by Jack Higgins
“Burke knows what he’s doing,” the other replied, trying to sound confident. “We’ll be all right.”
They both seemed so nervous and edgy that Clay took heart. They reached the head of the stairs, but instead of going down to the hall, they crossed the landing and turned into another corridor, pausing outside a door. One of the men opened it and the other pushed Clay roughly inside.
Sir George Hamilton lay on a great bed and Burke stood over him, a glass of water in his hand. The agent turned and his face was devoid of expression. “A chance to exercise your calling, Colonel. Sir George has had some kind of an attack.”
Clay shrugged. “I’ve nothing with me, no drugs, no instruments. However, I’ll take a look at him if you insist.”
“I do!” Burke assured him. As Clay moved forward, the agent spoke to the two guards. “Henderson, you join the others down below. You guard this door, Clark.”
The door closed behind them as Clay leaned over Sir George. His shirtfront was stained with foul-smelling blood and his collar had been loosened. As Clay touched him, the eyes opened and Sir George stared up at him, blankly, and then a light seemed to flicker on and his lips moved. “Take your damned hands off me.”
Clay straightened and turned to Burke. “There’s nothing I can do. Your master is suffering from an incurable disease. He’s had these attacks before. Leave him for a couple of hours and he’ll be fit to walk again.”
“For how long?” Burke said softly.
Clay shrugged. “That’s impossible to say. I think another such attack will kill him.”
Burke frowned, and then he went and opened the door and called in the guard who stood there. “Take the colonel back to his room, Clark.”
Clay moved outside and passed along the corridor, Clark at his heels. They walked across the landing and, below, he saw two men lounging by the front door. One of them glanced up and, seeing him, made some ribald comment to his companion.
Clay slowed as he came to Joanna’s door and Clark prodded him in the back with the barrel of the shotgun and said roughly, “Keep moving.”
Clay pivoted neatly, brushing the barrel aside with his wounded arm, and slammed his right fist into the man’s exposed neck. Clark staggered against the wall with a groan and slid to the floor.
Clay stood well away from the door and stamped at it with his right foot. After several attempts, the lock gave and the door swung back to reveal Joanna standing on the other side of the room. She ran into his arms.
He held her close for a moment and said gently, “Are you all right? They haven’t harmed you in any way?”
She shook her head. “There isn’t one of them would dare to lay a finger on me. They’re too scared of my uncle. But what about you? What was all the shooting about?”
“I haven’t got time to explain in detail,” he said, “But your uncle shot Dennis Rogan in the back.”
“Is he dead?” she said in a shocked voice.
“I don’t know,” Clay told her. “Shaun Rogan carried him away in his trap. I must get to the lad to see if I can do anything. I should imagine all hell is going to break loose round this house within another hour.”
“Then we’d better leave as quickly as possible,” she said. “I’ve got a key to a small door that leads to the stables.”
She led the way, and Clay paused only to pick up Clark’s shotgun. The house was filled with an unnatural stillness, a brooding calm, as if everything waited for the storm to break, and he wondered why the servants had left. Presumably word must have come to them from the village, or perhaps the murder of Dennis Rogan and the shooting which followed had been the final straw. One thing was certain, Sir George Hamilton was reaping what he had sown over the long years. Now he was left with only his imported bullies and Burke to protect him until the soldiers arrived, and they would have to be quick.
They descended two flights of servants’ stairs and turned into a narrow passageway, at the end of which stood a door. Joanna fumbled with the key for a moment and the door opened.
The cobbled yard was quiet and deserted and the stable doors stood open. Clay peered out cautiously, then he took her hand and started across.
At that moment, a door opened some twenty yards away and Burke came out, two men at his heels. He was obviously unaware that Clark lay unconscious in the passage outside Joanna’s room, for he stared at them, astonishment on his face.
In those few seconds of precious time, Clay pushed Joanna through the stable entrance. As he followed, Burke’s men fired at him and lead shot scattered through the air. Clay returned the fire, and Burke and his men stepped back into the shelter of the kitchen door to reload.
“Get out while you have the chance, Clay,” Joanna cried, getting to her feet. “Remember Dennis Rogan needs you. I’ll be all right. They won’t dare to harm me.”
What she said was right and there was no point in argument. Pegeen was standing in a nearby stall and he led her out and slipped a bridle over her head. He vaulted onto the mare’s bare back and smiled down at Joanna.
“I’ll be back,” he said savagely. “I swear it!”
He gave a blood-curdling cry and slapped Pegeen on the rump, sending her out through the door.
Burke’s men had never heard the Rebel yell before and the sound of it, plus the speed with which Pegeen bolted from the stables, sent them hastily back into the shelter of the kitchen door, as if expecting an attack.
It was Burke who recovered first. Snatching one of the shotguns, he levelled it and fired. Leaning low over Pegeen’s neck, Clay heard the shot whistle through the branches of the trees as he labored up the slope through the orchard, and then he was through the gap in the wall and safe amongst the trees.
He gave Pegeen her head, gripping her bare sides firmly with his knees, and urged her into a gallop when they reached the moor. Fifteen minutes later, he rode down through the trees to Claremont.
When he went into the kitchen, he found the whole place in complete disorder and there were signs that a struggle had taken place. He went upstairs, two at a time, calling anxiously, but there was no reply. He found his saddlebags lying in a corner where they had been thrown by Burke’s men searching the bedroom, and checked that his surgical instruments and drugs were in order as he went back downstairs.
He hurried across to the stables and saw, with a feeling of relief, that the other horse had gone. It was more than likely that Joshua had recovered from his blow on the head and had gone down to the village to see if anything could be done. Clay found a spare saddle and quickly strapped it onto Pegeen’s back. A moment later, he galloped down the drive and turned into the main road.
When he entered Drumore, an uncanny silence reigned. An old woman crossed the street hurriedly, pausing only to give him a frightened glance over one shoulder and then a door closed behind her and he heard a bolt rammed firmly into place.
As he drew abreast of Cohan’s pub, a familiar voice called to him and Joshua came out of the stable yard, a crude bandage wrapped around his head. “Am I glad to see you, Colonel.”
Clay grinned down at him. “It’s been a hectic day so far for both of us. How’s your head?”
Joshua managed a wry smile. “It aches some, but I’ll survive.”
“You’d better fill me in on what’s been happening here,” Clay said, dismounting. “Where is everybody?”
“They’ve all gone to Drumore House, Colonel,” Joshua said. “Kevin Rogan called a meeting right here in the center of the village. He told them how Sir George Hamilton had shot his brother in the back in cold blood.”
“That’s true enough,” Clay said. “I saw it happen. Where is the boy now?”
“He died, Colonel, just after his father brought him into the village in his trap,” Joshua said. “Mr. Rogan’s up at the church with him now.”
“But where’s Father Costello?” Clay demanded. “Where was he when all this was going on?”
“There was bad trouble here,” Joshua said. “So
me of Sir George’s men arrived and tried to impose a curfew. The mob turned on them, dragged some from their horses. We seemed to be all set for a lynching, when Father Costello arrived. He got three of the men into his house and wouldn’t let anybody touch them. The others got away. He’s there now.”
Clay considered the situation for a moment, brows knit, and then he swung into the saddle. “I’m going up to the church to see Shaun Rogan. Wait for me at Father Costello’s house.”
He turned Pegeen away, cantered along the muddy street and dismounted outside the tiny church. It was quiet and peaceful as he moved along the path between the ancient, moss-covered gravestones. One of the great oak doors stood slightly open. He removed his hat and stepped inside.
The peace and the quiet of that place enveloped him, and suddenly he felt very tired, drained of all his strength. The light in the church was very dim, and down by the altar, candles flickered and the image of the Holy Mother seemed to float out of the darkness, bathed in a soft white light.
The smell of the incense was overpowering and he felt giddy and light-headed. He stretched out a hand in the darkness and felt the cold roughness of a pillar in front of him. It brought him back to reality and he walked quietly along the stone-flagged aisle, spurs jingling softly, to where Shaun Rogan knelt in prayer beside the open coffin.
There were no visible signs of violence. They had laid the boy in the coffin still dressed in the clothes he had worn that day, hands crossed on his breast, and his pale face seemed very young.
Clay touched Shaun Rogan gently on the shoulder and the old man looked up at him. He had aged immeasurably since their last meeting. The flesh seemed to hang in folds from his face and his blue eyes were glazed with pain. When he stood up, he sagged at the shoulders, and his feet dragged as they walked away from the altar toward the door.
The sky was darkening and thunder rumbled in the distance. Shaun Rogan carefully placed his hat on his head and said in a dead voice, “I’m glad you managed to get away from them, Colonel. You’ll be needing help to leave the country.”
“I understand Kevin is leading an attack on Drumore House,” Clay said. “You must use your influence to prevent it taking place. If we hurry, we’ll still be in time.”
Shaun Rogan stared at him blankly. “With one of my sons lying dead in there, murdered in cold blood for the world to see, you want me to stop it?”
“Sir George sent a messenger to Galway this morning,” Clay told him. “He’s asked for the cavalry to turn out. I’m afraid there will be real trouble if we don’t persuade the villagers to disperse to their homes.”
Shaun Rogan limped painfully to his trap and climbed into the driving seat. He picked up the reins and shook his head and there was a hard finality in his tone. “I told you once before that it was dangerous to raise the Devil, Colonel. Today, George Hamilton will find that payment is due. I hope he roasts in hell. Now you must excuse me. My wife is waiting at home for news of our son.”
With a heavy heart, Clay watched him go, the shadow of a man, changed beyond belief, and then he swung into the saddle and galloped back along the street to Father Costello’s house.
The priest waited for him on the doorstep and his face was troubled. “A sad day for Drumore, Colonel. Violence begets violence, as you told me in the inn at Kileen.”
“You knew me, then?” Clay said.
The old priest nodded. “I know many things, Colonel. A parish priest sees more than people imagine. Have you seen Shaun Rogan?”
Clay shrugged. “A waste of time, I’m afraid. He refuses to use his influence to disperse the mob. He’s gone home to break the news of his son’s death to his wife.”
“The people were in an ugly mood when they left here,” Father Costello said. “I’ve never seen such anger as was shown when Shaun Rogan arrived with the body of his son. There was nothing I could do to stop them. It took me all my time to save the three poor wretches they dragged from their horses.”
“Where are they now?” Clay said.
“Two of them left here not ten minutes ago. The other had a crack on the head. Your servant is seeing to him inside.”
“That leaves you free to come to Drumore House with me,” Clay told him. “Sir George has sent for help to Galway. If the cavalry arrive and find the people attacking the house, they’ll cut them to ribbons.”
The priest’s face became grave. “Then I would suggest you ride on ahead and do what you can until I arrive, Colonel. Believe me, you possess greater influence than you are aware, now that the people know of your other identity.”
He turned back into the house and Clay wheeled Pegeen and galloped away along the village street. The sky was now so dark that the light seemed to fail, and he became aware of a strange, sibilant whispering amongst the bare branches of the trees, as a wind seemed to spring up from nowhere. He could hear the sound of the mob when he was still some distance away from the house and then he thundered over the bridge and saw them clustered at the main gates.
The windows of the lodge had been smashed and the door swung crazily on buckled hinges. As Clay rode up, several men ran out of the front door, and an excited murmur rippled through the crowd as a tongue of flame licked at a curtain hanging in a window and blossomed into life. Smoke started to billow through every opening, someone laughed out loud and there was a general, ragged cheer.
One or two of the younger women from the village stood on the edges of the crowd, shawls tightly wrapped about their heads, but the vast majority of those present were men. On the whole, they seemed surprisingly well-armed. Hands gripped rifles convulsively, eyes shone as the flames danced in them. An old man cackled, exposing toothless gums and next to him, a boy shivered with excitement. A dangerous, uneasy frenzy became apparent amongst them and now the voices were no longer separate but one.
When people banded together to stand up for their rights, their integrity of purpose was measured so often only by that of their leaders. It was always the same, he reflected bitterly, as he urged his horse toward Kevin, who sat a black stallion by the gate and looked up toward the house.
As people recognized Clay, a cheer broke out and hands reached up to touch him. An expression of astonishment appeared on Kevin’s face and he clasped Clay’s hand warmly. “God, but it’s good to see ye, Colonel. So you managed to slip those black devils in there?”
“You’ve got to get out of here,” Clay said urgently. “You must make these people disperse to their homes. Hamilton sent word to Galway this morning. I’ve every reason to believe they’ll turn out the cavalry.”
Kevin laughed harshly. “Is it women you think we are, Colonel?” He gestured toward the crowd. “Look about you. We’re well-armed. Twenty of the latest carbines direct from New York, besides fowling pieces and shotguns. This is no rabble of peasants armed with scythes and pitchforks. That lodge is only the beginning. We intend to hang George Hamilton to one of his own trees. If we can’t lay hands on him, he can roast inside the house.”
He turned away and gave crisp, incisive orders to one of his lieutenants to take thirty men round to the back. They moved away quickly, skirting the boundary wall, and Clay urged Pegeen toward Kevin and said desperately, “But Joanna is still in there. We must get her out before the shooting starts.”
Kevin shrugged and said in a voice of stone, “I’m sorry, but it’s too late to do anything for her now.”
“Not if I can help it!” Clay said harshly. He forced a way through the crowd, men scattering to avoid Pegeen’s trampling hooves, and then he was clear and galloping up the drive toward the house.
Someone started to fire from a window and he leaned low in the saddle and then the firing stopped. As he dismounted outside the front door, it opened and Burke emerged, the Dragoon Colt in one hand.
“So you’ve decided to come back to us, Colonel?” he said calmly.
Clay mounted the steps and faced him. “Dennis Rogan is dead and there’s a mob of over a hundred angry people down there wh
o intend to burn you out. I’ve come for Miss Hamilton. The least you can do is to let her go free before any harm comes to her.”
A strange smile appeared on Burke’s face. “You constantly surprise me, Colonel Fitzgerald. Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder how you ever survived the war.” He cocked the Colt and raised it until it was pointing straight at Clay’s heart. “You’ll oblige me by stepping inside.”
The door had been barricaded with furniture, and as they moved in, one of the men closed it and two others pushed a heavy chest of drawers back into place against it.
“That won’t hold them for long,” Clay observed.
“It won’t need to,” Burke said. “We expect a little help to arrive soon. When it does, that mob will smile on the other side of its damned face.”
He gestured toward the stairs and Clay moved ahead of him. Burke followed and another guard brought up the rear. They mounted the servants’ stairs and halted outside the little room on the third floor in which Clay and Dennis Rogan had been imprisoned that morning. Burke unlocked the door and Clay passed inside.
Joanna was standing at the window and she turned to face them, dismay appearing in her eyes when she saw Clay. He smiled reassuringly and took her hands. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Colonel,” Burke said. “I haven’t the slightest intention of allowing Miss Hamilton to leave, nor do I intend to allow you to slip through my fingers again.” He nodded toward the window. “You should have an excellent view of the proceedings, but I wouldn’t hope for too much if I were you. I’m leaving a guard outside. Please don’t try anything foolish.” The door closed behind him.
Clay held Joanna close and frowned slightly. Not for one moment had he imagined that Burke would allow her to leave, but at least they were together again. The point at issue now, was how to get away?
They crossed to the window and stood together, looking out between the bars. The villagers flooded in through the main gate, half a dozen farm carts pushed before them as a shield. Kevin Rogan and several more mounted men rode behind, urging them on with cries.
