Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [39]
There was a moment of complete stillness, and then Kevin roared with laughter. “It was you, was it? I might have known. But who was your companion?”
Clay smiled. “I’m not at liberty to say. Just a friend who enjoys a gallop by moonlight.”
“And it wouldn’t take much to guess who that might be,” Big Shaun added.
Clay pulled on his coat. “I’ll drop by again tomorrow to take a look at the wound. By the way, what happened to this fellow Varley? The one who stabbed you?”
Shaun Rogan smiled softly, eyes suddenly cold and hard. “He made a run for it, but there are other days.”
As Clay picked up his bag, Kevin Rogan said quietly, “Before you go, tell us one thing, Colonel. Are you with us or against us?”
Clay picked up one of the banknotes and stared at it reflectively. “Very artistic,” he said. “But unfortunately I’ve seen what an industrial nation can do in time of war to another which isn’t. You’ll never win. England has all the big guns.”
“Is it afraid ye are?” Marteen interrupted.
Kevin rounded on his brother fiercely. “The Colonel is no coward. You of all people have seen sufficient proof of that.” He turned back to Clay. “Where do you stand in this, Colonel? We’ve told you too much for comfort this night.”
“I’ll not betray you, my word on that,” Clay said. “I can’t pretend to any liking for Sir George Hamilton or Marley or the rest of the breed I met at Drumore House, but I won’t take sides. I’ve had enough trouble during the past four years to last any one man a lifetime.”
Shaun Rogan extended his right hand. “That’s good enough for me, Colonel.”
They shook hands and Clay nodded to the others and followed Kevin Rogan, who escorted him back outside. As he strapped his saddlebags into place and swung up into the saddle, Kevin said quietly, “Whatever my father may say, no man can stay neutral forever, Colonel. There’ll come a time when you have to choose sides, and if you don’t want to make that kind of decision, you’d be better a thousand miles from Drumore.” He went back into the house and closed the door before Clay could reply.
As he followed the path toward the head of the valley, many things passed through Clay’s mind. The filthy hovels owned by Sir George Hamilton in Drumore, the boy dying of consumption on his pallet against a wall streaming with water. And then there was Eithne Fallon. What would have been her fate if he hadn’t brought Captain Swing to life for a few hours?
He was beginning to feel tired and his eyes were sore from lack of sleep and too much straining into the gloom. He seemed to see in the darkness an immense five-dollar bill, and flames moved in from the edges devouring the words IRISH REPUBLIC and then they blossomed into great streamers that flickered toward the sky as Claremont burned.
Pegeen scrambled over the rim of the valley and Clay shook his head to bring himself back to his senses and waved a hand to Dennis Rogan, invisible in the trees. As he thundered along the track at full gallop, he knew, with a sinking heart, that already he was having to choose sides, despite himself.
7
The day was exhilarating and the blue sky dipped away to the horizon, but as Clay rode out of the courtyard and took the path which led up through the trees, his face was grave and somber.
Earlier that morning, he had gone down to the village to visit the boy with consumption and had arrived to find Father Costello administering the last rites. Despite everything Clay had done to make the child’s last moments on earth easier, he had hung on to life tenaciously for another hour and his ending had not been pleasant to see.
The moor was purple with heather and Clay reined in beside a black tarn where bog-lilies floated and the wind whispered through dry whins. A plover cried plaintively as it lifted across the lower slopes of the hill, and then there was silence, and a strange sadness fell upon him at the thought of the young life ended before it had really begun.
He touched spurs lightly to Pegeen, taking