Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [38]
“Those with a vote are coerced,” Shaun Rogan told him. “The whole vicious system ensures the predominance of the landlord class, and men like Hamilton and Marley can ride roughshod and terrorize the countryside with their hired bullies imported from Scotland and England.”
Out of the silence which followed, Kevin Rogan added bitterly, “You can see now why I found Hamilton’s remark about protection so ironic. England hangs on to us because she never likes to let go of anything. The system of land-ownership forced on us over the centuries keeps a whole nation in poverty and causes thousands to emigrate every year.”
Clay shook his head and said soberly, “In the face of such arguments, there’s little I can say.”
“Have another drink, Colonel.” Shaun Rogan filled Clay’s glass. “To the average Englishman, the Irishman is an uncivilized ruffian, an animal who lives on potatoes. This is as great a myth as the one which suggests that all Englishmen are gentlemen. What they don’t understand is that a hundred acres under potatoes will support four times as many people as a hundred acres under wheat.” He shrugged. “But if the spuds fail, we starve.”
Clay swallowed some of his whiskey and said slowly, “What about Sir George Hamilton? Why do you hate each other so much?”
“Because he treats us like animals—all of us. He’s some kind of God and we’re scum. He hates me particularly, because I own this valley and he can’t touch us here.” Shaun shook his head and added in a somber voice, “After raising the Devil, it becomes necessary to pay him his due, as George Hamilton will find out before much longer. His hour will come.”
“Aren’t you being hard on him?” Clay said. “I understand someone tried to murder him and shot his wife by mistake. At least his bitterness and hate are understandable.”
Shaun Rogan laughed harshly. “The best thing that ever happened to that poor woman was taking the bullet meant for him. He led her a dog’s life for years. Good God, Colonel, you’ve seen the state his tenants are living in. Do you need further proof of the kind of man he is?”
Clay sighed heavily. “It was foolish of me to think anything else, I suppose, but his version of his wife’s death was rather different. He also told me that he and my uncle were friends.”
There was general laughter from the boys who had been following the conversation with interest. “Friends, is it?” Kevin said. “Your uncle slashed him across the face with his whip in the middle of the village for the whole world to see. A family had been evicted and the woman died in childbirth on the road to Galway.”
Clay’s eyes narrowed, as a disturbing thought sprang into his mind. “The fire that gutted Claremont—how did it start?”
Shaun Rogan shrugged. “Each man has his own thoughts on that score. Your uncle lived alone with an old woman to keep house, him having fallen on hard times. There would have been nothing left at all if it hadn’t been for a sudden storm of rain.”
“And you’re suggesting Sir George had something to do with it?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Shaun Rogan said, “except that it was a powerful coincidence.”
Clay got to his feet and walked across to the fire. He stared down into the glowing heart of it, thinking about his uncle, old and sick and alone, desperately trying to save the home that meant everything to him as flames blossomed in the night.
He threw his cheroot into the fire and turned with a grim smile. “As you say, each man must have his own thoughts on the matter.” He moved back to the table. “Tell me something, does your objection to Sir George extend to his niece?”
“How she ever came to be related to him, I’ll never know,” Shaun said. “You’ll find no one in Drumore with anything but a good word for Miss Joanna.”
Clay picked up his glass to finish his whiskey and thought of something else. He smiled. “Where does Cohan obtain such excellent French brandy, by the way?”
“Now how would we be knowing a thing like that, Colonel?” Kevin said.
Clay shrugged. “Just a thought. I wondered if he had