Pay the Devil (1999)

by Jack Higgins

  At that moment, the rain increased into a monsoon-like downpour and she spurred her horse forward with a gay laugh. Clay gave Pegeen her head and galloped after her. She turned her horse off the track and rode down into a small wooded valley, and through the trees he caught a gleam of water.

  She stopped in the shelter of a huge beech tree whose roots reached down to the edge of a small, quiet pool, and as he dismounted, she slid to the ground.

  She pushed a damp tendril of dark hair away from her forehead. “We’ll be safe here until it eases up a little.”

  Clay took out a cheroot and lit it, while she threw pieces of twig into the water with an absorbed look on her face and snapped her fingers as a duck swirled across the water, expecting to be fed.

  A small wind blew from the other side, bringing with it the dank, wet smell of rotting leaves. “That smell,” she said, turning toward him, her face vibrant with emotion, “Isn’t it wonderful? Doesn’t it make you feel good to be alive?”

  He nodded. “My favorite season, the fall. Always something a little sad about it, though. Old dreams like smoke in the air, still lingering for a brief moment before disappearing forever.”

  It was impossible for him to keep the bitterness from his voice as he thought of his own dream, the dreams of thousands like him, which had ended with the Confederacy at Appomattox.

  She placed a hand on his arm and said gently, “I’m sorry, I was forgetting what this year has brought you.”

  He managed a wry smile. “I thought it had at last brought me peace, but I’ve found precious little of it in Ireland so far. Tell me, what were you doing so close to the Rogan place? It’s hardly good weather for riding.”

  “I intended going to Claremont to see you,” she said. “There’s a sick child in the village—a little boy. I wondered if you would have a look at him. There isn’t a doctor nearer than Galway.”

  “Surely you chose a roundabout way of going to Claremont?”

  She smiled. “One of the servants overheard my uncle giving Burke his orders and told me. I rode over to warn the Rogans. They’re friends of mine—good friends.”

  With an abrupt and almost childlike gesture, she reached up and traced a finger along the sabre scar that sliced his cheek. “When did you get that?”

  He shrugged. “A long time ago—a thousand years ago. Pittsburgh Landing.”

  A slight frown creased her forehead and then it cleared. “Oh, yes, I was forgetting you had different names for some of the battles. The Yankees called it Shiloh, didn’t they?”

  She was full of surprises, he thought. “You seem to know your facts.”

  She nodded. “I read Fremont’s diary of his visit to the Confederate Army when it was published in London two years ago.”

  “He certainly covered some ground in three months,” Clay said. “But he left in the summer of sixty-three after Gettysburg.”

  “I also read Mr. Lawley’s letters from the Southern States which appeared regularly in The Times,” she continued, “And then your uncle used to give me the war news from your father’s letters. Unfortunately, there weren’t very many of them and I only know of some of your exploits. I’m hoping you’ll fill in the gaps for me.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps, but at a later date. I’m much more interested in you at the moment.”

  She shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell. My father was a captain in a regiment of sepoys. I was born in Madras, but when the Mutiny started, we were living in Lucknow, where my father was stationed. We took refuge in the Residency. My father was killed during the siege, my mother died two months later.”

  “Had you no other relatives?”

  She shook her head. “My uncle is my legal guardian. I was left well-provided for, so I’m no financial burden. However, remembering my grandmother, he treats me with the greatest respect and a rather frigid courtesy. Most of the time, he tries to believe I’m not there.”

  “And what about Burke?” Clay said.

  She frowned and an expression of distaste appeared on her face. “My uncle’s health isn’t too good. He spends most of the time in the conservatory with his flowers and leaves the handling of the estate to Burke.”

  “You don’t seem to have much time for him,” Clay said.

  “I loathe him. He was born and raised on the estate and he’s utterly ruthless. He’s determined to achieve position in the world and he has already foresworn his own people to do it. He’s the most hated and feared man in the district.”

  “The men who rode with him this morning were certainly an ugly-looking crowd,” Clay said.

  She nodded. “Lowland Scots, especially imported to do my uncle’s dirty work.”

  “Does he approve of the methods Burke uses?”

  “He’s not interested in methods, Colonel, only in results,” Joanna Hamilton said drily. She looked up at the sky, which had lightened a little. “I think we’d better be going. The rain seems to have slackened.”

  Clay helped her into the saddle, and as he turned away, she urged her horse forward and cried, “I’ll race you back.”

  He swung a leg over Pegeen and followed her up through the trees and galloped along the track. When he came out into the open expanse of the moor, she was a good forty or fifty yards in front of him and he leaned low over Pegeen’s neck and urged her on. Gradually, he grew closer and then they were racing alongside each other. She turned and gave him a flashing smile and, suddenly, he felt absurdly happy.

  He gave Pegeen her head and plunged down through the scattering of trees at the back of Claremont and entered the courtyard. When Joanna Hamilton arrived a few moments later, he was already dismounted and waiting for her.

  She laughed gaily and cried out in mock anger. “It was no fair match, sir. You were mounted on the finest mare in the county.”

  He helped her down from the saddle, a slight smile on his face. “The finest mare and the most beautiful woman. What more could a man ask?”

  For the second time that day, she flushed and could think of nothing to say in reply, and Clay turned to speak to Joshua who had appeared in the doorway. “Joshua, this is Miss Hamilton. It’s to her good offices we owe our welcome last night.”

  Joanna Hamilton held out her hand with a completely natural gesture and Joshua took it, a smile of approval on his face. “My pleasure, ma’am.” He turned to Clay. “There’s coffee freshly prepared, if you and Miss Hamilton would care for a cup.”

  Clay looked enquiringly at Joanna, who nodded, and they went inside. Joshua said, “A letter was delivered by one of Sir George Hamilton’s men an hour ago. I’ve put it on the table.”

  Clay excused himself and opened the envelope, while Joshua poured the coffee. After a while, he looked up and smiled. “Your uncle is holding a small reception this evening to welcome me to the district. Did you know about this?”

  She sipped her coffee and nodded coolly. “But of course. I’ve had the preparation in hand for two days now. In such matters, he leaves everything to my judgment. I flatter myself I’ve never let him down yet. An invitation to a Hamilton affair is never refused.”

  Clay nodded slowly. “I see. How many guests are expected?”

  “Between fifty and sixty, depending on the weather and the state of the roads. Will you accept?”

  “As you will be there, how could I refuse?” he said gravely.

  For a brief moment, they gazed at each other silently, and then she smiled and picked up her gloves. “If you don’t mind, I think we should be making a move. I’ve a great deal to do back at the house and this business in the village will take us another hour.”

  He excused himself and went upstairs for his bag. When he came down again, she was already mounted and waiting for him, Joshua standing at Pegeen’s head.

  Clay swung up into the saddle. “I shouldn’t be longer than an hour and a half,” he said.

  Joshua nodded and went back inside, and Clay and the girl moved round to the front of the house and cantered down the drive
to the main road.

  It was still raining heavily when they rode into Drumore, and he decided he had seldom seen a more dismal sight in his life than the village, with its unpaved street and wretched cottages squatting in the mud.

  There was a well in the center of the street, and as they approached, a woman was in the act of lifting a pail of water down to the ground. She leaned against the parapet for a moment, as if tired, and then bent wearily to pick up her pail.

  Clay stepped down to the ground with an oath and hurried toward her. She was in an advanced state of pregnancy, her belly swollen, face blotched and ugly.

  He took the pail from her hand and said gently, “You shouldn’t be at such work, you’ll do yourself an injury.”

  She shrugged hopelessly. “Who else will if I don’t?”

  “Why, I will!” Clay told her. “Which is your cottage?”

  She pointed silently across the street and he walked before her and opened the door. He found himself in a dark, miserable room. The stone walls streamed with moisture and the only warmth came from a turf fire which smoldered in the wide hearth. An old woman stirred something in a large iron pot and ignored him. His nose wrinkled in disgust and he put down the pail and went back outside.

  Joanna still sat her horse and smiled down at the woman. “Colonel Fitzgerald is a doctor, Mrs. Cooney. If you need his help when the baby is due, you’ve only to send to Claremont.”

  The woman turned to him inquiringly, and he nodded. “Any time of the day or night, Mrs. Cooney. Send a message and I’ll come running.”

  Sudden tears appeared in her eyes. She seized his hand and held it to her face for a moment and then rushed into the cottage and closed the door behind her.

  As he climbed back into the saddle, there was disgust on his face. “That cottage is little better than a kennel. What chance does she have of bringing a child into the world under such conditions? Who owns the place?”

  “My uncle,” she told him. “Only the Rogans own their own land in this district, and you, of course.”

  “Then, by God, he should be ashamed to call himself a man,” Clay said. “And I’ll damn well tell him so when we meet.”

  “You’ll be wasting your breath,” she told him. “He won’t know what on earth you’re talking about. Don’t forget he classes the Irish with the negroes.”

  “Then I’ll tell him I’ve seen slaves better treated.”

  “But the slaves were worth money,” she told him. “There lies the difference.”

  She reined in outside a cottage on the outskirts of the village and Clay dismounted and helped her to the ground. As he unstrapped his bag, the door opened and a priest emerged.

  He was a small-boned, fragile man in his sixties, with a shock of grey hair falling untidily over his brow. His face was lined and careworn, but the eyes which turned toward Clay were blue and sparkling and full of faith.

  “This is Colonel Fitzgerald,” Joanna said. “Colonel, Father Costello.”

  The priest smiled and shook hands, his grip firm. “Your uncle and I were great friends, Colonel, and I knew your father, but that was many years ago. I’m glad you’ve come.”

  He went back into the cottage and Clay and Joanna followed him. It was almost an exact replica of the other one, the walls beaded with moisture and the room half-filled with acrid smoke from the turf fire. Chickens roosted in the rafters and a goat was tethered to the wall.

  In one corner was a large bed covered with a tattered counterpane, in another a straw palliasse upon the floor. The boy was lying upon it, a filthy blanket over him, and a woman sat upon a small stool beside him.

  The sounds of the child’s breathing were horribly familiar and Clay’s heart sank as he dropped down onto one knee and examined him. The skin was so pale that it seemed almost transparent, the flesh molding the bones so that the cheeks were deep hollows. His shirt was stained with blood, and as Clay placed a hand on his forehead, the frail body was racked by a spasm of violent coughing that was followed by a sudden rush of blood from the mouth.

  Behind him the woman sobbed, as he gently sponged the blood away with a cloth. When the boy’s face was clean, Clay opened his bag and took out a small bottle of laudanum. He asked for a cup of water, and after a moment, Joanna handed one to him.

  Clay poured several drops of the laudanum into the water, raised the boy’s head and made him drink the mixture. Then he got to his feet and turned, his face grave. “He should sleep for several hours without waking. How many times has he emitted blood?”

  “Only God knows, sir,” the woman replied. “He cannot eat, and at night his whole body breaks out in a great sweat. Even when his father and I take him into bed to warm him, he still shivers.”

  She dissolved into tears and Clay patted her gently on the shoulder. “Try not to worry too much. He’ll sleep quietly tonight, I promise you. I’ll call in again tomorrow.”

  Her face worked convulsively. “But we can’t pay you, sir. God help us but we’ve no money.”

  Clay shook his head quickly. “My services won’t cost you a cent.” Before she could reply, he pulled open the door and went outside, too full to speak.

  Joanna appeared at his shoulder, her face grave. “Can you do anything?”

  He shook his head. “It’s one of the most advanced cases of consumption I’ve ever seen. How the boy managed to survive this long, I’ll never know. If he lives another twenty-four hours, I’ll be surprised. If there’s any pity for suffering humanity in this universe, he’ll not wake from that drugged sleep.”

  “It is God’s will,” Father Costello said quietly.

  Clay swung into the saddle and gathered the reins in his right hand. “It depends how you look at it, Father. I prefer to think that the boy never stood a chance from the day he was conceived, because he was born in a pigsty and raised in conditions I would consider inadequate for my horse.”

  He turned to Joanna, his face hard. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you here. What I need at the moment is a drink. I’ll see you tonight.” He quickly moved away before she could reply and cantered up the street to Cohan’s public house.

  He had his drink and then another, and as he rode back to Claremont half an hour later, the memory of the child’s wasted face had temporarily lost its clarity.

  4

  It was a fine warm evening, but rather oppressive, and there was more than a touch of thunder in the air as the coach turned in through the great iron gates and moved rapidly along the broad carriageway toward Drumore House.

  Clay leaned out of the window and examined the place with interest. It was a late Georgian mansion surrounded by superb ornamental gardens, and already the windows were a blaze of lights. As Joshua halted the coach exactly at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front entrance, two footmen hurried forward and one of them opened the coach door for Clay to step down.

  He paused in the portico to look out over the grounds toward the road. The sky was as yellow as brass, and beyond the black mass of the trees, smoke ascended in a straight line from the chimney of the lodge. It was almost like stepping back into another world, a world of comfort and gracious living that had died with the war, and he sighed and passed through into a wide hall.

  A footman took his hat and cloak, and Clay handed his invitation to a tall, greying butler, who examined it impassively and bowed. “Sir George is waiting for you in the conservatory, Colonel Fitzgerald. This way, sir.”

  Clay followed him along a broad, carpeted corridor to a green baize door, which the butler opened. They moved through an alien world of damp heat and strange plants. Broad green leaves and twisted vines formed an archway over the path and weird, brightly colored flowers he had never seen before grew in profusion everywhere.

  In the center of the conservatory, there was a clearing in which stood a basket-work table and several chairs. A man in evening dress was engaged in pruning a vine, his hands covered by leather gloves.

  “Colonel Fitzgerald is here, Sir
George,” the butler informed him.

  “Thank you, Hammond. Tell my niece we’ll be with her in half an hour.” The voice was dry and precise and he spoke without turning round.

  The butler withdrew and Clay sat on the edge of the table. “I trust you’ll forgive me, Colonel,” Sir George said. “I’m engaged in rather a delicate task.” Almost in the same moment, he gave a sigh of satisfaction and turned, stripping the gloves from his hands.

  He was in his early sixties, tall and cadaverous with sunken eyes in a thin face and the hand he extended was limp and flaccid to the touch. His smile was of the briefest and hardly disturbed his frosty countenance. “Welcome to Drumore, Colonel. A pleasure to have you as a guest in my home.”

  The sentiment was so courteous that Clay found it impossible to reply except in the same way. “I’m sure you’ll understand my reason for declining your invitation to spend last night with you. I was in something of a hurry to see Claremont.”

  “Perfectly understandable, Colonel,” Sir George said. “You’ll join me in a glass of sherry, I hope?!” As he filled two glasses from a decanter, he went on, “I believe you and my agent were involved in some unpleasantness this morning. You must allow me to apologize. Burke is inclined to be a little rough at times. Unfortunately, our situation here is such that under present conditions, such methods are the only ones which seem to work.”

  “And what exactly is your situation?” Clay asked, as he sipped a little of his sherry.

  “But you’ve seen some of it already for yourself,” Sir George told him. “In what civilized country today is highway robbery commonplace, and murder and every other conceivable kind of outrage a regular occurrence?”

  Clay nodded slowly. “I give you that, but surely one must look for the cause of all this. Doesn’t it lie in the misery and squalor of the people and their desire for Home Rule?”