by Jack Higgins
“When he comes round, tell him to leave young girls alone in future,” Clay said in a loud, clear voice for all to hear. “Compliments of Captain Swing!”
In the same instant, he wheeled Pegeen sharply and urged her into a gallop. They passed Kelly, who was sitting up, head in hands, and splashed across the ford. Behind him, he could hear shouting in the village and dogs barking, but he paid no heed. Ten minutes later, he turned off the road, letting Pegeen choose her own pace as they climbed up out of the valley onto the moors.
When he reached Claremont, he rode straight into the stables and dismounted. As he unsaddled the mare, Joshua crossed the yard and Clay said, “I’ll see to the mare. You fix me a meal. I’ve come back with something of an appetite.”
When he entered the house a few minutes later, Joshua was busy at the stove and Clay went up to his room and unbuckled the Colt. He tossed his hat into a corner and removed the greatcoat, then he stood in front of the mirror and looked at himself.
A pulse throbbed steadily in his right temple. He ran his fingers through his hair and laughed shakily. “That should teach the swine a lesson he’ll not forget in a hurry,” he said softly.
When he went below, Joshua was laying the table. He regarded him gravely and went to the cupboard and took down the brandy bottle. “You look as if you need a drink, Colonel.”
“And perhaps another,” Clay told him.
He emptied the glass in one long swallow and coughed as its warmth flooded through him. Afterward, he refilled it and sat by the fire and related the night’s happenings as Joshua worked at the stove.
Joshua listened in silence, his face betraying no emotion. When Clay had finished, he shook his head. “Seems to me you’ve done the very thing you said you wanted to avoid, Colonel. You’ve taken sides.”
Clay frowned. “I can’t see that—Marley was a special case.”
“But calling yourself Captain Swing was a fool thing to do. If as you say, more than one person has received threatening letters signed in that name, then the whole country will be in an uproar. Now they’ll think the man really exists.”
“But he does,” Clay said. “Or rather, he did.” He sighed. “It was quite like old times, Josh. Riding through Indiana and Ohio with Morgan’s Raiders.”
“What about that Georgian accent of yours?” Joshua persisted. “Marley, or anyone else who heard it, won’t have any difficulty in recognizing it again.”
Clay grinned. “I was a natural mimic as a boy, you know that better than anyone. I managed a pretty fair imitation of an Irish accent back there in Kileen.”
Joshua shook his head and started to ladle food onto a plate. “You’re a naturally violent man, Colonel. That’s your trouble. So was your father before you, and look how he died.”
Clay shrugged. “At least it was quick. As a physician, I can assure you there are worse ways to go than with a bullet.”
He rose to his feet to move to the table and a horse clattered into the yard outside. A moment later, there was a knock at the door. Joshua glanced across, alarm on his face, and Clay smiled calmly and crossed the room. When he opened the door, he found Kevin Rogan standing there.
The big man smiled. “Sorry to bother you at this hour, Colonel, but we’re in need of your professional services.”
Clay motioned him in and closed the door. “What’s the trouble?”
Kevin shrugged. “After our earlier visit to Drumore House, we went down to Cohan’s pub for a drink. There was trouble with a man called Varley, one of Hamilton’s boys. He cut my father up a little.”
“How bad is it?” Clay asked.
“A nasty slash on the inside of his right thigh. Varley was trying for the groin.”
“I’ll get my bag,” Clay said. “If you’ll saddle Pegeen for me, it would save time.”
Rogan turned to open the door and hesitated. “By the way, don’t forget that package, Colonel. You did say you wanted to deliver it personally. Now would be as good a time as any.”
Clay nodded, a slow smile appearing on his face. “A sound idea. It’s been on my conscience for long enough.”
The door closed softly behind Rogan, and Joshua appeared from the stairs, the black bag in one hand, tweed riding coat over his left arm. As he helped Clay into the coat, he said, “I’ve taken the liberty of placing the Dragoon at the bottom of the bag, Colonel. You never can tell.”
Clay nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve got a point there.”
Joshua moved across to a cupboard and took out the package. “Presumably you’ll be wanting this?”
“Perhaps I’ll find out what it contains before the night’s out,” Clay said. “I think I’ll make that my fee for attending Shaun Rogan.”
They went outside as Kevin emerged from the stables with Pegeen saddled and bridled, and a moment later, he and Clay clattered across the cobbles and moved up through the trees to the moors.
6
They rode in silence across the quiet moor, Kevin Rogan leading the way. As they approached the head of the valley, he gave a peculiar liquid whistle and a horseman moved out of the trees on their left, moonlight glinting on the barrel of his shotgun.
“Is it yourself, Kevin?” Dennis Rogan called softly.
“I’ll send Marteen up to relieve you in an hour,” Kevin told him as they passed.
Dennis grinned cheerfully. “Good night to ye, Colonel,” he said, and melted back into the darkness of the trees.
“So you’re mounting guards now?” Clay said.
Kevin nodded. “You might say things are beginning to warm up.” At that moment they came to the rim of the valley, and all further conversation ended as they concentrated on safely negotiating the steep path.
A dog started to bark as they rode past the paddock into the yard, and as they dismounted, the front door opened, casting a shaft of yellow light into the night.
Mrs. Rogan peered out at them, a lamp in her hand as Clay walked toward her, saddlebags over one arm. “How is he?” he asked.
She shrugged. “He’s suffered worse and lived.” She led the way along a narrow, whitewashed passage and through a door at the far end.
Clay found himself in a large, stone-flagged kitchen with rough plastered walls and ceiling and a wide fireplace. Marteen and Cathal faced each other across the table, a chessboard between them, and their father sprawled in a wing-backed chair by the fire with a deerhound at his feet.
His right trouser leg had been split open to the waist and the bandage twisted about his thigh was saturated with blood, but the blue eyes were calm in the great bearded face.
He smiled and extended a hand. “It might be your grandfather standing there before me, God rest him.” He shook his great head and laughter echoed around the room. “The tales I could be telling you.”
Clay warmed to the man instantly, with that instinctive liking that must come at once or not at all. As he took off his coat, he smiled. “My grandfather seems to have cut quite a swathe through these parts as a young man.”
Shaun Rogan poured himself another whiskey. “And that’s an understatement if ever I heard one.” He chuckled. “I can’t get over how like him ye are. And just as quick off the mark. The way you stamped that gun out of Burke’s hand was something to see.”
“A pity you couldn’t have kicked the bastard in the face while ye were about it,” Kevin added in a hard voice.
“I considered it more important to make sure his bullet didn’t go where he wanted it to.” Clay took a pair of surgical scissors from his bag and cut away the bandage from Shaun Rogan’s thigh.
The wound was seven or eight inches long, with raw, angry edges. He sponged the blood away with a piece of cloth and examined it closely. After a while, he nodded in satisfaction. “It’s a clean slash. With luck, you’ll be riding again in a fortnight.”
Shaun Rogan cursed fluently and Kevin grinned. “A week or two by the fireside will do you no harm. The boys and I can manage things.”
Clay asked Mr
s. Rogan for some strips of linen and a basin and then he raised her husband’s leg on a stool, instructing Kevin to hold it firmly in position. Next, he reached for the whiskey bottle and poured some into the open wound. Big Shaun stifled a curse and gripped the arms of his chair until the knuckles turned white, as the liquor burned into his raw flesh. “And what the hell is that supposed to do?” he demanded.
Clay threaded a curved needle with silk. “Bullet wounds stay clean, knife wounds tend to go bad, don’t ask me why. There’s a man called Lister who thinks he knows the reason, but we won’t go into that now. Whiskey or any raw spirit helps to keep a wound clean. We proved that in the war.”
He started to stitch the wound and Big Shaun kept on talking, voice steady and controlled despite the great drops of cold sweat which had appeared on his forehead at the first touch of the needle. “You were with the Confederates, weren’t you, Colonel? Trust an Irishman to choose the losing side.”
“The Yankees had an Irish Brigade,” Clay said. “At Gettysburg, their chaplain, Father Corby, gave them absolution before battle and denied Christian burial to any man who refused to fight.”
“God save us all, but he must have been the hard one,” Cathal said.
Big Shaun grunted as the needle pushed through his flesh again. “Your father, how did he die? I knew from your uncle that he hadn’t joined the army like yourself.”
“He bought two ships and made a fortune running the blockade from Nassau to Atlanta,” Clay said calmly. “He was shot dead in a running fight with a Yankee frigate three months before the end of the war.”
Shaun Rogan solemnly crossed himself. “May he find peace.”
“He certainly never found it this side of the grave,” Clay said.
He skilfully knotted the final stitch, snipped the loose ends, and then bandaged the leg with clean linen. As he tied the knot, Shaun Rogan sighed. “By God, it feels better already. You know your business, Colonel.”
“I ought to, I’ve had enough practice,” Clay told him.
Marteen produced clean glasses and a fresh bottle of whiskey and Kevin Rogan filled a glass and pushed it across. “The laborer is worthy of his hire, Colonel, as the good book says.”
“Ah, yes, the question of payment,” Clay said. “I was forgetting.”
There was a slight awkward pause as the Rogans looked at each other and Big Shaun shrugged. “Fair enough, Colonel. You’ve done a good job. Name your fee.”
Clay reached for his saddlebags and took out the package. “When a man has carried something as far as I’ve carried this, I think he’s entitled to know what’s inside.”
Shaun Rogan’s eyes widened in surprise and then his mouth opened and he laughed heartily. “And by God you shall have your wish, Colonel. I think you’ve earned it. Open it up, Kevin.”
The package had been wrapped in canvas, sewn along the edges and sealed with red wax. Kevin produced a clasp knife and sliced open the stitches. Clay took his time over lighting one of his cheroots and waited.
There was an inner waterproof covering of oiled silk which had also been stitched into place, and when this was removed, a wooden box stood revealed. Kevin turned it upside down and packets of banknotes cascaded onto the table.
The Rogan boys grabbed for a packet each and examined them, talking excitedly. Clay turned to their father, a frown on his face. “But I don’t understand.”
Kevin tossed a packet across to him. “Have a look at those and you soon will.”
The notes were crisp and freshly printed five-dollar bills, issued in the name of the Irish Republic and signed by John Mahoney. He looked up and saw that the others were regarding him intently. “But there is no Irish Republic.”
“There soon will be,” Kevin Rogan said harshly. “There are thousands of members of the Brotherhood here and in America. In a few months, we will be ready to strike, and when we do, Ireland will be free again.”
“Presumably you’re referring to this Fenian Brotherhood I heard so much about in Galway?”
Shaun Rogan nodded. “This time we mean business. We want freedom and we want it now.”
“But where do the banknotes come in?”
Kevin picked one up and read from it. “Redeemable six months after the acknowledgement of the independence of the Irish Republic.” He grinned. “It’s a neat way of raising funds, Colonel, you must agree. In return for their loans, our supporters are issued with banknotes. The money helps to free their country, and afterward, it’s returned to them.”
Clay nodded slowly. “The man who thought of the idea had a brain, I’ll grant you that.” He turned to Big Shaun. “I was talking to Sir George Hamilton earlier this evening. He believes it to be economically impossible for Ireland to be independent, that she needs the protection of England.”
“Protection, is it?” Kevin cried bitterly. “If what they give us is called protection, God help us when we’re dead.”
His father laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Hold your tongue. The colonel isn’t aware of the facts.” He turned to Clay, eyes completely calm in the great bearded face, so that he resembled some Old Testament prophet. “In Ireland we all live off the land, Colonel. All of us, tenant and landlord alike.”
“Having seen the living conditions of some tenants,” Clay told him, “I can appreciate they have good cause for discontent.”
“The landowners are mostly English or Irish Protestants, which amounts to the same thing in the end,” Rogan went on. “In the main, they depend upon rents for their income. That means a landowner has only two ways in which he can increase the return on his investment. The first is to raise the tenant’s rent. The second is to try large-scale ranching of sheep or cattle.”
“Which means evicting his tenants?” Clay said.
Big Shaun nodded grimly. “That’s about the size of it, Colonel.”
“But surely there must be laws to protect people from unjust treatment?”
Kevin Rogan laughed harshly, and his father went on, “In practice, tenants are utterly at the mercy of their landlords. They have to pay excessive rents which leave them nothing but a bare subsistence. They have to carry out improvements which in England are undertaken by the landlord, and submit to see their rents being raised because of their own improvements.”
“But there must be some legal way of fighting against such conditions,” Clay said. “What about politics? They have their representatives in Parliament, don’t they?”
“Those with a vote are coerced,” Shaun Rogan told him. “The whole vicious system ensures the predominance of the landlord class, and men like Hamilton and Marley can ride roughshod and terrorize the countryside with their hired bullies imported from Scotland and England.”
Out of the silence which followed, Kevin Rogan added bitterly, “You can see now why I found Hamilton’s remark about protection so ironic. England hangs on to us because she never likes to let go of anything. The system of land-ownership forced on us over the centuries keeps a whole nation in poverty and causes thousands to emigrate every year.”
Clay shook his head and said soberly, “In the face of such arguments, there’s little I can say.”
“Have another drink, Colonel.” Shaun Rogan filled Clay’s glass. “To the average Englishman, the Irishman is an uncivilized ruffian, an animal who lives on potatoes. This is as great a myth as the one which suggests that all Englishmen are gentlemen. What they don’t understand is that a hundred acres under potatoes will support four times as many people as a hundred acres under wheat.” He shrugged. “But if the spuds fail, we starve.”
Clay swallowed some of his whiskey and said slowly, “What about Sir George Hamilton? Why do you hate each other so much?”
“Because he treats us like animals—all of us. He’s some kind of God and we’re scum. He hates me particularly, because I own this valley and he can’t touch us here.” Shaun shook his head and added in a somber voice, “After raising the Devil, it becomes necessary to pay him his due, as Geo
rge Hamilton will find out before much longer. His hour will come.”
“Aren’t you being hard on him?” Clay said. “I understand someone tried to murder him and shot his wife by mistake. At least his bitterness and hate are understandable.”
Shaun Rogan laughed harshly. “The best thing that ever happened to that poor woman was taking the bullet meant for him. He led her a dog’s life for years. Good God, Colonel, you’ve seen the state his tenants are living in. Do you need further proof of the kind of man he is?”
Clay sighed heavily. “It was foolish of me to think anything else, I suppose, but his version of his wife’s death was rather different. He also told me that he and my uncle were friends.”
There was general laughter from the boys who had been following the conversation with interest. “Friends, is it?” Kevin said. “Your uncle slashed him across the face with his whip in the middle of the village for the whole world to see. A family had been evicted and the woman died in childbirth on the road to Galway.”
Clay’s eyes narrowed, as a disturbing thought sprang into his mind. “The fire that gutted Claremont—how did it start?”
Shaun Rogan shrugged. “Each man has his own thoughts on that score. Your uncle lived alone with an old woman to keep house, him having fallen on hard times. There would have been nothing left at all if it hadn’t been for a sudden storm of rain.”
“And you’re suggesting Sir George had something to do with it?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Shaun Rogan said, “except that it was a powerful coincidence.”
Clay got to his feet and walked across to the fire. He stared down into the glowing heart of it, thinking about his uncle, old and sick and alone, desperately trying to save the home that meant everything to him as flames blossomed in the night.
He threw his cheroot into the fire and turned with a grim smile. “As you say, each man must have his own thoughts on the matter.” He moved back to the table. “Tell me something, does your objection to Sir George extend to his niece?”
