had passed over into manhood. “He wouldn’t stand a chance, not with this Varley affair hanging over him.”
Clay nodded somberly. “You know it and Kevin knows it. The point now is what will he do?”
He turned back to the window and stiffened.
A pony and trap had moved in through the gates below and halted outside the lodge. Shaun Rogan handled the reins, and the stable boy, Joseph, sat beside him.
The old man shaded his eyes with one hand as he gazed up toward the house through the pale autumn sunlight, and then he said something to Joseph. The boy jumped down to the ground and came along the drive at a jog-trot.
Clay said quietly, “Your father is down at the main gate.”
Dennis got to his feet and stood there, swaying slightly. “Is he alone?”
Clay shook his head. “He came with the stable boy who brought him Sir George’s message. He’s just sent the lad up to the house while he waits. He’ll be trying to arrange some sort of truce, I fancy.”
Dennis moved beside him and they both craned their necks and tried to see what was going on down at the front entrance. After a while, Joseph appeared and ran back. They could see him talking quickly and nodding his head and then Shaun Rogan picked up the reins and started toward the house. He halted about forty yards away and waited.
Clay and Dennis turned as the key grated in the lock behind them. The door opened and Burke moved inside. He was holding a pistol in one hand. “Outside, both of you,” he said. “Shaun Rogan seems to think we might be pulling some kind of a trick on him. He wants to see you in the flesh.”
He led the way along the corridor, Clay and Dennis following, two armed men behind them. Dennis still seemed unsure on his feet, and Clay placed one arm about the lad’s shoulders and steadied him as they descended the great staircase into the entrance hall.
The front door was open and half a dozen men armed with shotguns stood outside. Sir George was waiting a few yards away from the bottom of the steps, looking toward Rogan.
Burke halted Clay and Dennis at the top of the steps and went down to speak to Sir George. Except for the subdued murmur of their voices, silence reigned, and then several rooks lifted out of the branches of the beech trees beside the boundary wall and wheeled above them, calling angrily.
Clay’s eyes narrowed and he glanced casually at the guards. None of them took any notice and he turned again to the beech trees, wondering who was hiding there and what they intended.
Sir George took a pace forward and called, “Well, are you satisfied, Rogan? You’ve now seen Colonel Fitzgerald and your son for yourself. You know my terms. What have you got to say?”
Shaun Rogan’s voice boomed across the ground like an organ. “Only this, you dog. I’ll give you an hour to release the both of them. After that, I’ll move against you, and one thing I promise. If you’ve harmed a hair of their heads, I’ll burn Drumore House and you’ll roast in its flames.”
Sir George seemed to find difficulty in speaking, so great was his rage. “By God, you’ve threatened me for the last time, Rogan,” he cried in a cracked voice.
His hand came out of his pocket holding a pistol. As he levelled it, Dennis Rogan gave a cry of warning and, flinging himself down the steps, sent Sir George staggering into Burke and then he ran down the drive toward his father.
Before Clay could move, the guards closed in around him and he stood there helpless to prevent the tragedy that followed. The boy had covered perhaps half the distance to his father, when Sir George calmly took aim, using his left arm as a rest for the barrel, and shot him in the back.
Dennis cried out and seemed to trip, rolling over several times, and then he struggled to his feet and continued toward the trap, lurching from side to side.
As Sir George took aim again, a bullet kicked gravel from the drive into his face and several horsemen appeared from amongst the beech trees and galloped toward the house, Kevin Rogan leading. Sir George turned and stumbled up into the porch and the guards followed him. Burke came last, backing slowly up the steps, taking deliberate aim and firing until his pistol was empty.
Kevin Rogan dismounted, lifted Dennis from the ground and carried him to the trap. He laid the boy carefully across the seat beside his father, and the old man picked up the reins and, turning the horse in a circle, moved away.
The other four men on horseback kept up a fusillade of shots toward the main door, covering Kevin until he was mounted again. A moment later, he called to them and they all wheeled and galloped through the main gates and disappeared along the road to Drumore.
Clay had flung himself facedown on the floor as the shots chased them through the door and now he got to his feet slowly and looked about him. The walls were pitted with bullet holes and a great gilt-framed mirror had splintered into a thousand pieces.
One of the men sat against the far wall, a hand clutching his side, blood welling between his fingers. Clay dropped down to one knee beside him, but as he started to examine him, the man seemed to choke. There was a rattle in his throat, followed by an eruption of blood, and his head lolled to one side.
“He’s dead,” Clay announced, getting to his feet.
The guards stirred uneasily and Burke said in a calm voice, “Hold the colonel there.”
Someone prodded Clay in the ribs with the barrel of a shotgun, as Sir George advanced and examined the body of the dead man. He looked pale, but otherwise perfectly composed. “It would seem we can expect a little trouble,” he said. “How many reliable men have we available?”
“There are six of us here, including myself,” Burke told him. “And the seven you sent down to the village to impose a curfew should be back soon. We could hold the house for a month if necessary, but the cavalry should be here in three or four hours.”
“You’re quite right,” Sir George said, “And we mustn’t forget the servants. Most of them have been in my employ for years.”
“And have loathed and despised you for every moment of that time,” Clay said. “You bloody murderer. Look around you at the fear on the faces of these men. I wonder how long you’ll be able to count on them in an emergency.”
Sir George turned toward him, a glazed expression in his eyes. Slowly he wiped spittle from his mouth with the back of one hand and said in a dead voice, “Take the colonel back to his room, Burke.
If he makes the slightest attempt to escape, shoot him.” He disappeared along the passage toward the conservatory, as Burke pushed Clay toward the stairs.
As they passed along the landing, a door opened and Joanna appeared, a middle-aged woman in a black bombazine gown at her shoulder, a white mobcap surmounting her vinegary features.
Joanna poised for flight, alarm on her face, and then she recognized Clay and came straight into his arms. “I heard the shooting,” she said.
The middle-aged woman interrupted in tones of indignation. “It won’t do, Mr. Burke. I can’t control her. She forced the key from me.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Ferguson,” Burke told her. “You can go.” He turned to Joanna. “The key, if you please, Miss Hamilton.”
She hesitated and then handed it across, before looking up at Clay anxiously. “What’s been happening?”
Before Clay could reply, Burke took her firmly by one arm and pushed her back into her room, then he closed the door and locked it. Dropping the key into his pocket, he turned to Clay with a sardonic smile. “And now you, Colonel.”
They moved along the corridor and mounted the stairs to the room on the third floor. Clay sat on the bed and listened to the lock click into place and his heart seemed to turn to stone. What hope was there for him now? What hope at all?
He spent the next hour standing at the window, looking down toward the village, wondering how seriously Dennis Rogan had been wounded. He was the only doctor for miles and his presence could mean the difference between life or death for the lad. He turned away from the window, and the door opened.
Two of Burke’s men entered and hustled him out into the corridor. As they pushed him along in front of them, he listened to their conversation. “I don’t like it,” one of them said. “I don’t like it one little bit. There isn’t a bloody servant left in the house.”
