Fugitives! (28 page)

They had hardly finished hiding their gold in pouches and belts – Sinéad even sewed coins into the seam of her cloak – when they heard the sound of galloping hooves coming straight to the door.

Calum burst in. ‘Come quickly – quickly – we must fly! You remember the man who speaks funny? Well, he has a friend – fat, looks like a priest–’

‘Fenton!’ Séamus snarled.

‘So, Bonmann didn’t hang him, then!’ said Haystacks. ‘There’s a
devil’s partnership, but go on.’

‘Denounces you as fugitives and reckons you will be making for the new boat at Portsalon – everyone knows about it now – but Domhnall’s men are refusing to help him. This gives us a chance. Without a guide, they’ll have to follow the road. But I know a short cut through the mountains that will save us an hour or more. We must be off the road and out of sight before they catch up, so hurry.’

They were practised now, and were saddled-up and on the road in less than ten minutes. They cantered in line, keeping to the crown of the road to hide their tracks until Calum led them off the road and into a well-concealed boreen.

They’d never have found the path without Calum to guide them as it wound in and out between huge boulders and crags, hugging a shoulder-high cliff between the mountains and the sea. Séamus was riding eagerly on Calum’s heels. The scenery was wild and beautiful. Haystacks dropped back to keep Sinéad company.

‘And you, Sinéad? Will you go?’

She didn’t answer for a while, gazing about her at the heather slopes, the yellow lichened rocks, and the sea which was turning from grey to green to blue.
How could I ever want to leave here?
she thought.

‘You know, Haystacks,’ she said after a little while, ‘what I would really, really like would be for you to say to me: Sinéad – or perhaps Brian – I need an apprentice. Come with me and I will teach you the poems of Amergin, and the Tain, and how to play the harp …’ She looked over at him, anxious that he might be laughing at her, but he wasn’t.

‘You know, Sinéad,’ he said, ‘there is nothing in the world that I
would like better. I can see us now: the poet and his boy. I’ve never had an apprentice or even a companion on the road.’

‘I would gather nuts for us, I could cook,’ said Sinéad, warming to the theme, ‘and you would tell me the meaning of things like who really is “the wind that breathes upon the sea”.’

They rode on, happily planning their wandering life, until the moment when they topped the rise, and the bay of Portsalon spread out below them. Sinéad could only gasp. To their left was an arc of the whitest sand she had ever seen, creaming waves curving in towards it, and out there in the clear blue water, like a child’s model, floated a neat little ship, with the flag of France flying at her mast.

For the first time since they had left the road, they looked back – and got the shock of their lives.

There they were, a line of horsemen, threading their way up the slope scarcely a mile behind them. All hope of a leisurely departure vanished. At the head of the line rode a man in a white hat.

‘Domhnall Óg!’ Calum swore. ‘That’s his bandage. He’s acting as their guide. Damn him for a traitor.’

They looked at the rocky path ahead – no headlong rush down there! But Calum was busy. He pulled a pistol from his belt and poured a generous measure of black powder down the barrel, followed this by a wad, then a ball, and rammed them home.

‘We can’t hold them off with that!’ said Haystacks.

‘No, but perhaps I can alert the captain of the ship. It’s going to be touch and go; it’ll take time to launch their boat and row for the
shore. Stand back in case this thing explodes.’ The bang was impressive, as was the spurt of smoke.

‘Come on,’ urged Calum. ‘Domhnall Óg will have heard that too. We’ve to get down off the mountain, and it’s a good mile along the beach to where they can land.’

The ponies were nimble on the mountain, slipping and sliding down on their haunches. As the children waited for Calum and Haystacks at the bottom, they looked up. Their pursuers were having trouble; two of them appeared to have fallen and were leading their horses. Only one was travelling fast, his white head bobbing as he expertly zigzagged down the path after them.

‘Look, they’ve launched a boat,’ cheered Con.

‘They’ll land at the mouth of the river,’ shouted Haystacks. ‘Follow Calum, he’ll show you where the sand is hardest.’

With heads down into the wind, they set out after Calum, galloping through the chasing waves. Spray flew and seagulls screeched. From time to time they would glimpse the rowing boat as it rose on a wave, its oars flashing. Was it making progress? Sinéad looked back once and saw that Domhnall Óg had reached the sand; she urged her pony on. They reached the river before the boat and Calum led them into the sandhills where they were out of the wind and out of sight of their pursuers. Here it became a frenzy of activity.

Haystacks was issuing orders. ‘The boat’s too small to take four, so you will have to go in pairs. Con, you and Séamus go first, then Fion and Sinéad. You will have to carry your packs, so get them ready now.’

Sinéad, designated to the second boat, had time to climb to
where Calum was watching from the lip of the dune. The boat was still a hundred yards or more from the shore.

‘It will be close,’ said Calum. ‘Look how fast Domhnall’s coming!’

Why Domhnall?
Sinéad wondered.
What does he want with us? Who does he want?
Then she had it:
Con! It has to be Con. He will snatch him while he runs. For a reward, yes, but for pride too. One in the eye for O’Neill for the watering party incident.
Instantly, she knew what she had to do. Without wasting a second, she surfed down the dune and launched herself at Con.

‘Con, your shirt. Give me your shirt! No, don’t argue!’ she yelled as she dragged his precious yellow shirt up and over his head, thrusting her plain garment at him; they were one of a size. ‘Put that on.’

‘Ready!’ shouted Calum. As a last measure she pulled Con’s hat down over his red hair. ‘Go – GO – run for the boat!’ As Con and Séamus ran, she scrambled up the dune to watch.

Calum had his pistol in his hand. There were the boys pelting across the sand – but where was the boat? There! It seemed to rise out of the ocean, cresting the final wave, the men heaving on their oars.

And there came Domhnall Óg riding into the picture, aiming straight at the boys. Sinéad leapt to her feet and screamed. ‘Run, Séamus, run!’

‘Get down, get down!’ said Calum, pulling at her.

But Domhnall had seen her – a flash of yellow on the dunes. She could almost hear his curse as he pulled on his reins and veered past
the two fugitives towards her.

‘My God!’ said Calum. ‘I thought you were Con for a moment.’

‘Yes! So did Domhnall!’ gasped Sinéad. ‘It worked!’

She watched as Con and Séamus were hauled aboard and the boat broke out through the waves. Domhnall, turning his attention to the dunes, rode towards them, but a bullet in the sand from Calum’s pistol turned him away. Calum remained on watch as Domhnall cantered back to join the others. ‘They’ll leave us alone for a while, I think. They’re exposed out there,’ he said, reloading his pistol.

As it would be some time before the boat could return. Sinéad slid down the dune and walked back to where Haystacks was leading the ponies deeper into the dunes. She went up to her beloved pony, put her arm over her neck and buried her head in the pony’s mane.

She glanced up and saw Haystacks looking at her expectantly. ‘I want to stay,’ she pleaded, ‘but it’s over, isn’t it? Our dream: the poet and his boy?’

His smile was sad. ‘Yes, and no, Sinéad. Yes, because you must go, and No because you will stay and ride forever in my heart. The others need you, and you need them. You see, you belong in the future, while I belong in the past. My world is fading now, and my role is to save what I can of it; yours is to sow the seeds of a new Ireland in whatever soil will nourish you.’

She said goodbye to her pony then, and to the other ponies for good measure, packed up her possessions and was ready to leave.

‘What will happen to the ponies?’ she asked Haystacks.

‘I’ll turn horse dealer for a while. Don’t worry, I’ll find the best of homes for them,’ he reassured her.

‘Ready?’ called Calum from above.

She pulled her hat down firmly in case it fell off. But she couldn’t move. The dunes – home – beckoned to her, but at that moment she felt Fion’s hand in hers, and knew she would go.

‘Come on!’ he said, and off they went, racing across the sand. As before, Calum had timed their run to perfection; the boat was even now breaking through the final waves. She was vaguely aware of two horsemen galloping to intersect them. Fion increased their pace.

There was the boat ahead, swinging about to lie stern-on to shore. A sailor threw them a rope. Fion had let go of her hand to grab it. For a second she was left alone, the water swirling about her knees. She turned and screamed. Domhnall Óg was bearing down on her, spray spouting from his horse’s hooves.
What does he want me for?
Then:
Holy smoke! It’s not me – it’s Con! He thinks I’m Con. I’m still wearing Con’s shirt.

It was too late to tear it off now. Domhnall was already leaning forward to grab her. In a second she’d be snatched up and thrown over his saddle. Instinctively, she tore her hat from her head and shook her hair free. She saw shock on his face: black hair, not red, then instant recognition – hadn’t they stared at each other at the banquet? He had no use for her. With a wrench at his horse’s reins he was past, hurling curses at her.

Fion was yelling for her to come, but she just stood, mesmerised. There in the air, at the sea’s edge, waving his arms like some clumsy seabird, was her suitor, Sir Geoffrey Bonmann. His horse, head
down and front legs braced, had at last rid itself of its hateful rider. Later, Sinéad would dine out on the story of Bonmann’s plunge, but she would leave out his ‘loving’ words as he rose streaming with water: ‘We’ll get you all yet, you little bwats!’

Fion’s grip on her arm was like a lifeline. In seconds they were being hauled over the stern of the boat. The cheering Frenchmen dug in their oars and the boat crashed out through the waves. Bundled in the stern, Fion held Sinéad as if to crush the life out of her.

‘He won’t get me, will he?’ she gasped after a while.

‘Over my dead body!’ said Fion, holding her tighter still.

Haystacks chose a prominent place on the headland on which to stand. As the sails unfurled and the chanting of the sailors hauling the anchor carried across the water, he could see four small figures leaning over the stern rail. He waved, and they waved back. He thought of their hectic departure and smiled at the lingering image of Fion and Sinéad, hand in hand, running into the foam.

The boat would soon round the point. Now only one tiny figure remained standing at the rail, so the poet raised his arms again and sang for Sinéad the verses she had liked so much: