by Jack Higgins
A gay mocking laugh that was somehow familiar floated down from the cliff top, and he turned in the saddle, arm extended to fire. The rider he had first seen from his bedroom window no more than an hour earlier had appeared beside the thorn tree.
“Let the mare try the slope if you want to save your skin, Colonel,” a clear voice called. “She can do it, I promise you.”
Clay didn’t hesitate. His pursuers were almost upon him. He fired once into the air to hold them and urged the mare toward the steep side of the valley.
She responded magnificently. He leaned low over her neck, placing his weight forward. A few feet from the rim of the valley, she started to slip on the wet turf. He jumped from her back, grabbed the bridle in one hand and scrambled up, pulling her after him. A moment later, they were over the top.
“This way, Colonel,” the rider called, turning away, and Clay swung into the saddle and galloped after, ignoring the cries of rage which came from below as his pursuers realized that he had eluded them.
The moor stretched before them in the moonlight, sloping gently up toward the hills, and the mare crossed it at a dead run. Clay looked back over his shoulder and saw the three riders appear over a rise several hundred yards in the rear. There was a familiar hollow feeling of excitement in his stomach and he concentrated on overhauling his companion.
The mare covered the ground effortlessly, and slowly the gap narrowed until the two horses were almost abreast. The unknown ally wore an old tweed jacket and broad-brimmed hat pulled low over the eyes. Clay caught a sideways glance and heard a laugh and then they were plunging down into a wide, tree-filled valley following a sandy track.
The rider swerved into the trees and Clay followed, twisting and turning, receiving a thorough soaking as wet branches whipped against him. They emerged into a broad meadow, took a low fence together, landing in a spatter of mud on the other side, and reined in before a ruined stone hunting lodge.
Clay slid to the ground and stood beside the mare, running a hand gently over her heaving side. “I’m obliged to you, sir,” he said.
The other held up a hand in warning and motioned him to silence. They could hear hoofbeats approaching rapidly as their pursuers followed the track. Within a few moments they passed, and after a while there was silence.
The rider still sat motionless, head forward, listening to the hoofbeats die away into the night, then turned to Clay with a gay laugh. “The poor fools will run for a mile before it occurs to them that we might not be out in front after all.”
The voice was clear and sweet like a ship’s bell across water. Clay frowned and took a step forward. As he did so, his unknown rescuer turned toward him, uncovering with a flourish and allowing a long switch of dark hair tied with ribbon near the crown of the head, to fall freely to shoulder level and beyond.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Clay said softly.
The face that smiled impishly at him in the moonlight was that of a young girl of no more than eighteen years. She was small and slightly built, the man’s riding coat too big for her. The eyes were unusually large and set too far apart for conventional beauty, the nose tilted above a wide, generous mouth. There was about her an irresistible appeal, an attraction that was as immediate as it was compelling.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded. “Diana the Huntress or the Goddess of the Night?”
She tilted back her head and laughed, the moonlight full upon her young face. “I had heard that Southern gentlemen were renowned for their chivalry, Colonel, but this exceeds all my expectations.”
Responding to her mood, he removed his hat and bowed gravely. “Colonel Clay Fitzgerald, at your service. You have the advantage of me, ma’am.”
“Oh, no, Colonel,” she said. “I much prefer to remain Diana the Huntress or even the Goddess of the Night for just a little while longer. Women are incurably romantic.”
He started to replace his hat, and as he did so, she touched her mount with the spurs so that it bounded forward across the meadow, cleared the fence with room to spare and plunged into the shadows of the trees. A silvery laugh floated back to him, and as he swung a leg over the mare’s back he knew that he was too late.
He reached the track in time to see the girl and her horse briefly silhouetted against the sky as they topped the rise at the head of the valley, and then they were gone.
When he reached the place himself, there was no sign of her. He took a cheroot from his case and lit it carefully, hands cupped against the slight breeze from the sea. He frowned, wondering who she could be, and then a slight smile came to his face. If her performance tonight was anything to go by, she would not leave him long in doubt.
He cantered back toward Claremont, enjoying his cheroot and the stillness of the night. When he reached the ridge above the house, he paused and gazed toward the distant mountains of Connemara. They made a spectacle to take the breath away, and the moonlight silvering the sea filled him with the beauty and wonder of it.
He had made the mistake of coming to Ireland in search of peace, but already he was glad he had come. The thought of tomorrow filled him with a vague, restless excitement, and as he took the mare down toward the house, there was a smile on his face.
3
The morning was grey and a light rain was falling as Clay rode out of the courtyard and followed the track that led up through the trees over the top of the moor.
In one of his old military saddlebags he carried the package he had been asked to deliver to Shaun Rogan, and as he rode, head bowed against the rain, he wondered idly what it might contain.
Of the man who had given it to him, he knew little. He had met O’Hara casually at a party at someone’s house in New York, and during the conversation his intended trip to Galway had been mentioned. Later in the evening, the man had asked him to deliver the package and Clay had agreed, thinking he would probably hear no more about it. When he boarded the boat on the following day, it was waiting for him in his cabin, with a polite note thanking him in advance for the favor.
There was already a suspicion at the back of his mind that O’Hara had used him and that the package was something out of the ordinary. From what he had seen of the Rogan family already, there could be little doubt that the contents were of a dubious nature.
He dismissed the subject from his mind for the moment and gazed about him. The mountains were shrouded in mist and visibility was poor, but yet there was a freshness to everything that gladdened the heart, and the air was like new wine. He started to whistle softly between his teeth and urged his mount into a canter as the rain increased in force.
As Kevin Rogan had promised, the track ran for some three miles across the moor and then dipped unexpectedly into a wide valley. Below him in the midst of a clump of old beech trees an ancient, grey stone farmhouse was rooted into the ground.
The place seemed prosperous and in good repair, with neat, well-kept fences to the large paddock. As he cantered down toward it, a woman moved out of the porch, a pail in each hand. She paused and looked toward him, then she put down the pails and stood with one hand shading her eyes.
She was tall and gaunt, her face wrinkled by a lifetime’s care. The hair that showed from beneath the shawl which covered her head was iron grey. She gazed up at him, no expression in her faded blue eyes, and Clay touched the brim of his hat. “Mrs. Rogan?” She nodded and he went on, “My name’s Fitzgerald. Is your husband at home?”
She shook her head, and said in an unfriendly voice, “He’s away for the day.”
“Might I ask when you’re expecting him?” Clay said.
She picked up her pails. “He comes and goes. You’ll be wasting your time if you wait.” Without another word, she turned away and walked across the courtyard to a cow byre.
Clay watched her until she had disappeared inside, a slight frown on his face. Then a voice said quietly from behind, “You mustn’t mind my mother. She doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”
The man who had spoken
stood in the doorway of the stables and cleaned his hands on a rag, eyes calm in a lean, intelligent face topped by the familiar Rogan hair.
Clay walked the mare toward him, and smiled. “Dennis, Marteen, and Kevin I’ve met already in that order. Who might you be?”
The other smiled. “I’m Cathal, Colonel. The quiet one of the family. Kevin said you might drop by sometime today.”
“Your father’s not at home, I take it?”
Cathal nodded. “Pressing business in Galway. He and the boys won’t be back until late tonight.”
Clay leaned forward and looked inside the stable door. There were at least thirty horses ranged on both sides in neat stalls, and he whistled softly. “You’ve got some good stuff there.”
“We should have, Colonel. We breed them.” Cathal ran a hand over the mare’s muzzle in a familiar manner and spoke softly to her. “But not one of them to match Pegeen, here.”
Clay raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You know the mare well, then?”
Cathal smiled. “The joy of your uncle’s old age. If there’s a better mount between here and Dublin, I’ve yet to see it. Miss Joanna’s taken good care of her.”
Clay resisted the temptation to ask the obvious question and there was a slight pause. Cathal Rogan made no attempt to continue the conversation, and after a while, Clay smiled. “Well, I’ll be moving on. Tell your father I’ll call again tomorrow.”
He wheeled Pegeen away from the stable entrance and Cathal said, “I understood Kevin to say you had a package for us, Colonel?”
“For your father,” Clay said over his shoulder. “And I prefer to deliver it personally.” He cantered through the gate and followed the track back up toward the head of the valley.
When he reached the top, he paused and looked down toward the farm. Whatever else they might be, the Rogans were certainly an inhospitable clan and strangers were definitely not welcome—that much both Cathal Rogan and his mother had made plain.
As he started to turn away, there was a movement in the trees beyond the farm. He leaned forward and waited. A moment later, half a dozen horsemen galloped through the beech trees and entered the yard.
The woman came out of the cow byre, carrying her pails, and one of the men swung to the ground and approached her. They stood talking and Clay saw her shake her head vehemently and then the man pushed her so that she staggered back, dropped her pails and fell to the ground, milk spilling cross the cobbles.
He wondered what had happened to Cathal Rogan, and in the same moment saw him run from the other side of the stables to the rear of the house. As the woman picked herself up from the ground, he appeared in the doorway, a shotgun in his hand. He raised it to his shoulder and one of the men rode his horse up the front steps, crowding him against the wall and kicked the gun from his grasp.
Clay didn’t hesitate. He took Pegeen down the steep grassy slope of the valley toward the farm, ignoring the track and leaning back in the saddle. They reached the bottom safely and Pegeen scrambled up out of the hollow onto the track and galloped past the paddock toward the yard.
One of the riders was still on his horse, but the others had dismounted. Cathal Rogan backed against the wall, as four of them moved in on him while the other started to turn the horses out of the stable. He fought desperately, but within seconds was sliding to the ground under a barrage of flailing fists.
One of the men lifted a heavy boot into his side and Mrs. Rogan screamed and ran forward, clawing at his coat. He flung her to the ground with a curse and turned back to Cathal.
Clay arrived at that precise moment. He ran Pegeen in amongst them, scattering them to each side and lifted his boot into the man’s face. He screamed once and staggered back against the wall, sliding down to the ground without another cry.
Pegeen danced daintily on her hind legs, swirling to meet the man on horseback who moved toward them with an oath. Clay found himself facing Sir George Hamilton’s agent.
Burke’s face was dark with passion and his eyes sparked fire. “By God, Colonel, you go too far,” he cried. “Stay out of that which doesn’t concern you. We’re here on Sir George Hamilton’s business.”
“I’ve just decided to make it mine,” Clay told him. “Does your master usually instruct you to assault old women and generally behave like border ruffians?”
One of the men reached for Cathal Rogan’s shotgun, which was lying at the foot of the steps. Clay saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. His hand disappeared inside his coat. When it came out, he was holding the Dragoon. He fired almost in the same movement, the bullet glancing from the cobbles at the man’s feet so that he gave a cry of alarm and moved hastily.
Clay’s face was expressionless and he held the weapon negligently by his side. “First, I think we’ll have the horses returned to the stables, Mr. Burke, and then we’ll leave.” He pointed to the man sprawled against the wall, unconscious. “I fancy I may have broken his jaw. You’ll know better in the morning. If I have, send him along to me and we’ll see what can be done. You’re aware I’m a surgeon?”
Burke glared at him, hate on his face. Clay returned the gaze steadily. After a moment, a shudder seemed to pass through the man’s body and he gave the necessary order.
The men quickly rounded up the few horses which had been released and returned them to the stable. Then two of them hoisted their unconscious companion across his horse, tying him into place with a rope they produced from a saddlebag.
Mrs. Rogan was kneeling beside Cathal. He pushed her away and struggled to his feet. His face was battered and bruised, but he managed a smile as he looked up. “We’re obliged to you, Colonel. You’ll find the Rogans don’t forget their friends—or their enemies,” he added, turning to Burke.
“I’ll escort these gentlemen from the premises,” Clay told him. “I think I can promise you they won’t be coming back.”
Cathal suddenly looked sick. He swayed slightly and his mother moved forward and supported him with an arm. Together they went up the steps into the house and Clay turned and looked at Burke. Without a word, the agent led the way across the yard, and his men followed.
Clay brought up the rear, still holding the Dragoon ready. They followed the track up onto the moor and halted at the edge of a small wood.
Burke gave his men an order and they moved away. As Clay holstered his gun, the agent said, “I shan’t forget this, Colonel.”
“Neither shall I,” Clay told him simply. For a moment longer, Burke’s eyes bored into his, and then he wheeled his mount sharply and galloped after his men.
Clay watched them until they disappeared over a rise a short distance away, and as they did so, a familiar voice said, “He makes a bad enemy, Colonel Fitzgerald.”
This time she was more conventionally attired in blue riding habit and tricorn hat, with a small white feather to one side that was limp and bedraggled in the rain.
He smiled and urged Pegeen to meet her as she rode out of the trees. “I didn’t realize the Goddess of the Night rode by day. You know Burke well, then?”
“I should, he’s my uncle’s agent.” She held out her right hand in an oddly boyish gesture that somehow suited her. “I’m Joanna Hamilton, Colonel Fitzgerald. Your uncle and I were good friends.”
“That I can believe.” He held her hand lightly in his and she made no attempt to withdraw it. “It would appear that I have several things to thank you for, Miss Hamilton. A cheerful welcome at the end of a long road and the care of the finest bit of horseflesh it’s ever been my fortune to own, not to mention the saving of my fool neck.”
She laughed gaily and shook her head. “I take no credit for that at least, Colonel. I arrived at the head of the valley some twenty minutes ago in time to see you go into action. On top of that, I understand you caused something of a sensation in Cohan’s public house last night. I can now understand why it took the Yankees four years to defeat the South.”
Clay shrugged. “Don’t forget such things are exaggera
ted in the telling.”
She shook her head. “My uncle unfortunately takes a rather different view.”
He frowned slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.”
“It’s simple,” she said. “In the first place he’s a magistrate. In the second, he doesn’t like the Rogans. Burke told him this morning that two of them had been responsible for holding up your coach on the Galway Road yesterday.”
“A boyish prank, over and forgotten,” Clay told her. “I fail to see how it concerns your uncle.”
“It gave him a perfect excuse to send Burke and his men to Hidden Valley. They were supposed to bring Big Shaun Rogan back with them. My uncle wanted to lay down the law to him.”
“And in their natural disappointment at finding him away from home, they contented themselves with brutally assaulting his wife and one of his sons,” Clay said. “Does your uncle approve of Burke’s methods?”
“He encourages them,” she said drily. “I’m afraid he classes the Irish with the negroes—both races being naturally inferior to his own and conceived that way by God.”
“Sir George must indeed be a man of penetrating intelligence,” Clay observed. “Might I enquire whether you sympathize with his views?”
“As my grandmother on my mother’s side was a Hindu, born and raised in Calcutta, you might say I’m prejudiced,” she told him.
They walked their horses along the track, allowing the animals to choose their own pace and Clay glanced sideways at her. The mixed blood was plain in the large, almond-shaped eyes and the creamy skin peculiar to Eurasian women.
She turned and, finding him looking at her, flushed. For the moment, her self-assurance seemed to desert her and she became simply a young eighteen-year-old girl with a rather boyish charm. Then she smiled shyly and in that brief moment of revelation, he knew she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. A queer, inexplicable tenderness flooded through him. He reached across and squeezed her hand reassuringly, and her smile seemed to deepen, to become luminous, and she no longer looked afraid, but completely sure of herself.
