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Pay the Devil
Jack Higgins
In his first paperback for HarperCollins, master storyteller Jack Higgins displays all his customary skills in a heart-pounding adventure with a less familiar setting – 19th-century rural Ireland – and featuring a swashbuckling new hero.At the end of the American Civil War, Confederate Colonel Clay Fitzgerald escapes to Ireland, where his uncle has left him an estate, only to find that Ireland is caught up in a civil war of its own. The struggle between the wealthy landlords and the impoverished tenant farmers is growing in intensity, and having just fought and lost a terrible war, Clay wants to avoid the coming conflict. But after witnessing the atrocities that the landowners visit upon the people, Clay is unable to stand by. Taking the guise of a legendary night-riding outlaw, he joins the fight against the landlords – and wages a rebellion of his own…



Pay The Devil
Jack Higgins




Take care, for after raising him, it becomes necessary to pay the Devil his due.
Irish saying

Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u2c21e211-c8c6-533b-8514-2ea8ee644660)
Title Page (#u53b8290e-ab45-5f04-9e1d-db80dd4d2507)
Epigraph (#uc09d0860-44ca-5f27-933f-1f91bf0ca28e)
PUBLISHER’S NOTE (#uc3738a42-87e9-5b44-82b0-68a3f8f3f0fd)
APPOMATTOX STATION 1865 (#u3bda3cc4-56f9-54e6-9e3c-132590f57e34)
PROLOGUE (#u7afb54a2-ace6-59b3-9cd7-64f49a92e1b6)
IRELAND 1865 (#ufd1c0ca8-f0ee-5fc0-8f68-78f908941e3c)
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About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PUBLISHER’S NOTE (#ulink_958edc86-c6b7-5190-951a-adb5227f51d5)
PAY THE DEVIL was first published in the UK only by Barrie & Rockcliffe Ltd in 1962 under the authorship of Harry Patterson. The book went out of print very shortly after its first publication, was never reprinted and never appeared in paperback.
The author was, in fact, the writer familiar to modern readers as Jack Higgins. Harry Patterson was one of the names he used during his early writing days.
In 1999, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So Jack Higgins has created an entirely new framework to the original book, added some scenes and made some changes throughout. We are delighted to be able to bring back pay the devil for the pleasure of the vast majority of us all who never had a chance to read the original edition.

APPOMATTOX STATION 1865 (#ulink_52c3085e-2bc5-5746-86f9-f18d313758cb)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_8059df72-8565-5baf-b66b-a85525761eef)
They were hanging a man on the bridge below as Clay Fitzgerald rode through the trees on the hill. It was raining heavily, dripping from his felt campaign hat, soaking into the caped shoulders of his shabby grey military greatcoat.
The man who followed him was black, of middle years, tall and thin with aquiline features that hinted at mixed blood. Like Clay, he wore a felt hat and a frieze coat crossed by a bandolier of shotgun shells.
‘We got a problem, General?’
‘I’d say so, Josh. Let me have that spyglass of yours, and I wish you wouldn’t call me general. I only had one hundred and twenty-three men left in the brigade when General Lee gave me the appointment. Now it’s more like twenty.’
Behind them a young horseman eased out of the trees wearing a long cavalry coat in oilskin, Fitzgerald’s galloper, Corporal Tyree.
‘Trouble, General?’
‘Could be. Stay close.’
Clay Fitzgerald took the spyglass then produced a silver box from a pocket, selected a black cheroot and lit it with a lucifer match. He dismounted and walked to the edge of the trees. Black eyes brooded in a tanned face, the skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones, one of them disfigured by a sabre scar. It was a hard face, the face of a man few would care to offend, and there was a quality of calm about him, of complete self-possession, that was disturbing.
Eight men on horseback advanced on the bridge below, hooves drumming on the wooden planks. At that stage in the war, it was difficult to distinguish which uniforms they wore, and it was the same with the two prisoners dragged behind, ropes around their necks.
As Clay watched, there was laughter and then a rope was thrown over a bridge support beam, a rider urged his horse away and one of the prisoners went up kicking. There was more laughter, flat in the rain. Clay Fitzgerald swung into the saddle.
He said to Tyree, ‘Find the men and fast.’ Tyree turned his horse and was away.
Josh said, ‘Are you going to be foolish again?’
‘I’ve never been good at standing by, you know that. Wait here.’
Josh said, ‘With the general’s permission, I’d like to point out that when your daddy made me your body servant, you was eight years old. I’ve whipped your backside more than once, but only when you needed it, and I’ve gone through four years of stinking war with you.’
‘So what are you trying to say? That you always got your own way?’
‘Of course, so let’s do it,’ and Josh put his heels to his horse.
They went down fast, pulled in and cantered onto the bridge. The eight men, milling around the remaining prisoner, laughing and shouting, settled down and turned. They were all bearded and of a rough turn and armed to the teeth, the uniforms so worn that it was difficult to determine whether they were blue or grey.
The prisoner on the end of a rope was very young and wore a shabby Confederate uniform. He was soaked to the skin, blue with cold and despairing, shaking with fear.
Clay and Joshua reined in. Clay sat there, the cheroot in his teeth; Josh kept slightly back, his right hand in the capacious pocket of his frieze coat. The man who urged his horse toward them wore a long riding coat over whatever uniform. His face was hard, empty of any emotion, black-bearded. He reined up and took in Clay’s rank insignia on his collar.
‘Well, now, boys, what have we got here? A Reb cavalry colonel.’
‘Hey, he could be worth money,’ one of the men said.
It was quiet, the rain rushing down. Clay said, ‘Who am I dealing with?’
‘Name’s Harker; and who might you be?’
It was Josh who answered. ‘This here is Brigadier General Clay Fitzgerald, so you mind your manners.’
‘And you mind your mouth, nigger,’ Harker told him. He turned back to Clay. ‘So what do you want, General?’
‘The boy here,’ Clay said. ‘Just give me the boy.’
Harker laughed out loud. ‘The boy? Sure. My pleasure.’
He snatched the rope holding the young prisoner from one of the men, urged his horse forward and reined in, kicking the boy over the edge of the bridge. The rope tightened.
He turned. ‘How do you like that, General?’
Clay pulled out his sabre and sliced the rope left-handed. His right came up from under the cavalry greatcoat, holding a Dragoon Colt. He shot Harker between the eyes, turned his horse and shot the rifleman behind him. Josh pulled a sawn-off shotgun from the pocket of the frieze coat, shot one man on his left in the face, then as fire was returned, ducked low in the saddle and fired again beneath his mount’s neck. At the same moment, there was a chorus of rebel yells, and Tyree and a scattering of horsemen came down the hill.
The four men left on the bridge turned to gallop away, and a volley of shots emptied their saddles. The riders milled around, one of them, a small man with sergeant’s stripes on a battered grey uniform.
‘General?’
‘Good man, Jackson.’ Clay pulled his mount in at the edge of the bridge and looked down. The boy was on his hands and knees on a sandbank, wrists still tied. ‘Send someone down to retrieve him.’
Jackson wheeled away to give the order and Josh, who was talking to the cavalrymen, came over.
‘Don’t do that to me again, General. This war is over.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘General Lee’s been pushing toward Appomattox Station looking for supplies and relief, only our boys have found there’s nothing there: Lee’s got twenty thousand men left. Grant’s got sixty. It’s over, General.’
‘And where’s Lee now?’
‘Place called Turk’s Crossing. He’s overnighting there.’
Clay looked over the rail of the bridge, where three of his men had reached the boy. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then let’s go and find him.’
When he and his men slipped through the Yankee lines, it was raining heavily. Turk’s Crossing was a poor sort of place. General Lee was billeted in a small farmhouse, but had preferred the barn. The doors stood open and someone had lit a fire inside. The staff, and what was left of his men, were camped around in field tents.
When Clay and his men moved in, Tyree had the day’s password when the pickets challenged them. It was always a difficult moment. After all, it was Confederate pickets who had killed General Stonewall Jackson after Chancellorsville.
Clay reined in beside the farm and turned to Sergeant Jackson. ‘You and the boys find some food. I’ll see you later.’
The riders moved away. Josh dismounted and held his bridle and Clay’s. ‘What now?’
A young aide moved out of the barn. ‘General Fitzgerald?’
‘That’s right.’
‘General Lee would be delighted to see you, sir. We thought we’d lost you.’
Josh said, ‘I’ll hang around, General. You might need me.’
Lee was surprisingly well dressed in an excellent Confederate uniform, and sat at a table his staff had set up by the fire, his hair very white.
Clay Fitzgerald walked in. ‘General.’
Lee said, ‘Sorry I can’t call you general any longer, Clay. Couldn’t get your brigade command ratified. We’re into the final end of things, so you’re back to colonel. Heard you’ve been in action again.’
‘One of those things.’
‘Always is, with you.’
At that moment, a young captain came out of the shadows. He wore a grey frock coat over his shoulders, his left arm in a sling, and carried a paper, which he handed to Lee.
‘Latest report, General. The army’s fading away. Lucky if we’ve got fifteen thousand left.’
He swayed and almost fell. Lee said, ‘Sit down, Brown. The arm, not good?’
‘Terrible, General.’
‘Well, you’re in luck. I have here the only general cavalry officer in the Confederate army, Colonel Clay Fitzgerald, who’s also a surgeon.’
Brown turned to Clay. ‘Colonel? I had a message for you,’ and then he slumped to one knee.
Clay got him to a chair, turned and called, ‘Josh – my surgical bag and fast.’
The wound was nasty, obviously a sabre slash. Brown was sweating and in great pain.
‘I’d say ten stitches,’ Clay said. ‘And whiskey, just to clean the wound.’
‘Some men might say that’s a waste of good liquor,’ Lee said.
‘Well, it seems to work, General.’ Clay turned as Josh came in with the surgical bag. ‘Should be some laudanum left in there.’
Lee said, ‘So you’re still around, Josh. It’s a miracle.’
‘You, me and Colonel Clay, sir. Lot of water under the bridge.’
He opened the bag and Brown said, ‘No laudanum, Colonel.’
‘It could put you out if I give you enough, Captain. Kill the pain.’
‘No, thanks. I must have my brain working. The general needs me. Whiskey will do fine, Colonel. Let’s get on with it.’
Clay glanced at Lee, who nodded. ‘A brave boy, and he’s entitled to his choice. Just do it, Colonel,’ and there was iron in his voice.
‘Then with your permission, sir.’
He nodded to Josh, who took the bottle of whiskey that stood on Lee’s table, uncorked it and held it to Brown’s lips.
‘Much as you can take, Captain.’
Brown nodded, swallowed, then swallowed again. He nodded. ‘Enough.’
Clay said, ‘Thread a needle, Josh.’ He bared Brown’s arm. ‘You’ll feel this. Just hang in there.’
He poured raw whiskey over the open wound, and the young captain cried out. Josh passed over the curved needle threaded with silk.
Clay said, ‘Stand behind the chair and hold him.’
Josh did as he was told, and as General Lee watched impassively, Clay poured whiskey over his hands, the needle and the thread, held the lips of the wound together and passed the needle through the flesh, and mercifully at that first stroke, Brown cried out again and fainted.
An hour later, after a meal of some sort of beef stew, Clay and Lee sat at the table and enjoyed a whiskey. Outside, the rain poured relentlessly.
‘Well, here we are at the last end of the night on the road to nowhere,’ Lee said.
Clay nodded. ‘General, it’s a known fact that President Lincoln offered you command of the Yankee army on the outbreak of hostilities. No one disputes your position as the greatest general of the war.’ He helped himself to another whiskey. ‘I wonder how different things might have been.’
‘Waste of time thinking that way, Clay,’ Lee told him. ‘My fellow Virginians were going to war. I couldn’t desert them. After all, what about you? You’re from good Irish American stock, your father and that brother of his. You went to Europe, medical schools in London and Paris. You’re a brilliant surgeon, yet you chose my path.’
Clay laughed. ‘Yes, but I’m Georgia-born, General, so, like you, I had no choice.’
‘You’re too much like your father. I was sorry to hear of his death. Three months ago, I believe.’
‘Well, everybody knew he’d been operating schooners out of the Bahamas, blockade-running. He took the pitcher to the well too often. He was on one of his own boats when they ran into a Yankee frigate. It went down with all hands.’
Lee nodded gravely ‘Your mother died early. I remember her well. Your father, as I recall, was somewhat of a duellist.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
‘And the elder brother, your uncle?’
‘On my grandfather’s death, he inherited an estate in the west of Ireland. He had a plantation only twenty miles from here. Left it in the hands of a manager.’
‘So what happens now?’ Lee asked.
‘God knows, General. What happens to all of us?’
‘It’s simple, Clay. I’ve had contact with Grant. We meet at Appomattox tomorrow to discuss surrender terms.’ He brooded. ‘Grant and I served in the Mexican Wars together. Ironic it’s ended this way.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s a good soldier and an honourable man. I’ve already made it clear in a communication that I want all of my men who own their own horses to keep them.’
‘And he’s agreed?’
‘Yes.’
There was a moan from Brown lying on the truckle bed in the corner. Josh, who had been sitting on watch, got an arm around him as the young captain sat up. Clay went to him at once.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Terrible.’
‘Come and sit by the fire.’
‘I’ll get him some coffee,’ Josh said, and went out.
Brown slumped into a chair, and Lee asked, ‘Are you all right, boy?’
‘Fine, sir. Hurts like hell, but there it is.’ He turned to Clay. ‘My thanks, Colonel.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘I was hoping to meet you. Your uncle had a house near here. Fairoaks?’
‘That’s right. He went to Ireland and left a manager in charge.’
‘Well, he used to have a house. Burned to the ground by Yankee cavalry. I passed it two days ago. One of the field hands had a letter. Some lawyer from Savannah called, looking for you. Said he’d be at Butler’s Tavern for a week. Name of Regan.’
‘I know Butler’s Tavern. It’s about thirty miles from here.’
‘The letter said if he couldn’t get you there, he’d be in Savannah. You know this man?’
Clay nodded. ‘My father was a blockade-runner. Regan managed his affairs.’
‘Sorry I don’t have the letter, Colonel. We were in a skirmish with Yankee cavalry just after I got it, and it disappeared.’
‘That’s fine,’ Clay said. ‘You’ve told me what I need to know.’
Josh came in with coffee in a tin cup and gave it to Brown. Clay turned to Lee. ‘What now, sir?’
‘For me, Clay, Appomattox and the final end of our cause. Humiliation, of course, but I see no need for you and your men to endure it. You have family business to attend to. I think I’d prefer it if you and your men simply faded into the night. I should think that in ones and twos you’d have little difficulty in passing through the Yankee lines, especially in such wooded country.’
‘Is that your order, General?’
‘My suggestion.’ Lee held out a hand. ‘We ran a good course, my friend. Just go.’
The emotion was hard to bear. Clay shook hands. ‘General.’ He turned and walked out and Josh followed.
He found his men under the trees, sheltering under two stretched tarpaulins beside a fire. Sergeant Jackson stood up.
‘What’s happening, General?’
‘Not general any longer. Back to colonel, boys. I’ve seen General Lee. He carries on to Appomattox tomorrow, where he will surrender to General Grant.’ There was a stunned silence from the men. ‘It’s over, boys.’
Young Corporal Tyree said, ‘But what are we going to do, Colonel? All I know is the war. I joined at fourteen.’
‘I know, Corporal. General Lee’s suggestion is that we slip away in small groups, pass through the Yankee lines and go home.’ He turned to Josh. ‘The money bag.’
Josh produced a leather purse from the bottom of the surgical bag. ‘Here you go, Colonel.’
Clay handed it to Sergeant Jackson. ‘One hundred English gold sovereigns. Distribute it equally. It’s the best I can do, and don’t let’s prolong this. It’s too painful.’
‘Colonel.’ Jackson’s voice was a whisper as he took the money.
Clay walked away, then turned. ‘It’s been an honour to serve with you. Now get the hell out of here,’ and he turned again and walked away through the rain.
The rain continued like a Biblical deluge. It was as if the end of the world had come, which, in effect, it had, as Lee’s army struggled toward Appomattox, and it was late afternoon when Clay and Josh emerged from the trees on the bluff above Butler’s Tavern. It was on the other side of the stream below, an old rambling building of stone, single-storeyed and with a shingle roof. Smoke curled out of the great stone chimney at the eastern end.
‘Looks quiet enough to me, Colonel,’ Josh observed.
‘Well, keep your hand on that shotgun just in case,’ and Clay urged his horse down the slope.
They splashed across the ford and advanced to the hitching rail, where two mounts stood in the pouring rain, still saddled.
‘A poor way to treat good horseflesh,’ Josh said.
‘Yes, well not ours,’ Clay told him and dismounted, handing him his reins. ‘Put them in the barn, Josh, then join me inside. Some hot food and a drink wouldn’t come amiss. I’ll see if Regan is here.’
Josh wheeled away and Clay went up the steps to the porch, opened the door and passed inside.
There was a log fire in a great stone fireplace, a bar with a slate top, bottles on the shelves behind. A young girl stood behind the bar, drying some glasses. She was no more than eighteen, her straggling hair tied up, and she wore an old gingham frock. Her face was swollen, as if she had been weeping.
Two men sat at a table by the window wolfing down stew from well-filled tin plates. They were both unshaven and wore shabby blue infantry uniforms. They stopped eating as Clay paused, and took in his grey uniform and Dragoon Colt in the black holster. He looked them over as if they weren’t there and walked to the bar, spurs clinking.
‘Mr Holt, the owner, is he around?’
‘Killed three days ago, sir, riding back from town. Someone shot him out of the saddle. I’m his niece, Sybil.’
‘Have you anyone to help?’
‘Two young black boys worked the stables, sir, but they’ve run away.’
One of the men at the table sniggered, the other laughed then said, ‘Hey, bitch, another bottle of whiskey here.’
Clay turned to face them. ‘I figure I’m first in line here. Show some manners.’
One of them, the one with a red kerchief round his neck, started to his feet, and Clay put a hand on the butt of the Dragoon. The man subsided, eyes wild.
Clay said to the girl, ‘I was looking for a friend, a Mr Regan?’
‘He has a room at the back, sir.’
‘Would you be kind enough to tell him Colonel Clay Fitzgerald is here?’
‘I’ll do that, sir.’
She went through to the back and Clay moved behind the bar, took down a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, as the door opened and Josh entered, water dripping from the brim of his hat.
‘Taken care of, Colonel, and I took pity on those two mounts outside, put ’em in the barn, too.’
The two men stopped eating and the one with the red kerchief at his neck said, ‘Niggers stand outside in the rain, that’s their proper place, and I don’t take kindly to you touching my horse, boy.’
Clay laid his Dragoon on the bar, and poured two glasses of whiskey. ‘Over here, Josh. A young lady’s gone for Regan. Somebody shot Holt.’
Josh produced the sawn-off from his left pocket and came forward. He took one of the glasses and savoured the whiskey.
‘Now I wonder who would have done a thing like that, Colonel.’
At that moment, young Sybil appeared, Regan behind her, a small, bearded man of middle years, wearing steel-rimmed glasses. He grasped Clay’s hand warmly.
‘Colonel, a pleasure to see you alive.’ He turned to Josh. ‘And you, Joshua.’
‘You’ve news for me, I believe,’ Clay said. ‘You left word at Fairoaks.’
‘That’s right. Let’s sit down.’
He drew Clay to the fire and sat opposite him. Josh leaned against the wall, watching the two men. Sybil stayed behind the bar, drying glasses.
‘I had business in the area, Clay, and hoped you’d be close to Lee, and I wanted to check out things at Fairoaks.’
‘It’s not good, I hear.’
‘Burned to the ground by Yankee cavalry. Nothing for you there, Clay.’
‘Never thought there would be.’
‘The thing is, I’ve got more bad news. Your uncle Sean died a month ago and left you no money, only two properties: Fairoaks, burned to the ground, and Claremont, the old family house in Ireland that he returned to when your grandfather died. In a manner of speaking, it’s suffered a similar fate. It’s half burned to the ground.’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘There’s trouble in Ireland these days, lots of trouble. Rebels who call themselves Fenians, who want to throw the English out.’
‘But my uncle was Irish American.’
‘Who owned a big house, a large estate. The aristocracy’s seen to be on the side of the establishment.’
‘Hell, at the end of it, what does it matter?’ Clay told him. ‘Two burned-out properties. I end up with nothing.’
‘Not really,’ Regan said. ‘I’ve got documents with me for you to sign, relating to your uncle’s estate. Then I need you in Savannah.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘To appear before Judge Archie Dean for your identity to be accepted by the court at the request of the Bank of England in London.’
There was a pause. ‘Why?’ Clay persisted.
‘Your father made a fortune blockade-running, Clay, but he was always foxy and he knew the South would lose. So, he deposited his funds in London and some in Paris.’
Clay said, ‘What are we talking about?’
‘Well, forget about American currency. Confederate money is a joke and the dollar is strained. If we stick with pounds sterling, I’d say there’s somewhere over a million.’ There was silence as Clay stared at him, and Regan said lamely, ‘Of course, I do have my fees.’
Clay looked up at Josh in astonishment, and behind them, the man in the red kerchief snarled at Sybil, ‘Hey, bitch, let’s have another bottle.’
She hesitated, then took one down from a shelf and came from behind the bar. As she reached the table, the other man grabbed her, pulled her on his knee and yanked up her skirt. She cried out.
Josh said, ‘God, how I hate that.’
Clay stood up, walked forward and produced the Dragoon. He rammed the muzzle into the forehead of the one fondling the girl. ‘Let her go now or I’ll blow your brains out.’
The man released his grip slowly, Sybil slipped away. Red Kerchief said, ‘No offence, Colonel.’
‘Oh, but you have offended me,’ Clay told him. ‘Take their pistols, Josh.’ Josh complied and Clay stood back. ‘Out we go, straight to the barn, and be sensible. Just ride away.’
They stood glaring at him, then turned and walked out through the door, Clay and Josh following them. Clay stayed on the porch and watched Josh take them to the barn, shotgun ready. They went inside. A few moments later, they emerged on horseback.
‘Damn you to hell, Colonel!’ Red Kerchief called, and they rode away.
Josh turned and moved back to the porch.
In the darkness beyond the fence, Red Kerchief turned and reached into his saddlebag, taking out a Colt. ‘You got your spare?’ he demanded.
‘I sure as hell do,’ his companion said.
‘Then let’s take them,’ and they turned and galloped back out of the darkness, already firing.
Josh turned, dropping to one knee, and gave Red Kerchief both barrels. Clay’s Dragoon came up in one smooth motion and he shot the other out of the saddle.
Sybil and Regan came out of the door behind and Clay said, ‘No problem, child, we’ll dispose of the bodies before we leave.’
Regan said, ‘You all right, Clay?’
‘Not really,’ Clay said. ‘I’ve been killing people for four years. Frankly, I could do with a change.’
Joshua walked back, reloading his shotgun. ‘What kind of a change, Colonel?’
Clay holstered his Dragoon, took a cheroot from his silver box and lit it. He blew out smoke. ‘Josh,’ he said, ‘how would you like to go to Ireland?’

IRELAND 1865 (#ulink_f3260211-9ed4-5512-a9a8-0407185e5e6c)

1 (#ulink_b2692f5b-dcc4-5456-b53f-4bbc8da2a33a)
The coach lurched violently to one side as a wheel dipped into a pothole and the luggage piled upon the opposite seat was thrown against the man sleeping in the far corner, hat tilted forward over his eyes.
Clay awakened as the vehicle came to a halt. They had been four hours on this apology for a road, and since leaving Galway conditions had got steadily worse.
He glanced out of the window at the rain soaking into the ground. The road ran through a narrow valley beside a small stream, with a scattering of trees on the far side shrouded in mist. He opened the door and stepped down into the mud.
Joshua said, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Colonel, but I always understood you to say that Europe was civilized.’
He wore a heavy greatcoat buttoned tightly to his chin and a horse blanket was draped across his knees. Rain dripped steadily from the brim of his felt hat as he sat with the reins of the coach in his hands.
Clay turned slowly and grinned. ‘This is Ireland,’ he said. ‘My father always told me God made things a little bit different here.’
Joshua wiped rain from his face with one sleeve. ‘I’d say the good Lord forgot about this place a long time ago, Colonel. I’m beginning to wonder what we’re doing here.’
‘So am I, Josh,’ Clay told him. ‘So am I.’ As the rain increased in force with a sudden rush, he continued, ‘You look like a drowned rat. Better let me take over for a while and you can ride inside.’
‘I’m so wet already, it doesn’t make any difference,’ Joshua said.
Clay shook his head. ‘No arguments. Come down and get inside. That’s an order.’
His tone brooked no denial and Joshua sighed, threw back the blanket and started to clamber down. At that moment, two horsemen moved out of the trees and splashed across the stream.
The leader reined in sharply so that his horse danced sideways on its hind legs, crowding Clay against the side of the coach and splashing him with mud. A shock of yellow hair showed beneath the brim of his battered hat, and the eyes above the red bandana which covered the lower half of his face were vivid blue. His rough coat was buttoned up to the neck and he held a shotgun crooked in his left arm.
Four years of being on the losing side in a particularly unpleasant war had taught Clay Fitzgerald to accept the vagaries of life as they came. He produced his purse and said calmly, ‘Presumably, this is what you want?’
Before the man could reply, his companion, who had reined in on the other side of the coach, moved round and said in an awed voice, ‘Would you look at this now, Dennis? A black man. Did you ever see the like?’
The man addressed as Dennis laughed. ‘Every time a Spanish boat puts in at Galway.’ He snatched the purse from Clay’s hand and hefted it. ‘Rather light for a fine gentleman like yourself.’
Clay shrugged. ‘Only a fool would carry more in times like these.’
The man slipped the purse into a pocket and leaned forward. ‘That’s a fine gold chain you’ve got there,’ he said, pointing to Clay’s waistcoat. ‘Would there be a watch to go with it?’
‘A family heirloom,’ Clay told him. ‘My father left it to me. You’d get little for it.’
The man reached down and grabbed for the chain, tearing it free with a ripping of cloth. He held it up and examined the watch. ‘A gold hunter, no less. I’ve wanted one all me life.’ He shook his head reprovingly. ‘You’ve not been honest with me, me bucko, and that makes me wonder what might be travelling with you in the coach.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Pull his baggage out into the road and go through it quickly.’
The boy dismounted, pushed Clay roughly out of the way and leaned inside the coach. After a moment, he turned, a black leather bag in one hand. ‘You’ll find nothing of value in there,’ Clay told him. ‘Only some surgical instruments and medical drugs.’
The boy opened the bag and examined the contents. ‘He’s telling the truth, Dennis,’ he said, holding it up so that his companion could have a look.
‘So you’re a doctor, are you?’ Dennis said.
Clay nodded. ‘Among other things.’
‘I’ve the greatest respect for the profession,’ Dennis told him. ‘On another occasion, I’d let ye pass, but these are hard times, and at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing your money is going to a good cause.’ He nodded to the boy. ‘See what else ye can find.’
Clay thought of the hundred gold sovereigns hidden inside his spare riding boots at the bottom of the leather travelling trunk and sighed. He slid one foot forward tentatively, ready to grab for the shotgun when the right opportunity presented itself.
At that moment, a cry sounded from somewhere nearby, that was immediately followed by the flat report of a rifle, muffled by the rain. The bullet dented the ground beside the coach. Dennis cursed, trying to control his frightened horse with one hand, as he turned and looked behind him.
Several riders were plunging down the hillside toward them, and Dennis turned and menaced Clay with the shotgun. ‘Up with you, Marteen,’ he said to his companion.
The boy swung a leg over the broad back of his mare and dug his heels into its sides. Without a word, Dennis followed him. They splashed across the stream and broke into a canter on the other side, disappearing like shadows into the mist.
Joshua scrambled down to the ground and leaned against the coach while he mopped his damp face with a handkerchief. ‘Colonel, what kind of a country is this?’
Clay shrugged. ‘Everything that lawyer told me in Galway must be true. I thought he was exaggerating.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t tell me an old campaigner like you was frightened?’
‘I stopped being frightened after Pittsburgh Landing, when we rode into that Yankee artillery regiment in the dark and you bluffed our way right out again,’ Joshua told him. ‘I was only worried in case you tried something silly.’
‘I must admit I was thinking about it,’ Clay said.
Joshua snorted. ‘Then that shot came just in time to save you from getting your fool head blown off.’
At that moment, the riders who had been making their way down the hillside reached the coach. Three of them galloped straight across the stream without stopping and disappeared into the mist on the other side. The fourth reined in his horse and dismounted.
He was in his early thirties, thick-set and muscular, in muddy jackboots and tweed riding coat, his mouth cruel in a pale face. Clay disliked him on sight.
The man glanced curiously at Joshua and touched the brim of his hat briefly with his riding crop. ‘Colonel Fitzgerald?’ Clay nodded and he went on, ‘It seems we arrived not a moment too soon. My name is Burke. I’m Sir George Hamilton’s agent. He heard you had arrived in Galway yesterday and sent me to meet you. Did you receive his letter safely?’
Clay nodded. ‘It was waiting for me when I visited my uncle’s lawyers yesterday.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘A pity you didn’t arrive five minutes sooner. I’d have been fifteen sovereigns and a gold watch the richer. Have you any idea who they were?’
Burke shrugged. ‘The country is swarming with such rogues. If we catch them, they’ll tell the judge they were true patriots collecting funds for the organization and damn the Queen’s eyes in the same breath.’
‘I see,’ said Clay. ‘Do these men belong to this Fenian Brotherhood I heard so much about in Galway?’
‘Fenians, Moonlighters, Ribbonmen.’ Burke shrugged. ‘There are several of these secret societies, all hell-bent on setting Ireland free, as they call it.’ The rain continued its steady monotonous downpour and he went on briskly, ‘But this is no place for a conversation, Colonel. Sir George is hoping you’ll spend the night with him. If you’ll get back in to your coach, I’ll lead the way.’
Clay shook his head. ‘That’s very kind of him, but I prefer to go on to Claremont tonight. Is it far from here?’
‘Drumore is another four miles along the road,’ Burke told him. ‘Claremont is about a mile the other side of it.’ He seemed to hesitate, a slight frown on his face and then went on, ‘You’ll find cold comfort there tonight, Colonel, and that’s a fact. The house isn’t fit for man nor beast.’
‘But I understand my uncle was living in it until his death,’ Clay said. ‘Surely it can’t have deteriorated to such an extent?’
‘But you’re forgetting about the fire,’ Burke said.
Clay shook his head. ‘No, the lawyers gave me full details. I understand the damage was extensive.’
Burke nodded. ‘Most of the house went. Your uncle lived in the west wing for the last six months of his life. It was the only part left with a roof.’
Clay shrugged. ‘There have been many occasions during the past four years, Mr Burke, when I desired nothing more of life than a roof over my head – any kind of roof. If my uncle managed to continue living there, I’m sure I’ll survive.’
‘Suit yourself, Colonel.’ Burke swung into the saddle of his horse and gathered the reins in his left hand. ‘One thing more,’ he said. ‘Mind how you go when you reach Drumore. They don’t take kindly to strangers.’
‘Not even to one called Fitzgerald?’ Clay asked, with a smile.
Burke’s face was grim. ‘These are hard times, Colonel, as I think you’ll be finding out for yourself before very long.’ He spurred his horse forward and disappeared around a bend in the road.
Clay stood gazing after him, a frown on his face. He turned and said to Joshua, ‘What do you think?’
Joshua shrugged. ‘It can’t be any worse than some of the places we slept in during the war, Colonel. One thing’s for sure, I don’t like that man.’
Clay grinned. ‘As usual, we’re in complete agreement. There’s something unpleasant about him, something I can’t quite put a finger on, but it’s there.’
Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance and he reached into the coach and, taking out a heavy overcoat, pulled it on. ‘It looks as if the weather intends to get worse before it gets better, and I’m beginning to get bored with this particular view of the countryside. If you’ll get in, we’ll move on.’
For a moment, Joshua hesitated, as if he intended to argue the point, and then he sighed heavily and climbed inside. Clay slammed the door behind him and then pulled himself up into the driver’s seat and reached for the reins. A moment later, they were moving along the muddy road.
Rain dripped from the edge of his hat, but he ignored it, his hands steady on the reins. He considered his conversation with Burke and asked himself again, and not for the first time, why he had come to Ireland.
Certainly there had been nothing to keep him in Georgia. Four years of war had left him with only one desire – peace. It was ironic that he should have come to Ireland of all places in search of it. If the stories he had been told in Galway were true, and the events of the past hour seemed to bear them out, he was stepping straight into the heart of an area racked by every conceivable kind of outrage and murder.
The elementary justice of Ireland’s claim to self-government was something he had learned at his father’s knee, together with harsh, bitter accounts of the treatment meted out to the unfortunate peasantry by English landlords. Later, his years as a medical student in London and Paris, and then the war, had all conspired to push the matter into a back corner of his mind as something relatively unimportant, in that it did not affect him personally.
However much the native Irish had right on their side, highway robbery was no way in which to attract sympathizers, he reflected, thinking of the two thieves. It occurred to him for the first time that although their clothing had been rough, their horses had been superb animals and he frowned, wondering who they were and what had driven them to such a deed.
Perhaps they were members of this Fenian Brotherhood he had heard so much about? He brushed rain from his face and dismissed the thought from his mind. Whatever happened, he intended to keep strictly neutral. At most, he would stay at Claremont a month or two. After that, Sir George Hamilton could have his way and buy the place at the price suggested in the letter Clay had found waiting for him in Galway on the previous day.
It was dusk as they came into Drumore and rain was still falling steadily. The cottages were small and mean, with roofs of turf and thatch, and the blue smoke from their fires hung heavily in the rain. There were perhaps twenty or thirty of these dwellings scattered on either side of the narrow, unpaved street for a distance of some hundred yards.
About halfway along the street, they came to a public house, and as Clay heard the sounds of laughter from inside, he reined in the horse and jumped to the ground.
The building was rather more substantial than the others, with a yard to one side and stables in which several horses were standing, their flanks steaming in the damp air. The board nailed to the wall above the door carried the legend cohan’s bar in faded lettering.
Joshua leaned out of the window. ‘What have we stopped for, Colonel?’
Clay shook rain from his hat and replaced it on his head. ‘Remembering Burke’s account of the state of things at Claremont, a bottle of brandy might come in very useful before the night is out. Have you any money handy?’
Joshua fumbled inside his left sleeve and finally extracted a leather purse, which he passed across. Clay opened it and took out a sovereign. ‘This should be enough to buy the place up, from the looks of it,’ he said, giving Joshua his purse back. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’
The door opened easily at his touch and he stepped inside, closing it behind him. The place was thick with smoke and illuminated by two oil lamps which swung from one of the blackened beams supporting the ceiling. A turf fire smouldered across the room and eight or nine men crowded round the bar, listening attentively to a tall youth of twenty or so, whose handsome and rather effeminate face was topped by a shock of yellow hair.
For the moment, Clay remained unnoticed and he stayed with his back to the door and listened.
‘And what happened then, Dennis?’ a voice demanded.
Dennis leaned against the bar, face flushed, a glass of whiskey in one hand. ‘It’s for a good cause, me fine gentleman, says I, and if you’re honest with me, you’ll come to no harm. His face was the colour of whey and his hand was shaking that much, he dropped his purse in the mud.’
A young boy of fifteen or sixteen was standing beside him and he said excitedly, ‘Show them the watch, Dennis. Show them the watch.’
‘In good time, Marteen,’ Dennis said. He emptied his glass and placed it ostentatiously down on the bar. Someone immediately filled it and Dennis slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out Clay’s hunter.
He held it up by the chain so that it sparkled in the lamplight, and an excited murmur went up from his audience. ‘Would you look at the elegance of it,’ someone said.
Clay moved forward slowly and stood at the edge of the group. The first person to see him was Marteen and his blue eyes widened in astonishment. Men started to turn and Clay pushed his way through them until he faced Dennis. ‘My watch, I think,’ he said calmly.
There was a sudden silence. For several moments, Dennis stared stupidly at Clay, and then he seemed to recover his poise. ‘And what the hell would ye be meaning by that?’
Clay gazed slowly around the room. The faces were hard and unfriendly; some stupid, others with a glimmering of intelligence. Then he noticed the man who leaned negligently against the wall at the far end of the bar. He was tall and powerful, great shoulders swelling beneath his frieze coat.
His hair was the same colour as Dennis’s, but there the resemblance ended. There was nothing weak in this man’s face, only strength and intelligence. He picked up his glass and sipped a little whiskey and there was a smile on his lips. He gazed into Clay’s eyes and it was as if they knew each other.
Clay turned back to Dennis and said patiently, ‘The money isn’t important, but the watch was my father’s.’
No one moved. Dennis scowled suddenly, as if realizing his reputation was at stake, and thrust the watch back into his pocket. He picked up his shotgun, which was leaning against the bar, and rammed the barrel into Clay’s chest. ‘I’ll give ye five seconds to get out, me bucko,’ he said. ‘Five seconds and no more.’
Clay gazed steadily into that weak, reckless face, then turned abruptly and walked to the door. As he reached it, Dennis said, ‘Would ye look now? He’s messed his breeches for the second time this day.’ For a moment Clay hesitated, and then as laughter swelled behind him, he opened the door and passed outside.
He pushed Joshua roughly out of the way and dragged a carpet bag out onto the coach step and opened it. He was not angry and yet his hands shook slightly and there was a familiar, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach.
‘What is it, Colonel?’ Joshua demanded in alarm.
Clay ignored him. He found what he wanted at the bottom of the bag, his Dragoon Colt, the gun which had been his sidearm ever since his escape from the Illinois State Penitentiary with General Morgan in ’63.
He hefted the weapon expertly in his right hand and then walked quickly to the pub door and opened it again. Laughter swelled to the ceiling as Dennis further embellished his story, and for the moment, Clay was again unobserved.
A stone whiskey bottle stood on the bar near Dennis’s elbow some twelve feet away. It was not a difficult shot. Clay levelled his weapon and pulled the trigger. The bottle exploded into pieces like a bomb, showering the men with whiskey and scattering them across the room.
Dennis’s face had turned sickly-yellow in the lamplight and his eyes were round and staring. His tongue flickered across dry lips as he frantically looked for assistance. No one moved and there was fear on every face, except for the tall man who still leaned against the wall at the end of the bar, but now his smile had gone and he held his right hand inside his coat.
Clay’s face was a smooth mask, inscrutable and yet in some way terrible. He moved forward and touched Dennis gently under the chin with the cold barrel of the Colt. ‘My watch!’ he said tonelessly.
The youth’s face seemed to crumple into pieces and he produced the watch and purse and placed them on the bar top with shaking hands. ‘God save us, sir, but it was only a joke,’ he said. ‘No harm was intended. No harm at all.’
For a moment longer, Clay gazed fixedly at him, and somewhere a voice said in a half-whisper, ‘Would ye look at the Devil’s face on him.’
Sweat stood on Dennis’s brow in great drops and there was utter fear in his eyes. Then Clay turned away, slipping the Colt into his pocket. The youth lurched to a nearby chair and collapsed into it, covering his face with his hands.
The publican, a large red-faced man, faced Clay across the bar and wiped his hands nervously on his soiled apron. ‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ he asked.
‘Presumably you deliver liquor to local residents?’ Clay said.
‘I do indeed, sir,’ the publican assured him. ‘I supply Sir George Hamilton himself.’ He produced a dirty piece of paper and moistened a stub of pencil with his tongue. ‘What would ye like, sir?’
Clay pocketed his watch and purse and gave his order in a calm, flat voice, as if nothing had happened. ‘And I’ll take a bottle of brandy with me,’ he added.
The publican pushed the bottle across and Clay picked it up and started to move away. ‘By what name, sir, and where shall I deliver it?’ the publican demanded.
For the first time, a smile appeared on Clay’s face. ‘I was forgetting. Claremont House – Colonel Clay Fitzgerald.’
He turned away as an excited buzz of conversation broke out and, opening the door, went outside.
Joshua was standing by the open door of the coach and an expression of relief appeared on his face. ‘I was watching through the window, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Next to your father, you’re the most cold-blooded man I ever did meet.’
Clay handed him the brandy and pushed him back into the coach. ‘I’ve got my watch back, which is more than I anticipated. All I want now is a meal and a fire. Whatever else we find at Claremont House, I hope we’ll be able to supply those things between us.’
As he moved to step up to the driver’s seat, the door opened behind him and closed again. Clay turned slowly, his hand sliding into his pocket. The tall man was facing him and he held up a hand and smiled. ‘No trouble, Colonel. I only came to thank you for not killing my brother.’
Clay took a quick step forward and brushed back the man’s unbuttoned coat, revealing the butt of a pistol sticking out of his waistband. ‘I noticed where you had your hand,’ he said wryly.
The other nodded. ‘Sure, and I saw that you’d noticed.’
Clay shrugged. ‘He was in no danger. I’m not in the habit of killing boys. A whipping would be more in his line.’
‘When his father hears of this day’s work, he’ll get that and perhaps more,’ the big man said. He held out his hand and Clay took it. ‘Kevin Rogan, Colonel. I knew your uncle well.’
Clay’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Would you be kin to Shaun Rogan – Big Shaun, as I believe they call him?’
Kevin Rogan smiled. ‘My father – why do you ask?’
‘I met a friend of his in New York,’ Clay told him. ‘A man called O’Hara – James O’Hara. He gave me a package for him. If Dennis had stolen it, I wonder what your father would have said to that.’
A strange smile appeared on Rogan’s face. ‘You’ll be doubly welcome if you visit us with news of James O’Hara, Colonel. There’s a track starts at the back of Claremont House. Follow it three miles over the moor and you’ll come to Hidden Valley. Rogan soil, every foot of it bought and paid for.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ Clay said. ‘Tell your father to look for me.’
He pulled himself up into the driver’s seat and slapped the weary horse lightly with the reins. It started to move forward into the gathering dusk. As they turned past the tiny church at the end of the street, he glanced over his shoulder. Kevin Rogan waved at him and then opened the door and went back inside.

2 (#ulink_e8fed7cb-8015-5448-ab7b-a31367128c4d)
The house loomed unexpectedly out of the night, a dark mass beyond a low wall, and Clay turned the coach in between stone pillars from which the iron gates had long since disappeared.
The drive circled the house and ended in a large, walled courtyard where Clay brought the coach to a halt. It was then that he received his first surprise. Light showed through the mullioned windows, reaching out into the rain and shining upon the wet flagstones.
He jumped down to the ground and Joshua climbed out of the coach and joined him. ‘What do you make of it, Colonel?’
Clay shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say, but we can soon find out.’
The door opened to his touch and he entered into what was obviously the kitchen. Beams supported the low ceiling and logs blazed in the great stone fireplace, casting shadows across the room. Clay went and warmed his hands, a slight frown on his face.
Joshua busied himself with lighting an oil lamp, one of two which stood upon the table. As it filled the room with soft light, he gave a sudden exclamation. ‘Look at this, Colonel.’
Clay moved across to the table, as Joshua removed a white linen cloth revealing a loaf of bread, eggs, a side of ham and a pitcher of milk. A small sheet of blue notepaper carried the words welcome to claremont in neat, angular handwriting.
Clay studied the message for a moment. ‘No name,’ Joshua said, stating the obvious. ‘Now wouldn’t you call that a strange thing?’
Clay raised the sheet of notepaper to his nostrils and inhaled the fragrance of lavender. His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I thought it looked like a woman’s writing.’
‘But who is she?’ Joshua demanded.
Clay shrugged. ‘A Good Samaritan. She’ll declare herself in her own good time.’
Joshua lit the other lamp and illuminated the entire room. There were pictures on the wall, a carpet before the fireplace and comfortable chairs. There was an atmosphere of peace over everything, as if the man who lived here had been happy.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Joshua said. ‘That man Burke didn’t know what he was talking about.’
Clay nodded. ‘I don’t think my uncle’s last days can have been too unpleasant.’
He took one of the lamps and crossed to a door in the far corner. It opened directly onto a flight of wooden stairs and he went up them quickly, Joshua at his heels carrying the other lamp. He opened the first door he came to and went in.
The room was small, but comfortably furnished as a bedroom, with a carpet on the floor. The mahogany wardrobe was empty and so were the drawers in the tallboy, but the blankets on the bed had recently been aired and the sheets and pillows were clean and white.
For no reason that he could put his finger on, he knew that this had been his uncle’s room, and for a moment he stood in silence by the window, staring out into the night, trying to form in his mind a picture of the man he had never seen.
There was a slight cough, and he turned to find Joshua standing in the doorway. ‘I’ve checked the other rooms, Colonel. There are five, all told. The room next door is furnished with a bed made up and ready for use. The others are empty.’
‘Then that takes care of both of us,’ Clay said. ‘Anything else along the corridor?’
Joshua shook his head. ‘Just a blank wall at the end.’
Clay led the way back downstairs. ‘I should say these were once the servants’ quarters. Presumably they were the only rooms fit for use after the fire.’
He crossed the kitchen to a door on the other side and tried to open it. It refused to budge and then he noticed the large key in the lock. He turned it quickly and the door opened without any further trouble. He was standing in a stone-flagged corridor that smelt cold and damp. Somewhere he could hear rain falling and he moved along the corridor, the lamp held out in front of him.
He mounted a short flight of stone steps and opened the door at the head of them. Immediately, he felt rain on his face and hastily placed one hand protectively over the open end of the lamp.
He was standing in what had obviously been the entrance hall of the house. A great stairway lifted into the darkness on his right and before him lay the scattered, dangerous mass of debris that had once been the roof and upper storey.
For a moment, the irony of the situation struck him. That seven hundred years of his family’s turbulent history should come to this and that he, the last of his name and born in an alien land, should stand among the ruins of a great house. A sudden gust of wind caused his lamp to flicker wildly and he turned back down the steps, closing the door behind him.
As he went back into the kitchen, Joshua came in from the courtyard, a bag in each hand. He placed them carefully on the floor and straightened. ‘I think you ought to have a look in the stables, Colonel,’ he said. ‘You’ll find something mighty interesting there.’
Clay followed him out into the courtyard. The stables lay on the other side, their great doors standing open to the night, and he saw that Joshua had taken the coach and horse into shelter. A lantern hung from a nail and Joshua lifted it down. ‘Over here, Colonel.’
There was a soft whinny from the darkness, and when Joshua raised the lantern, Clay saw a horse standing in one of the stalls. It was a beautiful animal, a black mare with a coat like satin. A thrill of conscious pleasure went through him as he gently ran his hand across its hindquarters.
‘Another gift from our Good Samaritan?’ Joshua said.
Clay smiled. ‘She can make this kind of gift any time she wants. That’s one of the finest bits of horseflesh I’ve ever seen.’
‘Things get more surprising round here minute by minute,’ Joshua said.
He replaced the lantern on its nail and started to unhitch the coach horse. Clay moved forward quickly. ‘I’ll see to that,’ he said. ‘You get a meal started.’
‘As you say, Colonel.’ Joshua pulled two more pieces of baggage out of the coach and walked across the courtyard to the house.
Clay took off his coat and unhitched the coach horse. He found an old blanket and gave the weary animal a rubdown. Afterwards, he led it into one of the stalls and gave it some of the oats and hay with which the black mare had been plentifully supplied.
The rain seemed to be slackening a little and he stood in the entrance and gazed out into the courtyard, breathing deeply, savouring the freshness. He was tired and his stomach craved food, but there was still something to be done. He pulled the leather travelling trunk out of the coach, hoisted it onto his broad shoulders and trudged across the courtyard through the rain.
He took the trunk straight up to his room. When he went downstairs again, a smell of cooking filled his nostrils. Joshua was bending over the fire, an iron frying pan in one hand.
‘Smells good, whatever it is,’ Clay said.
The man smiled cheerfully. ‘Ham and eggs and fried bread, Colonel. I’ll see what I can rustle up tomorrow when I’ve got the hang of the stove.’
‘We’ve dined on worse, and often,’ Clay said.
The bottle of brandy he had got at Cohan’s was standing on the table, which Joshua had made ready for the meal. Clay poured a generous measure into one of the cups and carried it to the fire.
He subsided into a chair with a groan of pleasure, booted legs outstretched. ‘Best part of the day, Colonel.’ Joshua grinned. ‘That’s what you always used to say on campaign.’
Clay swallowed some of the brandy. An expression of astonishment appeared on his face and he laughed and drank some more. ‘Something wrong, Colonel?’ Joshua asked.
Clay shook his head. ‘Things grow even more mysterious, that’s all. This is some of the finest French brandy I’ve ever tasted. Now where would a broken-down little country publican like Cohan get such stuff?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Colonel,’ Joshua said, as he ladled hot food onto two plates. ‘But one thing’s for sure. Ireland is no fit place for a gentleman.’
‘And Georgia is, I suppose?’ Clay grinned as he took his place at the table. ‘I don’t think the Irish would appreciate your sentiments. In fact if the crowd in that pub was a fair sample of the locals, I’d keep your observations to yourself if I were you. They reminded me strongly of Hood’s Texans.’
Joshua shuddered and sat down in the opposite chair. ‘Nobody on earth could resemble Hood’s Texans, Colonel, unless the Devil went to work in two places at the same time.’
They ate in silence, each concentrating on the heaped plate in front of him. After a while, Clay sat back with a sigh and reached for the brandy bottle. ‘Joshua, I always did say that where food is concerned, you’re a miracle worker.’
Joshua took the praise as his just reward. ‘True, Colonel, only it was your father who said it first. That’s why he hung on to me when everything else had to go in those bad years before the war, after your mother died. He always said he’d have been lost without me.’
‘And so would I,’ Clay assured him.
Joshua didn’t appear to consider the statement needed any contradiction, and busied himself with clearing the table as Clay went back to his seat by the fire and relaxed.
He sipped his brandy and stared into the flames, more tired than he had been in a long time. Gradually, his eyes closed and his head nodded forward. He took a deep breath, forced himself to his feet and yawned. ‘It’s been a long day. I think I’ll have an early night. There’ll be a lot to do tomorrow.’
‘I’ll bring your coffee at seven,’ Joshua told him, and Clay nodded, picked up one of the lamps and opened the door to the staircase.
It was cold in the bedroom. He placed the lamp on the small table beside the bed and opened the window. The rain had stopped and the darkness was perfumed, as a small wind lifted from the trees beyond the courtyard. He breathed deeply, inhaling the fragrance of the wet earth. Then the tiredness hit him again and he had barely sufficient strength to strip the clothes from his body and climb into bed. He blew out the lamp and the darkness moved in at once to welcome him.
Clay was not aware of coming awake, only of the fact that he was lying there and that moonlight drifted in through the window with opaque, white fingers.
For a little while he lay staring up at the ceiling, wondering what had caused him to awaken, and surprised to find that he no longer felt tired. He reached to the small table beside his bed and picked up the gold hunter. It was almost two o’clock, which meant that he had slept for no more than five hours. As he watched, the moonlight faded. He threw back the bedclothes and padded across the floor to the window.
It was a night to thank God for, the whole earth fresh after the rain. He stood there, his skin crawling with excitement, a small, restless wind touching his naked flesh. It was a quiet night, the only sound a dog barking several fields away. Then the bank of cloud rolled away from the moon and the countryside was bathed in a hard, white light. The sky was incredibly beautiful, with stars strung away to the horizon where the hills lifted uneasily to meet them.
At that moment, he became aware of another sound, a hollow drumming that was somehow familiar. As he leaned out of the window, a rider, etched against the sky, appeared from the trees beyond the courtyard and galloped along the rim of the valley where the moors began.
As he watched, the rider reined in his mount sharply so that it reared up on its hind legs. For a brief moment, the horse and rider were like a statue, completely immobile. Clay stared up toward them and suddenly, for no reason he could analyse, knew he was being watched. As he drew back quickly, a gay mocking laugh drifted down toward him and the horse snorted and leapt forward, as if the spurs had been applied, and disappeared over the rim of the valley.
Clay dressed hurriedly, his brain clear and cool. There had been too many mysteries already at Claremont; this was one he intended to solve. He went downstairs silently, boots in one hand, and paused in the kitchen to put them on. A moment later, he was crossing the courtyard to the stables.
He opened the door, allowing the moonlight to stream inside, and as he moved toward the black mare through the darkness, she whinnied softly as if she had been expecting him. He found a saddle and bridle hanging by the stall. They were of English make and lighter than he was used to, but he quickly led the animal out of her stall and saddled her.
As he tightened the girth, there was the scrape of a shoe behind him and he turned quickly. Joshua was standing there, reproach large upon his face. ‘Damn your eyes for an old night-owl,’ Clay told him.
Joshua sighed. ‘What you do nights is your own affair, Colonel, but going by what’s happened already, you’d be doing me a favour if you took this.’ He held out a belt from which was suspended the Dragoon Colt in its black leather holster.
Clay took it from him and buckled it about his waist. ‘Anything for peace. I swear you’re more fussy than an old woman.’ He swung up into the saddle. ‘Now go back to bed – that’s an order.’ He clicked his tongue and the mare moved out of the stable door and across the courtyard before Joshua could reply.
When he reached the rim of the valley, he paused and looked about him. The dog still barked hollowly in the distance, the sound somehow bringing back to him so many hot summer nights in Georgia, when, as a boy, he was unable to sleep and had longed to do just this.
He urged the mare into a canter, and as they came out onto a stretch of springy turf, broke into a gallop. It was an exhilarating experience as he crouched low over her neck, the wind cold on his face. They must have covered a good mile when he started to rein in and halted beside a clump of trees.
He leaned down and gently rubbed the mare’s ears. ‘You beauty!’ he said softly. ‘You little beauty!’ And the mare tossed her head and rolled her eyes as if understanding what he said and liking it.
A horse whinnied from somewhere nearby, and as the mare replied, he hastily turned into the trees and dismounted. Several horsemen appeared over a small rise no more than twenty or thirty yards away. They paused and he heard one of them say quite clearly, ‘It was a horse, I tell you, and not far from here.’
Clay placed a hand over the mare’s muzzle and waited. One of the men laughed. ‘You’re jumpy tonight, Patrick, and that’s the truth of it. What’s there to be worrying about, with Burke and his men waiting at the north end of the estate for poachers who’ll never turn up?’
They moved forward and a string of pack animals followed them from behind the rise. Clay waited until they had disappeared over the skyline a quarter of a mile away before following them.
As he topped the rise, a strong wind started to blow in his face and he ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the salt and knowing that he must be very near to the sea. The string of horses had disappeared and he paused and examined the landscape.
The moor itself was clearly exposed in the bright moonlight, but a narrow valley cut through it, dark with shadow, and he realized that this was the route they had taken. He started to move forward again and reined in sharply as a stone rattled somewhere behind him. He turned in the saddle, but there was no one there.
He waited for a little while, but nothing moved and he shrugged and took the mare down the slope, her hoofbeats silent on the turf, and entered the valley.
A well-defined path lay clearly before him and he urged his mount into a canter, eyes probing the darkness ahead. Ten minutes later, the track started to drop steeply and he stopped. Somewhere below, the sea surged against rocks and he heard voices.
He took the mare straight up the sloping side of the little valley and emerged onto a flat spread of turf that ran gently down to the cliff edge a short distance away. He dismounted and walked forward cautiously.
The bay was crescent-shaped and beautiful in the moonlight. A schooner lay a hundred yards offshore, sails furled, the tracery of her rigging like black lace against the night. He flung himself down on his face and peered over the edge of the cliff. It dropped cleanly to the beach below, the valley path appearing to be the only route down.
The horses were standing at the water’s edge and several men were unloading a longboat with a skill which argued a long experience at the task. They appeared to be enjoying themselves, and there was some horseplay as two of them waded through the surf to the boat. A laugh drifted up, clear in the night air.
‘At least we now know where Cohan obtains his excellent brandy,’ Clay mused softly, and at that moment, the cliff edge started to crumble beneath his weight.
A shower of stones and earth rattled down the face of the cliff to the beach below and the men grouped round the boat turned in the same second and looked up toward him. A piercing whistle cut through the night, and as he scrambled to his feet and turned to run, someone fired a shot, the bullet droning into the night.
Obviously the operation was not being as carelessly conducted as he had imagined, for, as he swung a leg over the mare’s back, three horsemen appeared over the rim of the valley and galloped toward him.
He gave the mare her head and she responded well. As they reached the first swell of the moors, he leaned low over her neck, urging her on with coaxing words. He could hear the cries of his pursuers behind him, and the mare hardly faltered as she scrambled up and over the rise.
He was now passing over unfamiliar ground, and as the moors started to lift on either hand, he realized that he had entered a narrow valley. He glanced back over his shoulder. The first horseman was no more than fifty yards behind him and he urged the mare forward, allowing her to pick her own way over the boulder-strewn ground.
A moment later, he cursed and reined in sharply. He had reached a dead end, a blank wall of stone that lifted forty or fifty feet into the night, with a stunted thorn tree growing at the top if it. On either side, the valley slope was as steep as a house roof.
He was not afraid as he heard the first of his pursuers enter the valley, simply annoyed that violence should be forced upon him. He drew the Dragoon Colt, moonlight glinting on its brass frame, and waited as he had waited so many times in the past, with no fear in him now that the moment was at hand.
A gay mocking laugh that was somehow familiar floated down from the clifftop, and he turned in the saddle, arm extended to fire. The rider he had first seen from his bedroom window no more than an hour earlier, had appeared beside the thorn tree.
‘Let the mare try the slope if you want to save your skin, Colonel,’ a clear voice called. ‘She can do it, I promise you.’
Clay didn’t hesitate. His pursuers were almost upon him. He fired once into the air to hold them and urged the mare toward the steep side of the valley.
She responded magnificently. He leaned low over her neck, placing his weight forward. A few feet from the rim of the valley, she started to slip on the wet turf. He jumped from her back, grabbed the bridle in one hand and scrambled up, pulling her after him. A moment later, they were over the top.
‘This way, Colonel,’ the rider called, turning away, and Clay swung into the saddle and galloped after, ignoring the cries of rage which came from below as his pursuers realized that he had eluded them.
The moor stretched before them in the moonlight, sloping gently up toward the hills, and the mare crossed it at a dead run. Clay looked back over his shoulder and saw the three riders appear over a rise several hundred yards in the rear. There was a familiar hollow feeling of excitement in his stomach and he concentrated on overhauling his companion.
The mare covered the ground effortlessly, and slowly the gap narrowed until the two horses were almost abreast. The unknown ally wore an old tweed jacket and broad-brimmed hat pulled low over the eyes. Clay caught a sideways glance and heard a laugh and then they were plunging down into a wide, tree-filled valley following a sandy track.
The rider swerved into the trees and Clay followed, twisting and turning, receiving a thorough soaking as wet branches whipped against him. They emerged into a broad meadow, took a low fence together, landing in a spatter of mud on the other side, and reined in before a ruined stone hunting lodge.
Clay slid to the ground and stood beside the mare, running a hand gently over her heaving side. ‘I’m obliged to you, sir,’ he said.
The other held up a hand in warning and motioned him to silence. They could hear hoofbeats approaching rapidly as their pursuers followed the track. Within a few moments they passed, and after a while there was silence.
The rider still sat motionless, head forward, listening to the hoofbeats die away into the night, then turned to Clay with a gay laugh. ‘The poor fools will run for a mile before it occurs to them that we might not be out in front after all.’
The voice was clear and sweet like a ship’s bell across water. Clay frowned and took a step forward. As he did so, his unknown rescuer turned towards him, uncovering with a flourish and allowing a long switch of dark hair tied with ribbon near the crown of the head, to fall freely to shoulder level and beyond.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Clay said softly.
The face that smiled impishly at him in the moonlight was that of a young girl of no more than eighteen years. She was small and slightly built, the man’s riding coat too big for her. The eyes were unusually large and set too far apart for conventional beauty, the nose tilted above a wide, generous mouth. There was about her an irresistible appeal, an attraction that was as immediate as it was compelling.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded. ‘Diana the Huntress or the Goddess of the Night?’
She tilted back her head and laughed, the moonlight full upon her young face. ‘I had heard that Southern gentlemen were renowned for their chivalry, Colonel, but this exceeds all my expectations.’
Responding to her mood, he removed his hat and bowed gravely. ‘Colonel Clay Fitzgerald, at your service. You have the advantage of me, ma’am.’
‘Oh, no, Colonel,’ she said. ‘I much prefer to remain Diana the Huntress or even the Goddess of the Night for just a little while longer. Women are incurably romantic.’
He started to replace his hat, and as he did so, she touched her mount with the spurs so that it bounded forward across the meadow, cleared the fence with room to spare and plunged into the shadows of the trees. A silvery laugh floated back to him, and as he swung a leg over the mare’s back he knew that he was too late.
He reached the track in time to see the girl and her horse briefly silhouetted against the sky as they topped the rise at the head of the valley, and then they were gone.
When he reached the place himself, there was no sign of her. He took a cheroot from his case and lit it carefully, hands cupped against the slight breeze from the sea. He frowned, wondering who she could be, and then a slight smile came to his face. If her performance tonight was anything to go by, she would not leave him long in doubt.
He cantered back toward Claremont, enjoying his cheroot and the stillness of the night. When he reached the ridge above the house, he paused and gazed toward the distant mountains of Connemara. They made a spectacle to take the breath away, and the moonlight silvering the sea filled him with the beauty and wonder of it.
He had made the mistake of coming to Ireland in search of peace, but already he was glad he had come. The thought of tomorrow filled him with a vague, restless excitement, and as he took the mare down toward the house, there was a smile on his face.

3 (#ulink_1f45eaf5-980a-5169-bc00-d9ac7ee95356)
The morning was grey and a light rain was falling as Clay rode out of the courtyard and followed the track that led up through the trees over the top of the moor.
In one of his old military saddlebags he carried the package he had been asked to deliver to Shaun Rogan, and as he rode, head bowed against the rain, he wondered idly what it might contain.
Of the man who had given it to him, he knew little. He had met O’Hara casually at a party at someone’s house in New York, and during the conversation his intended trip to Galway had been mentioned. Later in the evening, the man had asked him to deliver the package and Clay had agreed, thinking he would probably hear no more about it. When he boarded the boat on the following day, it was waiting for him in his cabin, with a polite note thanking him in advance for the favour.
There was already a suspicion at the back of his mind that O’Hara had used him and that the package was something out of the ordinary. From what he had seen of the Rogan family already, there could be little doubt that the contents were of a dubious nature.
He dismissed the subject from his mind for the moment and gazed about him. The mountains were shrouded in mist and visibility was poor, but yet there was a freshness to everything that gladdened the heart, and the air was like new wine. He started to whistle softly between his teeth and urged his mount into a canter as the rain increased in force.
As Kevin Rogan had promised, the track ran for some three miles across the moor and then dipped unexpectedly into a wide valley. Below him in the midst of a clump of old beech trees an ancient, grey stone farmhouse was rooted into the ground.
The place seemed prosperous and in good repair, with neat, well-kept fences to the large paddock. As he cantered down toward it, a woman moved out of the porch, a pail in each hand. She paused and looked toward him, then she put down the pails and stood with one hand shading her eyes.
She was tall and gaunt, her face wrinkled by a lifetime’s care. The hair that showed from beneath the shawl which covered her head was iron grey. She gazed up at him, no expression in her faded blue eyes, and Clay touched the brim of his hat. ‘Mrs Rogan?’ She nodded and he went on, ‘My name’s Fitzgerald. Is your husband at home?’
She shook her head, and said in an unfriendly voice, ‘He’s away for the day.’
‘Might I ask when you’re expecting him?’ Clay said.
She picked up her pails. ‘He comes and goes. You’ll be wasting your time if you wait.’ Without another word, she turned away and walked across the courtyard to a cow byre.
Clay watched her until she had disappeared inside, a slight frown on his face. Then a voice said quietly from behind, ‘You mustn’t mind my mother. She doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’
The man who had spoken stood in the doorway of the stables and cleaned his hands on a rag, eyes calm in a lean, intelligent face topped by the familiar Rogan hair.
Clay walked the mare toward him, and smiled. ‘Dennis, Marteen, and Kevin I’ve met already in that order. Who might you be?’
The other smiled. ‘I’m Cathal, Colonel. The quiet one of the family. Kevin said you might drop by sometime today.’
‘Your father’s not at home, I take it?’
Cathal nodded. ‘Pressing business in Galway. He and the boys won’t be back until late tonight.’
Clay leaned forward and looked inside the stable door. There were at least thirty horses ranged on both sides in neat stalls, and he whistled softly. ‘You’ve got some good stuff there.’
‘We should have, Colonel. We breed them.’ Cathal ran a hand over the mare’s muzzle in a familiar manner and spoke softly to her. ‘But not one of them to match Pegeen, here.’
Clay raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You know the mare well, then?’
Cathal smiled. ‘The joy of your uncle’s old age. If there’s a better mount between here and Dublin, I’ve yet to see it. Miss Joanna’s taken good care of her.’
Clay resisted the temptation to ask the obvious question and there was a slight pause. Cathal Rogan made no attempt to continue the conversation, and after a while, Clay smiled. ‘Well, I’ll be moving on. Tell your father I’ll call again tomorrow.’
He wheeled Pegeen away from the stable entrance and Cathal said, ‘I understood Kevin to say you had a package for us, Colonel?’
‘For your father,’ Clay said over his shoulder. ‘And I prefer to deliver it personally.’ He cantered through the gate and followed the track back up toward the head of the valley.
When he reached the top, he paused and looked down toward the farm. Whatever else they might be, the Rogans were certainly an inhospitable clan and strangers were definitely not welcome – that much both Cathal Rogan and his mother had made plain.
As he started to turn away, there was a movement in the trees beyond the farm. He leaned forward and waited. A moment later, half a dozen horsemen galloped through the beech trees and entered the yard.
The woman came out of the cow byre, carrying her pails, and one of the men swung to the ground and approached her. They stood talking and Clay saw her shake her head vehemently and then the man pushed her so that she staggered back, dropped her pails and fell to the ground, milk spilling across the cobbles.
He wondered what had happened to Cathal Rogan, and in the same moment saw him run from the other side of the stables to the rear of the house. As the woman picked herself up from the ground, he appeared in the doorway, a shotgun in his hand. He raised it to his shoulder and one of the men rode his horse up the front steps, crowding him against the wall and kicked the gun from his grasp.
Clay didn’t hesitate. He took Pegeen down the steep grassy slope of the valley toward the farm, ignoring the track and leaning back in the saddle. They reached the bottom safely and Pegeen scrambled up out of the hollow onto the track and galloped past the paddock toward the yard.
One of the riders was still on his horse, but the others had dismounted. Cathal Rogan backed against the wall, as four of them moved in on him while the other started to turn the horses out of the stable. He fought desperately, but within seconds was sliding to the ground under a barrage of flailing fists.
One of the men lifted a heavy boot into his side and Mrs Rogan screamed and ran forward, clawing at his coat. He flung her to the ground with a curse and turned back to Cathal.
Clay arrived at that precise moment. He ran Pegeen in amongst them, scattering them to each side and lifted his boot into the man’s face. He screamed once and staggered back against the wall, sliding down to the ground without another cry.
Pegeen danced daintily on her hind legs, swirling to meet the man on horseback who moved toward them with an oath. Clay found himself facing Sir George Hamilton’s agent.
Burke’s face was dark with passion and his eyes sparked fire. ‘By God, Colonel, you go too far,’ he cried. ‘Stay out of that which doesn’t concern you. We’re here on Sir George Hamilton’s business.’

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