by Jack Higgins
“He’s right, Mr. Rogan,” Joanna put in desperately. “I know my uncle and the way his mind works. By hanging Burke, you’ll be playing right into his hands.”
As Clay knotted the bandage into place, Shaun Rogan shook his head. “I’ll not stand by and see my son hanging for killing a man in self-defense. Varley drew on him, there was nothing else Kevin could have done.” He emptied the bottle and placed it deliberately down upon the floor. “I’ll not go back on what I’ve said. If Kevin isn’t here by six o’clock, Burke hangs.”
Clay got to his feet and slung his saddlebags over his shoulder. “You owe me a favor, Big Shaun and you can repay it easily. I’m going to Hamilton to see what can be done. I want you to promise me you won’t make a move before midnight.”
There was a strained silence, and Mrs. Rogan crossed quickly to her husband and placed a wrinkled hand timidly on his shoulders. “Trust the colonel, Shaun. He’s proved a true friend.”
Shaun Rogan still hesitated, and Clay said impatiently, “For God’s sake, make up your mind as to what you really want. Your son returned to you in one piece or Burke hanging lifeless at the end of a rope. It’s not much of an exchange.”
Big Shaun slammed a hand against the arm of his chair. “By God, Colonel, it isn’t. I’ll wait till midnight, but no later.”
Joanna sobbed with relief and Clay turned and smiled briefly at her. “I’d like you to stay here, just to make sure Big Shaun knows what time it is.”
She nodded, eyes dark in a white face. “Of course, Clay, if you want me to.”
He moved closer and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’ll manage something.” He turned away from the new hope which sparked in her eyes, and went outside to Pegeen.
Once on top of the moor, he gave the mare her head and galloped through the rain, his mind concentrated on the conflict ahead. Already a plan was forming in his head and yet he had to meet Sir George Hamilton first to see if things could be handled sensibly.
He came down from the moor through the gap in the wall and cantered across the grass. As he passed the stables at the rear, he saw that a carriage was being got ready and that at least a dozen men were saddling their horses.
He dismounted at the foot of the steps and went up to the front door. As he raised his hand to the bell-chain, the door was opened by the butler. At the same moment, a hand pulled him out of the way and Sir George Hamilton appeared.
When he spoke, his voice was icy. “You are no longer welcome in my house, Colonel Fitzgerald.”
“And I have no wish to be here,” Clay said. “But there’s something much more important to discuss. Are you aware that the Rogans hold your man Burke and intend to hang him if Kevin Rogan is not with them by six o’clock?”
“I have already been informed of the situation,” Sir George said. “Naturally, I’m extremely sorry about Burke, but under the circumstances, there is nothing to be done. It’s much more important to the peace of the county that a notorious malcontent like Kevin Rogan should be safely lodged in gaol. I intend to escort him to Galway myself within the hour. Afterwards, I hope to return with sufficient help to root his damned family out of Hidden Valley once and for all.”
Clay almost lost control. “You wanted something like this to happen, didn’t you? If they hang Burke, you’ll be able to see the rest of them laid by the heels.”
“Exactly!” Sir George said, and something unholy glowed deep in his eyes. “I’ll see them under the sod, every one of them, if it’s the last thing I do.”
For a moment, Clay gazed into insane eyes, and then he turned and went down the steps to Pegeen. As he swung into the saddle, he heard Sir George say to the butler, “If that man ever puts foot on my land again, set the dogs on him. Do you understand?” The door closed and Clay cantered away across the grass.
He had expected little from the interview and had discovered nothing new except that Sir George was unbalanced, which was something he had suspected from the first. Probably the knowledge of his disease and eventual death had preyed on the man’s mind. Out of his despair had grown the need to vent his rage and fear on someone else. The Rogans fitted the bill to perfection.
There remained only one course of action, and Clay smiled sardonically as he rode into the stables at Claremont. What was it Morgan used to say? “In war, always make your first move something so audacious, the enemy would never expect it in a thousand years. After that, play the cards as they fall.”
Morgan had lived by his maxim with some success, but he had also died by it, Clay reflected grimly, as he went into the kitchen and dropped his saddlebags on the table. Joshua turned from the stove, sleeves rolled up. “Just in time for a meal, Colonel.”
“I’ve got to go straight out again,” Clay told him. “But I could eat something quick and drink a cup of coffee.”
He went up to his room and took off his coat. Then he opened the trunk and pulled out the grey cavalry greatcoat. As he buttoned it to his neck, thunder echoed menacingly in the distance and the sky darkened. The rain increased with a sudden rush, and he nodded in satisfaction. It suited his plans perfectly. He belted the black holster around his waist and remembered that the Colt was in his bag downstairs. As he placed the felt campaign hat on his head and faced the mirror, the figure that stared out at him assumed an identity of its own and he shivered slightly and turned and left the room.
Joshua had the coffee and food waiting for him on the table and Clay took the Colt from his bag and checked its action. As he gulped down the coffee, he explained the situation and Joshua’s face turned grave. “I don’t like it, Colonel. I don’t like it one little bit. They’ll be expecting trouble.”
“I don’t think so,” Clay said. “The Rogans are holding Burke. What else can they do?”
“It’s beginning to get too dangerous, Colonel,” Joshua said. “This time someone will get suspicious about you for sure.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Clay admitted. “And there’s a certain element of risk, but I must take the chance.” He finished his coffee and slapped Joshua on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. To tell you the truth, I’m almost beginning to enjoy myself. Old habits die hard.”
Joshua nodded soberly. “That’s exactly what’s bothering me, Colonel. You think twice about each move you make and then think again.” He was standing in the doorway, face grave and troubled, as Clay rode out of the stables through the heavy rain and moved up through the trees to the moor.
The solution was to be found somewhere along the route to Galway, that much was obvious, and the nearer to Drumore, the better. He galloped through the heavy rain, following the track he had taken on the night he had ridden to Kileen to deal with Marley, but as he turned down through the trees to join the Galway Road, he was still no nearer an answer.
It was shortly after six o’clock as he skirted Kileen, moving through the woods that filled the valley, one hand up to ward off the wet branches that whipped against his face. When he was well beyond the village, he turned back onto the road, and a few moments later, came to a stone bridge that spanned a brawling torrent of water.
At some time, the center of the bridge had been swept away by heavy flooding and a temporary repair had been made with stout planks. Already the swollen, foam-flecked stream was lapping through the cracks, and as Clay dismounted and went forward to examine them, a plan began to form in his mind.
Kileen was perhaps a quarter of a mile away and he turned into the trees and rode back toward the village. He recalled that a public house, a replica of Cohan’s, stood at the far end of the single street and he approached it cautiously from the rear and tethered Pegeen to a bush beside a high wall which enclosed the yard.
There was a gap in the wall and, pulling the black scarf up over his face, he squeezed through and crossed to the back door. It opened to his touch and he stepped into a stone-flagged kitchen and drew his Colt.
The room was empty, but a stout wooden door stood ajar
on the far side and he could hear a murmur of voices. He listened to them for a moment and then opened the door wide and stepped through into the bar.
The publican was in the act of turning, a jug in one hand. He stood quite still and an expression of ludicrous dismay appeared on his face. “Captain Swing!” he whispered.
Two men sat in the inglenook by the fire. One was old, with long white hair and a face like a russet apple. Clay saw, with a sense of shock, that the other was Father Costello.
As they turned to look at him, he said softly in an Irish accent, “No trouble now and you won’t come to any harm.”
The publican backed away to join the other two by the fire, and Father Costello said quietly, “These are good people, my friend. I can vouch for that.”
The publican seemed to have recovered from his first shock and now his face was alive and interested. “Glory be, Captain, Father Costello speaks nothing but the truth. We’re all Irishmen here and to hell with the bloody British Empire!”
“Up the Republic!” the old man cackled, and Father Costello laid a hand gently on his arm.
“I intend harm to no man here,” Clay said. “But I need your help. In fact I’ll have to insist on it.” He looked directly at the publican. “How many customers do you expect within the next halfhour?”
The man shrugged. “The local lads usually come in at eight. There might be the odd one before then, but I wouldn’t bank on it in weather like this.”
Clay nodded in satisfaction. “That suits me perfectly. Have you got a horse in the stables at the back?”
The publican nodded and there was pride in his voice. “You could call her that. As fine a mare as you’ll see in a day’s ride. She won me twenty pounds at Galway Fair this summer.”
“Would you lend her to save a man’s life?” Clay asked.
The publican frowned and then his nostrils flared. “By God, I will, if you say the word, Captain. We owe you that and more in Kileen after the way you handled Squire Marley for us.”
“Good man!” Clay said. “Now this is what I want you to do. Sometime during the next hour at the outside, Sir George Hamilton will pass through Kileen in his coach with an armed guard. They carry Kevin Rogan to Galway to see him hanged.”
Father Costello’s breath hissed sharply between his teeth and the old man crossed himself and muttered, “God save us all!”
“When they arrive,” Clay went on, “I want you to go out and stop the coach. Tell Sir George the bridge is down and that men are trying to repair it. He wants to reach Galway tonight, so I’m hoping he’ll send most of his men to help with the work on the bridge while he waits here with Rogan.”
“If Kevin Rogan has killed a man, he must stand trial,” Father Costello said quietly.
Clay shook his head. “If he isn’t home by midnight, his father intends to hang Peter Burke, Father. Take your choice.”
Pain appeared on the priest’s face, and the publican said hesitantly, “It’s not that I’m afraid for myself, you understand, Captain, but I’ve a daughter away in Galway town to think of. What will Sir George do to me when he finds I’ve helped trick him?”
Before Clay could answer, Father Costello said quietly, “It has occurred to me that if we fail to fall in with your plans, you may offer us some violence, Captain. Is this not so?”
Clay saw his drift immediately. “Naturally, Father.”
The priest sighed. “Then it would seem I have no option, but to go out and speak with Sir George if only to save my two companions here from your wrath.”
The publican smiled and turned to Clay. “I’ll saddle the mare for you, Captain.” Clay told him where to leave her, and the man went out, closing the door behind him.
As Clay peered out of the window into the darkening street, the priest said, “This is a bad business.”
Clay nodded. “I can see no answer to the situation except that Ireland be given her freedom. Violence begets violence, Father.”
“But does a sensible man need to have any part of it?” Father Costello asked mildly. “Surely there are other ways of spending one’s life?”
“It depends on your point of view,” Clay said. “Not so long ago, I met a man who contended that as life is action and passion, it is required of a man that he should share the passion and action of his times at peril of being judged not to have lived.”
Father Costello nodded. “An interesting observation. The trouble is that human beings hate each other so easily. How often, I wonder, has the rebel burned down a man’s house, not for political reason, but for private vengeance?”
“And there you’ve come to the kernel of the problem,” Clay said. To his horror, he realized he had spoken in his normal voice.
The priest did not seem to have noticed. “One thing, sir. I want you to give me your word you will do no killing here this night.”
Clay turned and his smile was hidden by the scarf. “I may have to crack a head or two, Father,” he said. “But no more than that.”
The publican came back into the room. “That’s all set then, Captain.”
“One more thing,” Clay said. “Have you a sharp knife handy? I fancy his hands will be bound.”
The publican produced one from beneath the bar and Clay said, “You stand there. When they come through the bar, I’ll push Rogan toward you. You can sever his bonds while I deal with the others.”
At that moment, there was the unmistakable sound of wheels coming along the village street and he turned to the window. The coach approached slowly through the mud, armed horsemen at front and rear.
Father Costello got to his feet and smiled gently. “It would seem that the time has come for my performance.” He paused with the door half-open and looked directly at Clay. “Remember your promise,” he said, and then the door closed behind him.
The cavalcade stopped as he held up his hand, and it was impossible to hear what was said. Father Costello went to the door of the coach and Sir George appeared, a frown on his face. After a while, he gave an order. Four of his men dismounted, the others rode off toward the bridge. The door opened and Father Costello moved back inside and walked across to the fire, hands outstretched to the blaze. Clay waited behind the door, and Kevin Rogan was pushed inside and Sir George followed him, a pistol in one hand.
Rogan’s hands were twisted behind him and bound securely with rope. Clay put a foot in his back, sending him hurtling across the bar, pushed Sir George sideways with one powerful swing and rammed the door in the face of the man who followed.
He shot the bolt and turned, as Sir George raised himself on one elbow and fired. The bullet hit Clay in the upper part of his left arm and the shock of it stopped him dead in his tracks. As pain flooded through him, he kicked the pistol from Sir George’s hand and ran for the door at the back of the bar.
Kevin was already into the kitchen, hands free, and Clay followed, pushing him across the yard and through the gap in the wall. It was almost dark and the horses whinnied a greeting from the gloom. Clay swung into the saddle and, a moment later, moved away through the woods, Kevin at his heels.
They splashed across the ford on the outskirts of the village and took the track which led up onto the moor. Behind them, faintly through the rain, they could hear an outcry from Kileen, and Clay grinned through the pain. In any event, Morgan’s maxim had proved true and a bullet was a small price to pay.
He reined in Pegeen and Kevin Rogan moved beside him. “Why are we stopping here?” he demanded from the darkness.
“Because this is where we part company,” Clay told him. “I’ve saved your life, Rogan. Now it’s your turn to do something for me. Your father holds Peter Burke hostage for your safe return. If you’re not home by midnight, Burke hangs.”
“But you’re wounded,” Kevin said. “At least let me bind it for you.”
“Get home, man!” Clay cried in a voice of iron. He slapped Rogan’s mare across the rump, sending her forward into the night, and turned Pegeen away across th
e moor.
After a while, he stopped and, removing the black scarf, knotted it about his wound and then rode on, alone with the heavy rain and the night.
It was a nightmare ride and he urged Pegeen forward, his knees desperately gripping her sides. He must have been riding for an hour when she tripped over a tussock and threw him from the saddle.
He was never very clear afterwards as to how long he had lain there. He remembered the mare standing over him, her tongue rough on his face, and then he was up and heaving himself back into the saddle.
It was Pegeen who brought him home a good hour later. She crossed the cobbled yard, hooves soundless in the rush of the rain, and halted in the stables. For a little while, Clay sat there and then he slid from the saddle and lurched across the yard to the door, sick and faint with pain.
The kitchen was in darkness and he wondered vaguely whether Joshua was asleep. As the storm raged outside, the very air seemed electric and humming with energy, as if there was nothing sleeping, as if in the surrounding darkness, there was a presence that waited for something to happen. And then the lightning flared outside and in the split second of its illumination, he saw Joshua, Kevin Rogan and Joanna facing him across the table.
What happened after that was confused and disjointed. Joanna was beside him, her face surprisingly calm, and Kevin stripped the wet clothes from Clay’s body while Joshua heated water. They wrapped Clay in a blanket by the fire and Joanna held a brandy bottle to his lips and told him to swallow.
He coughed as the fierce warmth of the raw spirit surged through him and then Joshua placed a bowl of water on the table and opened Clay’s instrument case. “We’ve got to get that bullet out, Colonel.”
Clay took a deep breath and fought to control himself. “I don’t think the arm is broken. It was a small bore pistol. You’ll have to probe, though. Just above the elbow. You’ve done it before.”
