Pay the Devil (v5) (11 page)

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 the 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.”

Kevin held his arm and Clay took some more brandy and watched with a detached, professional interest as Joshua started.

Joshua gently cleansed the area of the wound and felt for the bullet with no success. He then reached for a probe and inserted it carefully into the opening, pushing it in various directions until the porcelain tip grated on the bullet. After a while, he looked up at Clay. “Sorry, Colonel. I’m going to have to cut.”

Clay nodded weakly. “You’re the doctor. Remember your lessons.”

He drank some more brandy as Joshua reached for a scalpel. Joshua paused for a moment, sweat glistening on his brow in the firelight, and then he cut down through the flesh onto the end of the probe.

The pain which coursed through Clay was so exquisite that he gave an involuntary gasp of agony, and Joanna tightened her hand on his shoulder. As he opened his eyes again, Joshua lifted out the bullet with his fingers and dropped it into the fireplace. He washed his hands in the basin and forced a smile. “Got to stitch it now, Colonel.”

“Stitch away, by all means,” Clay told him and braced himself, but nature pushes no man too far, and at the first touch of the needle, he lapsed into a merciful darkness.

10

Clay awakened to firelight writhing and twisting in fantastic shapes across his bedroom ceiling. For a moment, he lay there, his mind a blank, and then he remembered and pain flooded through him as he tried to move his left arm.

He groaned, and immediately a cool hand was laid across his brow. He turned his head and found Joanna sitting by the bed, her face half-hidden by the shadows.

“How do you feel?” she said.

“Not too good at the moment. What time is it?”

She told him it was almost two o’clock and he lay there in silence, trying to focus his mind upon the events of the previous hours. After a while, he said, “They released Burke, I hope?”

She nodded. “The moment Kevin arrived.”

There was another small space of silence before he said, “How did you find out about me?”

She shrugged. “You couldn’t really expect to keep it a secret this time—certainly not from the Rogans or me. The connection was so obvious. But it was Kevin who clinched it. He recognized Pegeen.”

Clay sighed. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.”

“What made you do it?” she said gently.

He shook his head. “I don’t really know. At first I tried to tell myself it was because of Marley—that he needed to be taught a lesson. But now I’m not sure. Kevin Rogan told me the other night that no man could live in this country and stay neutral; that sooner or later I would have to take sides or get out, and he was right. The things I’ve seen here, the squalor, the poverty, the degradation—these things are caused by men like your uncle and Marley. I despise them and everything they stand for.”

She squeezed his hand and tears glistened in her eyes. “I know, Clay, I know. But what can you do? What can anyone do about it? Men like my uncle and Marley have the weight of the law and the power of the British nation behind them. You’re a soldier. Do you honestly think that Ireland has the slightest hope of winning her freedom by force of arms?”

He shook his head. “Of course not, but there are other ways. If a loud enough cry is raised, the English themselves may do something about the situation. I hardly think your uncle and Marley are representative.”

“And yet men like Kevin Rogan will continue to fight,” she said. “The Fenians will rebel, if not this year, then next year. The innocent will die as well as the guilty, outrage follow outrage until what little sympathy Ireland can command will be dissipated.”

He knew in his heart that what she said was true and, touched by the desolation in her voice, he took one of her hands and said gently, “There is always hope—that’s the only thing these people have to live for. That, and a pride in their race.”

She pushed back a tendril of dark hair from her forehead and stood up. “I’ll have to be going. Even if my uncle has returned home instead of continuing to Galway, I may be lucky enough to get to my room unobserved. I’m in the west wing, some distance away from his rooms, and I have a key to a small door that leads into the stable yard.”

“What about Kevin?” he said. “Has he left?”

She nodded. “He knows of a place a mile or two from the farm where he’ll be safe for a day or two.”

“They’ll have to get him out of the country as quickly as possible. Your uncle is bound to call in the constabulary over this matter.”

“And what about you?” she said gravely. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that Burke will suspect who you are, especially when he hears from my uncle the full details of what happened in Kileen, and starts putting two and two together.”

Clay tried to sit up against the pillows. “Suspicion is one thing, proof is another matter. After all, I do have a certain standing. A gentleman doesn’t ride the countryside by night wearing a black mask and using such a ridiculously melodramatic name as Captain Swing.”

She pulled on her gloves and there was no smile on her face. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Clay. For some reason, I’m frightened—really frightened. Recently, my uncle seems to have got worse. At times I don’t think he’s in his right mind.”

Clay managed a confident smile. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, I promise you.”

There was a quiet tap on the door and it opened to admit Joshua. His teeth gleamed in the firelight. “I heard you talking, Colonel. Can I get you anything?”

“You can saddle Pegeen and escort Miss Hamilton home,” Clay told him. Joanna started to protest and he raised a hand to silence her. “No, I insist. You can take the path across the moor. I’ll not rest easy until I know you’re safely home.”

Joshua withdrew and Joanna sat on the edge of the bed and smiled. “All right, I surrender.”

Clay smiled back at her and she leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth. He slipped his good arm about her shoulders, but she pulled away and moved across to the door.

“When will I see you again?” Clay said.

“It may be difficult for me to get away for the next day or two,” she said. “If anything happens that I think you should know about, I’ll send a message. There’s a young stable boy called Joseph. I can trust him.” She smiled once and then the door closed softly behind her.

He listened to the sound of the horses moving across the yard through the heavy rain and thought about what she had said. That Burke would suspect was a foregone conclusion, but that he would dare to bring his suspicions into the open was another matter entirely.

Clay chuckled, and realized with something of a surprise that he did not fear the prospect of crossing swords again with either Burke or his master. Riding roughshod over half-starved peasants was one thing, but making public accusations against an American citizen with the kind of connections and bank balance Clay had, was quite another.

He suddenly realized just how much he had come to dislike Sir George Hamilton and his agent, and as he drifted into sleep, he sighed ruefully. Kevin Rogan had been right in his prophecy. No man could sit on the fence forever.

It was shortly after nine when he awakened to pale autumn sunlight filtering in through the window. Joshua was in the act of putting a log on the fire, and the blankets draped across a chair by the bed showed where he had spent the night. He turned and came forward with a smile, “How do you feel, Colonel?”

Clay struggled to sit up. There was a steady, dull ache in his left arm and he felt a little light-headed, but otherwise fine. “I could do with something to eat.”

“I’ll see to that right away, Colonel.”

Clay nodded. “First, you can fix me a tub of hot water in front of the fire downstairs. I’m getting up.”

Joshua’s smile disappeared. “But that’s crazy, Colonel. You need a few days in bed.”

“I rode for three days with a minie ball in my left foot after Chancellorsville,” Clay said. “As I remember, there wasn’t a bed to be had for miles.” He shrugged. “In any case I must look as normal as possible in case we have any unexpected visitors. Can’t have them finding me in bed with a gunshot wound.”

Joshua sighed and his face was troubled. “You got a point there, Colonel.” He shook his head despondently as he opened the door. “I knew things would get complicated. I knew it in my bones from the beginning.”

Clay lay there for another hour, before Joshua came back into the room and helped him out of bed and down to the kitchen, where the tub was steaming before a roaring fire.

He soaked in it for half an hour, his wounded arm propped on one side out of the water and drank two cups of coffee laced with brandy. Then he dried off and Joshua helped him to dress in fresh linen. He gently eased his wounded arm through the sleeve of a tweed riding jacket and sat down at the table to eat.

As he was finishing his meal, there was a clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside and Joshua moved quickly to the window. He turned, relief on his face. “It’s a boy on a pony, Colonel. I’ve never seen him before.”

Clay frowned. “I think he’ll prove to be a messenger from Miss Hamilton. Let him in.”

Joshua opened the door and the boy moved hesitantly inside. He was perhaps thirteen, tall and lanky for his age, his freckled, alert face topped by a shock of sandy hair. “You’ll be Joseph,” Clay said. “Have you a message for me?”

The boy nodded. “If you are Colonel Fitzgerald, sir.” From the inside pocket of his shabby tweed coat, he produced an envelope sealed with red wax. “Miss Hamilton asked me to bring this to you and tell no one.”

Clay slit open the letter with a table knife, and as he read, his face turned grave. When he had finished, he slipped the letter into his pocket and got to his feet. “Saddle Pegeen for me,” he said to Joshua. “I’m going out.” For a moment, Joshua looked as if he intended to argue, but he appeared to think better of it and left the room.

Clay produced half a sovereign, which he held between finger and thumb. “Do you know what this is?” The boy’s eyes went round and he nodded. “Come back in three hours and carry a message to Miss Hamilton for me and I’ll give you another to match it.”

He flipped the coin into the air and the boy caught it neatly in his hat. “I’ll be here, sir, you can depend on that,” he said with a grin and disappeared through the doorway.

Clay went up to his bedroom for his hat and the Dragoon, and when he came back downstairs, Pegeen was saddled and waiting for him.

As Clay mounted, Joshua said, “Sure I can’t come with you, Colonel? You don’t look too good to me.”

Clay shook his head. “With any luck I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’m going to see Shaun Rogan. I’ll tell you about it when I return.”

Leaves from the beech trees carpeted the path before him as he cantered up out of the valley. He rode with his left hand thrust deep into his jacket pocket, to support the arm which should really have been in a sling, and schooled his thoughts to ignore the steady, persistent throbbing of his wound.

It was one of those quiet autumn mornings, with the scent of wood smoke in the air and a peculiar heavy stillness over everything. He gave Pegeen her head and thundered along the track, not even pausing when Marteen Rogan rode out of the beech trees at the head of the valley and waved to him.

When he entered the farmyard, Cathal and Dennis were waiting in front of the door to greet him and Clay dismounted and walked forward, feeling more than a little light-headed.

“Is Kevin here?” he said.

Cathal shook his head. “He’s taking it easy a mile or two away in a place we know of, waiting to see which way the wind blows.”

“I never expected to see you on your feet this day, after what Kevin told us,” Dennis said. “And that’s a fact.”

Clay managed a tight smile. “I’m not too sure how long I can keep it up, but I had to see your father.”

Cathal led the way inside without another word and Clay followed. Shaun Rogan was sprawled comfortably in a chair by the fire, leg raised. As they entered, he turned with a frown and then something sparked in his eyes. “By God, Colonel, of all the men on earth this day, you are the one I wanted to see most. But shouldn’t you be in bed, man?”

Clay pulled forward a chair and sat down opposite him, face grave. “Something important came up. I had to see you.”

Shaun Rogan reached for the whiskey bottle. He filled a glass and pushed it across. “Here, drink that to start with. You look as if you could do with it.”

Clay drained the glass in one easy swallow and said quietly, “Have you had any dealings with a man called Fitzgibbon?”

Rogan frowned and nodded slowly. “An old friend of mine, a banker in Galway town.” He hesitated for a moment and then went on. “He holds the mortgage on this property.”

Clay shook his head slowly. “Not anymore. He died two days ago. His nephew has already agreed to dispose of the mortgage to Sir George Hamilton.”

There was a terrible silence in the room and a great vein in the old man’s temple throbbed steadily. His tongue flickered across dry lips as he said, “It can’t be true. I know Hamilton had tried to buy the mortgage on several occasions, but Fitzgibbon always refused. He was too good a friend to me.”

“Apparently, his nephew isn’t as sentimental,” Clay said drily. “He’s the sole heir and intends to settle the estate as quickly as possible. He sent a special messenger from Galway yesterday afternoon, who found Sir George at the pub in Kileen and delivered the letter asking him if he was still interested in the property. Sir George wrote his acceptance at once and returned the man to Galway, posthaste.”

The old man seemed momentarily dazed. “But it can’t be true,” he said. “It isn’t possible.”

“I’m afraid it is,” Clay said gently. “Miss Hamilton overheard her uncle and Burke discussing the matter this morning. She sent one of the stable boys over with a letter giving me full details.”

Cathal leaned forward, hands on the table and said quietly, “Let’s not be too hasty, Father. A mortgage is a legal document with clauses in it giving you time to pay and so on. Hamilton can’t just walk in and take over without so much as a by-your-leave.”

Shaun Rogan looked up, and all at once he seemed an old man. “I’m already two months overdue on my last payment. Fitzgibbon didn’t press me.” He made a futile gesture with his hands. “We needed money for the cause. I’ve paid for some of the arms which have been landed out of my own pocket, hoping to be reimbursed when the contributions to the fighting fund started to come in.”

Dennis slammed a clenched fist against the table. “What are we going to do, then?” he demanded. “Sit here like sheep and let Hamilton and his butchers ride in and take over?”

Shaun Rogan shook his head. “We’ll think of something, lad. We’ll think of something.” He turned to Cathal. “Get on your horse and go for Kevin. We need all the help we can get.”

“I’ll be returning to Claremont,” Clay said. “Joanna has no information as to when they intend to move against you, but she promised to keep me informed. I’ll be seeing her messenger again in a couple of hours.”

Rogan’s eyes narrowed. “He may have some news for us.” He turned to Dennis. “You ride with the colonel to Claremont. After he’s spoken with this messenger, you can come back with any news there is.”

Dennis turned without a word and went outside to saddle his horse and Clay got to his feet. “I have a feeling things are warming up,” he said. “The next few hours will see great changes in Drumore, though in what way, I’m not quite sure. I’d offer the mortgage myself. I could well afford it, but I smell a plot here between young Fitzgibbon and Hamilton.”