by Jack Higgins
When he mounted the stallion again, he was feeling a little better, and he took the animal up through the trees and halted on the rim of the moor.
In the distance, a black column of smoke lifted into the rain from Drumore House, but he did not watch it for long. Instead, he looked down at Claremont below him in the valley, and for a moment, sadness moved through him, as he realized that this would probably be the last time he would ever see the place. He turned the stallion away and galloped through the rain toward Hidden Valley.
13
No guard rode out of the beech trees to challenge him as he reached the head of the valley and took the stallion down the steep grassy slope to the farm. They crossed the hollow at the bottom, scrambled up to the track and galloped past the paddock.
The rain fell heavily, a grey curtain that reduced visibility considerably. As he halted outside the house, the door opened and Cathal came out, a carbine in his hands.
A look of intense relief appeared on his face and he lowered the carbine and said, “God be praised, Colonel. For a moment there when I saw you coming, I wasn’t sure who it was. We’re all as jumpy as kittens here.”
“You’ve got good reason to be,” Clay told him grimly. “The cavalry arrived just after you and Marteen left. I only got away by the skin of my teeth.”
Cathal nodded soberly. “We were well started across the moor when we heard the shooting. We guessed what must have happened.” He reached for the bridle and led Clay’s horse into the stables. “Better leave him saddled, Colonel. There’s no knowing how fast we may have to get out of here.”
Clay dismounted and led the stallion into a stall next to two other saddled mounts, saw that he was well provided with hay, and followed Cathal across to the house.
The terrible, heartbreaking sound of a woman keening met them in the passage, and Cathal held him back at the kitchen door for a moment. “That’s my mother you hear, Colonel,” he said. “My father changed his mind about leaving Dennis in Drumore Church and brought the coffin home in the trap.”
“You’ve told them about Kevin?” Clay asked.
Cathal nodded and there was pain in his young eyes. “While the one sorrow was upon them, it was best to tell them of the other, Colonel.” He opened the door and led the way in.
The coffin was on the table, a candle burning at each end in a brass holder. Mrs. Rogan sat beside it, a shawl wrapped about her head, and the beads of her rosary clicked between her fingers as she sobbed.
Shaun Rogan sat in his chair by the fire and stared blindly into the flames. The deerhound sprawled at his feet, and as Clay moved forward, its eyes opened and it growled warningly deep in its throat.
Shaun Rogan turned his head and his face was haggard beyond belief, the eyes filmed with moisture. He extended a hand toward an empty chair and said in a dry, unemotional voice, “Sit ye down, Colonel. It is good to see friends in time of sorrow.”
Cathal produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses and the old man toasted Clay silently in the ritual drink. Clay emptied his glass. “There can be little point in my trying to tell you how I feel.”
“I know, you’re a friend,” Shaun Rogan answered him. “You were one of our own from the first. Did my son die well up there at the great house?”
“He took Sir George Hamilton with him,” Clay said.
“And the house itself?”
“Dust and ashes.”
Behind them the woman moaned softly, and Shaun Rogan brooded into the fire. He sighed and it seemed to come from the very depths of his being. “A poor exchange for two sons, Colonel. A poor exchange. You were right from the first.”
Clay could think of nothing adequate to say in reply, but there was no need. From some inner hardihood of spirit, the old man drew new life. He turned to his two sons. “We will bury your brother in a little while, decently and with respect, here where he lived. Later, Father Costello can come and bless the ground.”
“We will dig the grave by the bottom wall of the orchard,” Cathal said. “The ground is soft. It will not take long.”
He gently moved his mother away and Marteen closed the lid of the coffin. They carried it out of the kitchen into the other room, and in a little while came the sound of hammer blows as they nailed the lid into place.
Rogan poured himself another drink with a steady hand. “And what of you, Colonel? Have you any plan for the immediate future?”
“No, but I’ll need one,” Clay said. “The cavalry arrived at Drumore just after the boys left to bring you the news of Kevin’s death. I was lucky to get away. It’s a known fact that I was Captain Swing, and several of Hamilton’s men survived the burning of the house. They’ll tell of the part I played. On top of that, I killed Burke.”
Rogan nodded slowly. “Your trial would be a mere formality, Colonel. A mere formality. ’Tis a good thing you came here and to no other place.”
“You mean you can help me?” Clay said eagerly.
Rogan nodded. “What you need is a fast boat out of here and that can be provided. There’s a French schooner trades into Galway. We have a regular rendezvous with him. It’s a common enough thing in Ireland, God help us, for good men to need a quick passage by night.”
“How soon can this be arranged,” Clay asked.
“This very night,” Rogan told him. “But there’s one thing you must do for me in return. Take Cathal and Marteen to America with you. God knows there’s little enough for them here in a country that’s dying, year by year.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Clay said. “Why don’t you come with us?”
The old man smiled sadly. “The roots are too deep. I’d wither away in any other soil or climate.”
“But what of this rising the Fenians plan for next year?” Clay said. “Your sons are members of the Brotherhood. Won’t they want to take part?”
“They’ll do as I say,” Shaun Rogan said. “I’ll feel happier knowing they’re safe in a land where they may prosper by hard work and all men are equal.”
“You think the rising will fail?” Clay said.
“It will fail,” Rogan said heavily. “As you once told me, England has all the big guns.”
Clay sighed. “If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way it will be. I’ll take them to California with me. They’ll get every chance, I promise you.”
“They’ll need money for their passage,” Rogan said.
Clay shook his head. “I’ve enough, and to spare, to see us safely to New York. I have ample funds to call on there.”
Shaun Rogan nodded and got to his feet slowly. “I’ll go and tell them about it.” He paused to lay a hand gently on his wife’s bowed head and passed out through the door.
Clay listened to the quiet murmur of their voices, and after a while, Marteen came into the room and there was mud on his boots. He helped his mother gently to her feet and said quietly, “If you could give us your assistance, I’d be grateful, Colonel.”
Clay followed them out into the passage. He gave his arm to Mrs. Rogan, who leaned heavily against him, and Cathal and Marteen picked up the coffin and moved through the back door after their father.
They crossed the yard and entered an old walled orchard and the rain fell heavily into the long grass and dripped from the bare branches of the trees.
They had hastily dug the grave in a flower bed against the ivy-covered wall and Shaun Rogan moved forward to inspect it. “It’s only four feet deep, Father,” Cathal told him in a low voice. “We hadn’t time to do any better.”
His father nodded. “He will rest easy enough here and no one to disturb him.”
Marteen was carrying two lengths of rope and they quickly improvised slings and lowered the coffin into the grave. Afterwards, they stood for a while, heads bowed while their father prayed.
Clay was to remember that moment for long afterwards. The rain, cold and bitter as death as it soaked into his shoulders, a spider’s web across an open gate in the wall, a broken sickle half-bur
ied by leaves at his feet. Shaun Rogan’s voice moved on and stopped. He picked up a handful of earth and tossed it down onto the coffin, and then he turned and led his wife away through the rain back to the house.
Clay waited until the boys had filled in the grave and they all returned together, Cathal and Marteen discussing plans in a low voice. The French schooner would be half a mile offshore at nine o’clock and stay for two hours. A lantern flashed four times from the beach was the signal that would bring in a longboat.
The boys stayed by the back door to clean the mud from their boots, and Clay went inside. Shaun Rogan sat by the fire alone, a glass in his hand. “You’ll excuse my wife, Colonel. She’s gone to lie down.”
Clay sat on the edge of the table. “There’s one thing bothering me,” he said. “My servant is in Drumore with Miss Hamilton. Father Costello is sheltering her for the moment. I’m wondering if I could get in to see them.”
The old man shook his head. “Drumore will be crawling with soldiers. You’d be putting your head into a noose if you tried.”
“A message then?” Clay said.
“Who’s to take it?” Shaun asked, and shook his head. “No one but a fool would venture abroad this day. Each man will sit by his fireside and pretend he knows nothing of what happened at Drumore House.” He leaned forward. “Never worry, man. I’ll let the girl know later what happened to you. If she truly loves you, she’ll follow you to the world’s end.”
Clay nodded slowly. “Perhaps you’re right. At least she’s got Joshua with her. He’ll look after her.”
“Of course I’m right,” Shaun Rogan said. “You’re no good to her dead, are you?”
Marteen and Cathal entered the room and moved to their father’s side. They were dressed for travelling, in tweed riding coats, and carried their hats in their hands.
Shaun Rogan looked up at them and said calmly, “You’d best not bother your mother. She’s stood enough for one day.” Marteen was near to tears and the old man scowled and gripped him by the arm. “If ye bawl before the colonel, I’ll never forgive you.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Now off ye go, like good lads. Don’t disgrace the name, and write to us now and then.”
They shook hands, and as they hurried from the room, Marteen was struggling to hold back his sobs. Shaun Rogan got to his feet, and when he faced Clay there were tears in his eyes. He held out his hand. “Look after them for me, Colonel.”
For one long moment, Clay clasped hands and stared into those great, calm eyes. “We ran a good course together, Shaun Rogan,” he said.
A hint of a smile touched the old man’s mouth. “That we did, Colonel. That we did.”
He sagged back into his chair and Clay hurried out of the room and through the passage. As he emerged on the front steps, the boys led the horses from the stables. They mounted, and Clay said, “Where do we go from here?”
“A place we know of in the hills, Colonel,” Cathal told him. “We’ll be safe there until it’s time to leave. The soldiers are bound to call at the farm.”
“And your father?” Clay said.
Cathal shrugged. “They can’t blame him for what his sons do.”
They took the track up to the head of the valley and rode across the moors, and gradually the rain slackened and then stopped. In the distance they could still see smoke rising from the ruins of Drumore House, and as they reached a fork in the path, Cathal reined in and shielded his eyes. “Who would have thought the place could have burned so.”
Marteen turned to Clay. “What happened to that servant of yours, Colonel, and Miss Hamilton?”
Clay shook his head. “I’m not sure. I sent them down to Drumore with Father Costello.”
Marteen frowned. “Perhaps they’ve gone to Claremont, hoping to find you there?”
It was a thought which had already occurred to Clay, and now he looked across the moor at the trees a quarter of a mile away, lining the valley in which lay Claremont. He came to a sudden decision. “I’m going to ride over to find out. You two can stay here. I’ll only be twenty minutes.”
Cathal grabbed hold of his bridle. “It’s madness, Colonel. The soldiers are bound to be there.”
“I’ll be careful,” Clay assured him. “I’ll stay in the trees and check before going down.
He cut short further argument by spurring his horse away, but before he had gone far, hooves thundered across the turf behind him and Cathal and Marteen rode alongside.
“There’s no need for this,” Clay said.
Cathal shrugged. “You’re our ticket to America, Colonel. We can’t afford to lose you.”
They slowed to enter the wood, Clay leading. Out of some strange sixth sense, he had a sudden premonition of the danger that waited for them. There was a movement in the trees, a flash of scarlet. He reined in sharply and a voice called, “Halt in the Queen’s name.”
A trooper appeared from the trees, cutting across his path. Clay ducked under the sabre and dashed his fist into the man’s face, sending him reeling from the saddle. The stallion plunged on, trampling the fallen man. Suddenly Clay was surrounded by troopers. He drew his Colt and slashed sideways with the barrel, forcing his way through the confused melee of horses and riders.
Then he was through and a voice called to him. He took the stallion up through the trees to where Cathal waved him on, and as he topped the rise he saw, with a thankful heart, that Marteen was already well out in front, galloping strongly for the safety of the hills.
Behind them, a bugle sounded. Clay glanced back over his shoulder and saw a half-troop of cavalry emerge from the woods and gallop after them, spreading out into a fan shape. He thought it a strange proceeding, but as he turned his head, he saw the other half of the troop crossing the moor on their left to cut them off.
He leaned low over the neck of the stallion and spurred it. The beast responded gallantly. Slowly, he drew nearer to Cathal and then he was at his tail. Another desperate burst of speed and they had passed, with twenty yards to spare, the riders who had tried to cut them off.
The hills lifted to meet them and the horses started to labor. They splashed across a marsh and entered a narrow valley. At the end of it, Marteen dismounted and, holding the reins in his right hand, struggled up the steeply sloping side of the valley, pulling the horse behind him.
He reached the top safely and turned to give his brother a hand. Clay was a yard or two behind them, when several riders appeared in the valley below. Clay slapped the stallion on the rump, sending it up and over the rim of the valley, and then he turned, drawing the Dragoon Colt from his waistband.
There had been enough bloodshed that day. Enough and to spare. As the first trooper reined in his horse, Clay took careful aim and shot the animal through the chest. It reared up, throwing its rider into the mud, and behind him, the rest of the troop fought to turn away their mounts from what appeared to be a death trap. He sent one more bullet singing into the air above their heads, then mounted the stallion which Cathal was holding for him and they galloped away.
They were safe enough after that. Marteen led the way, twisting and weaving from one valley to another, splashing through marsh and bog, all the time working steadily higher into the hills. They rode for an hour in single file before emerging from a small valley onto a steep hillside.
Before them, no more than two miles away, lay the sea, and below, a small loch cut deep into the heart of the hills, black with depth near the center, purple and grey near the edges where basalt ledges lifted to the surface. Clay dismounted and stood in the desolate light of gloaming, looking north to where the peaks of the mountains were streaked with orange.
The beauty of it was too much for a man, and he breathed deeply on the sweetness of the heather, still wet after heavy rain, then followed Cathal and Marteen down the steep hillside, past a trickle of water that fell through drooping ferns. They reached a rough track, mounted again and rode along the side of a loch, following a running stream which gurgled through the quiet e
vening.
Behind them the hills lifted in a smooth swell into the dark arch of the sky, where already a single star shone, and as they turned a curve in the valley, he saw a small hunting bothy in a green loop of grass beside the river.
It was stoutly built of dressed stone and roofed with turf. As Marteen dismounted, he said, “We’ll be safe enough here, Colonel. It’s only half an hour to the cliffs. The tide will be out and we can follow the beach to the place where the Frenchman is landing.”
He and Cathal sprawled on a crude bench and talked of America in subdued tones. With the natural resilience of youth, the past was already becoming of less importance to them than the future. Clay walked away and sat on a boulder by the river.
His wounded arm nagged at him constantly and his mouth was dry as a bone. He leaned down and scooped water up in the palm of his hand, savoring the coldness of it with conscious pleasure.
He thought of Joanna and was filled with a feeling of savage loneliness and the heart seemed to dry and wither inside him. Whatever a man tried to do, Fate always dealt the last card—that was life. By accepting it, a man saved himself a great deal of pain.
For a moment, he was filled with that terrible knowledge of his own littleness that comes to a man from time to time. He had known it before, standing amidst the carnage of the battlefield, realizing that next time it could be him, accepting that whatever one did always led nowhere.
Above his head, a single cloud of red fire seemed to burn itself out as he watched, and then the light died on the bald faces of the hills, and night dropped its heavy cloak across the valley.
He sat there for a long time, gazing out toward the sea blindly. Finally, Cathal came and tapped him on the shoulder. They mounted and rode away from that place, their harness jingling softly in the night.
