Pay the Devil (v5) (14 page)

Joanna gave a tiny moan and her fingers dug into his arm. “Oh, Clay, it’s so futile. So horribly pointless. It won’t gain them anything.”

He shook his head and his voice was somber. “I’m not so sure. What else is there left for people like these? They accept degradation and brutality for year after year, but finally there comes a time when a man must turn and fight. His final and ultimate protest against any tyrant is to give his life in open defiance, and that can never be futile. One day it will achieve something, one day all the dead and the petty little insurrections over the years will be seen to form part of a pattern. Perhaps then the thing they died for will be achieved.”

“I’ve never heard you talk like that before,” she said, and looked up at him, a frown on her face.

He laughed grimly. “Perhaps I’ve never felt quite like this before. The thing that hurts is the knowledge that soon the military will arrive and that ultimately, whatever happens, these people will be the ones to suffer. Not Burke or your uncle.”

She held his arm and they peered down below as the smoke and the shouting, and the cries of the wounded drifted up toward them and then Clay stiffened. He held his face very close to the bars, and when he turned, his face was grave. “They’ve set the house on fire.”

“Are you sure?” she said.

A great dark cloud of smoke billowed up past the window to answer her and Clay ran to the door and hammered on it. “For God’s sake, let us out!” he cried. “The house is on fire.”

There was a sound of movement outside, and then the guard answered in a frightened voice. “I haven’t got the key—Mr. Burke has it.”

“Then go and get it,” Clay insisted.

“But he told me to stay here,” the guard replied, and there was panic in his voice. Suddenly, he gave a stifled exclamation and turned away from the door, and Clay heard him running along the corridor.

12

From below came the sound of breaking glass and then a roar from the mob, and smoke was sucked into the room through the bars, sending a flicker of panic moving inside Clay. Joanna pushed a tendril of hair back from her forehead and said calmly, “What happens now, Clay? Do you think he’ll come back?”

He shook his head. “Not a chance. From the sound of him, he was scared out of his wits.”

He picked up a heavy wooden chair in both hands and battered it against the door, gritting his teeth against the pain which flooded through his wounded arm. Again and again, he swung the chair, until it splintered in his hands and he dropped it to the floor with a curse.

He looked desperately around the room, but there was nothing—nothing at all, and then Joanna pointed to the bed. “What about using that? I could help you.”

He pulled the blankets and mattress away and examined the narrow truckle bed. It was solidly constructed of iron, heavy and durable. He tipped it over onto its side and lifted one end. Joanna took the other and, swinging together, they attacked the door.

Almost at once, it started to give and he swung again with renewed vigor, ignoring the pain in his arm. Splinters started to fly, and then a crack appeared in one of the planks as if by magic. The door sagged suddenly in the center, and although the lock stayed firm, planks bulged outwards under repeated blows. He dropped his end of the bed and tore at the planks with his hands until the gap was large enough to pass through.

Smoke drifted along the corridor toward them and he took Joanna’s hand and plunged toward the servants’ stairs. They descended to the second floor in safety, but as he put foot on the next flight of stairs, a sudden rush of heat enveloped them and tongues of flame licked at the dry woodwork.

He turned desperately, a great fear in his heart. From the smell of the smoke, the fire had been started in the lamp oil store and now it was spreading rapidly through the old bones of this ancient house.

He stopped and leaned against the wall, coughing as smoke touched the back of his throat. Joanna leaned against him and she was trembling. She stared back into the past, and for a moment, there was fear and horror in her eyes. He remembered that as a little girl she had lived through just such another hell as this at Lucknow. He held her firmly and said, “Are you all right?”

Something seemed to flicker in her eyes and she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Yes, I’m fine. But what are we going to do? The wood in this house is three hundred years old. It will burn like tinder.”

“Is there another staircase?”

She shook her head. “Only the main one down to the entrance hall.”

A blast of hot air swept along the corridor, moving them on before Clay could consider the position further. What was happening down at the front entrance, he had no means of knowing, but it seemed they were going to find out. There was no other choice.

The floor was warm under their feet and smoke rose from the carpeting as it started to smoulder, and then, almost in slow motion, a plank heaved and buckled a few feet in front of them and a tongue of flame flickered through. Clay realized that the whole of the ground floor must be alight, but he held up an arm before his face to ward off the heat and staggered on, pulling Joanna behind him.

Through the crackling of the flames, he could hear the sound of shooting and a confused babble of voices, and then as he descended two steps into a lower reach of the corridor, a figure stumbled out of the smoke and lurched into him.

It was Burke, and a thin trickle of blood oozed sluggishly down one side of his smoke-blackened face from a gash below his left eye. “There’s no way out for you here, you dog,” Clay said, pushing Joanna behind him.

Burke reeled back against the wall and started to raise the Dragoon Colt. Clay kicked the weapon from his grasp, and as it clattered to the floor, kicked it again along the corridor. They came together, breast to breast.

Clay forgot the pain in his arm, forgot everything except his desire to smash this man into the ground. They rolled together upon the floor, hands tearing at each other, and once Clay screamed as flames licked through the floorboards, touching his bare flesh.

And then they were on their feet, Burke a shade faster. As Clay rose, the agent kicked him in the chest, sending him crashing back against the floor. Clay felt as if the very air had been driven from his lungs. He was conscious of something hard pressing against his back, and scrabbled for it as Burke moved forward and raised a boot to stamp down onto his unprotected face. Clay’s right hand came out from under him, clutching the Dragoon. He cocked it and fired in the same move at point-blank range.

Burke was pushed back against the wall as the heavy slug tore into his vitals. A strange expression compounded of agony and bitterness appeared on his face, as if he was angry that fate had cheated him to the last. Then blood erupted from his mouth. He folded his hands over his wound, as if to hold in the life which drained from him, sagged slowly at the knees and rolled over on his back.

Clay tried to sit up and Joanna appeared beside him, hair dishevelled, face black with smoke. “Get up!” she screamed. “We haven’t got a moment to lose.”

He was still holding the Dragoon in his right hand and he thrust it into his pocket and followed her. As they reached the head of the stairs, the smoke cleared. The floorboards of the landing were already on fire and so was the staircase itself. Down below, four of Burke’s men still fought desperately behind their barricade, firing out through the side windows.

As Clay pulled out the Colt and started down to the hall, one of the men began to pull away the barricade from the door. “We’ll be burned alive if we stay here any longer,” he screamed.

At the same moment, the stair carpet burst into flames, and Joanna gave a cry of pain and moved down a step hurriedly. The men turned and looked up and Clay raised the Colt. “Get that door opened before we all roast,” he cried. “Do as I say and I’ll see no one harms you.”

One by one, they dropped their weapons and started to clear the barricade. Clay and Joanna moved to join them, and as the door swung open, Clay shouted. “Hold your fire! We’re coming out!”

Kevin Rogan emerged from behind a farm cart at the bottom of the steps as Clay and Joanna stumbled into the fresh air, the four men following them, hands high.

As Rogan came to meet them, Clay said, “I persuaded these men to surrender on the understanding that they wouldn’t be harmed. I want your promise on that.”

“I’m not interested in these scuts,” Kevin said wildly. “It’s bigger fish I’m after.”

“Burke is dead. I killed him myself,” Clay said.

“And Hamilton?” Kevin demanded. “Don’t tell me he’s also dead?”

Clay frowned, realizing that Sir George must still be in his bedroom, and started up the steps back into the entrance hall. As he went through the door, Kevin caught up with him. “Where is he?” he demanded.

“On the first floor,” Clay told him. “He collapsed earlier on and Burke had him carried to his room.”

The staircase and the landing were blazing strongly, and as Kevin started toward them, Clay caught him by one arm. “It’s too late,” he cried above the roar of the flames. “You’ll never reach him.”

Kevin turned, teeth bared, and there was madness in his eyes. “I’ll follow him to hell if need be.” He tore himself free and plunged up the stairway.

Clay staggered back as heat reached out to envelope him and, shielding his eyes with one arm, he looked up at the landing. As Kevin Rogan reached the head of the stairs, Sir George Hamilton appeared from the corridor on the right. His face was white, his eyes dark holes, but there was no fear there. No fear at all.

Kevin gave a cry that could be heard clearly above the crackling of the flames and advanced toward him. When he was a yard or two distant, Sir George raised a pistol in his left hand and shot him through the body. Kevin staggered, clutching at the burning handrail with one hand to steady himself, and then he sprang forward and tore the pistol from the old man’s grasp.

One hand fastened about his throat relentlessly, the other gripped his belt. Kevin raised him above his head and tossed him over the balustrade. As he did so, the floor seemed to sag. He clutched at the handrail and the landing dissolved beneath him and he disappeared into a cauldron of flames.

Clay took one hesitant step forward and then the entire ceiling started to collapse. He turned and jumped for the door and staggered out into the fresh air as the hall became an inferno.

He moved down the steps, tearing his smouldering coat from his body, and Joshua pushed through the crowds and took his arm. “You all right, Colonel?”

Clay nodded, and a hand twisted him round and he looked into the strained white face of Cathal Rogan. “What happened to Kevin?” he demanded, and there was a tremor in his voice.

Clay tried to speak, but somehow the words refused to come. It didn’t really matter, because the thing he wanted to say showed plainly on his face. Cathal Rogan turned blindly away and stumbled toward Marteen, who stood between two horses. Clay watched them speak, saw the younger boy’s shoulders sag, and watched as they mounted and rode away through the crowds toward the orchards and the back way up to the moor.

Father Costello sat in his trap, Joanna beside him. She looked sick and faint and there were great rents in her dress where she had torn the smouldering cloth. She opened her eyes and said calmly, “Is my uncle dead?”

Clay nodded. “So is Kevin Rogan. A bad day’s work.”

“Indeed so, Colonel,” Father Costello said. “And I fancy it will be a long time before we hear the last of it.” He picked up the reins. “I’ll take Miss Hamilton back to my house for the time being. What are your own plans, Colonel? I fancy a berth on the first available ship might be advisable.”

Clay nodded soberly. “I’ll have to leave the country as soon as possible. It won’t be long before the authorities are on my track. I’ll stay here and do what I can to persuade these people to return to their homes. I’ll send my servant with you. He may be useful to Miss Hamilton.”

Joshua had been standing at his shoulder and now he climbed into the trap on the other side of Joanna. “I wouldn’t hang around here for too long, Colonel,” he said. “I’ve got an idea it’s going to become unhealthy.”

“Don’t worry,” Clay said. “I won’t take any chances. I’ll see you in half an hour.” Father Costello slapped the pony with the reins and it trotted away down the drive and turned through the gates onto the main road.

The crowd fell silent as smoke rose high into the sky and orange flames blossomed from the windows. Now the excitement, now the emotion was passed, Clay saw doubt upon many faces and traces of unease, as if they were just beginning to realize the extent of their act and appreciate the consequences.

Here and there, people slipped away, some assisting a wounded friend. Clay mounted a farm cart and held up his hand. Faces turned toward him and a strange hush fell upon everyone.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and said in a quiet voice that reached each individual clearly, “For good or ill, the work here is finished. Sir George sent a messenger to Galway this morning asking for aid from the authorities. You’d best get to your homes before the military arrive.”

Almost at once, the crowd broke, as people turned and started to hurry away. Clay jumped down to the ground and picked up his smouldering jacket. He took out the Colt and checked it. There were still three unused bullets in the drum and he thrust it into his waistband and turned to examine some of the bodies which lay stretched on the grass before the house. As he did so, a troop of cavalry swept in through the main gates and halted.

They moved into line with skill and efficiency, red tunics standing out clearly against the grey stone boundary wall behind them. The mob came to a halt, and there was a silence, and then heavy drops of rain began to spot the ground.

An officer’s voice sounded clearly, sabres gleamed, as each man drew with a precision that would have done credit to the parade ground. There was a moment of dreadful stillness, as the whole world seemed to wait, and then a bugle sounded on the evening air and they advanced at the trot.

Most of the crowd scattered, some running back toward the house, others making desperately for the beech trees and the boundary wall, knowing their one chance of safety was to reach the woods.

Clay ran along the front of the house and followed the drive round to the stables. His luck still held. There was no Pegeen, but several saddled horses were tethered to a fence. Obviously, some of the men who had attacked the rear of the house had emptied the stables in case they burned with the rest of the building.

Clay unhitched a black stallion and swung into the saddle. Behind him, hooves thundered and an officer galloped round the corner of the house, sabre ready. He raised it to strike and then an expression of amazement appeared on his face and he lowered his weapon.

It was Vale, the young captain Clay had met at Sir George’s reception. Clay urged his mount forward and struck him across his sword arm with the barrel of the Colt. Vale cried out in pain and Clay wrenched the sabre from his grasp and said, “Sorry, Vale, can’t stop to explain now.”

He thrust the Colt back into his waistband and urged the stallion up through the orchard, swinging the sabre in his right hand. A man was running through the trees on his left, scrabbling with his fingers into the soil as he slipped on the wet grass. Behind him thundered a trooper, sabre poised to strike. Clay took the stallion into him sideways. He had one glimpse of the man’s startled face beneath the peak of the shako, before he smashed the hilt of his sabre into it, sending him toppling from the saddle.

The fugitive grabbed for the bridle of the riderless horse and Clay, having given him his chance, went on. As he breasted the final slope and moved out of the apple trees toward a gap in the wall, a young lieutenant galloped out of the trees on his left and thundered to meet him.

How many times have I done this, Clay thought? How many times through the long, bitter years, and he swung the sabre with the expertness of the battle-tired veteran and waited grimly. The lieutenant was young, only a boy, with a thin smudge of moustache along his upper lip, and this was all he had ever dreamed of.