Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [55]
As Clay peered out of the window into the darkening street, the priest said, “This is a bad business.”
Clay nodded. “I can see no answer to the situation except that Ireland be given her freedom. Violence begets violence, Father.”
“But does a sensible man need to have any part of it?” Father Costello asked mildly. “Surely there are other ways of spending one’s life?”
“It depends on your point of view,” Clay said. “Not so long ago, I met a man who contended that as life is action and passion, it is required of a man that he should share the passion and action of his times at peril of being judged not to have lived.”
Father Costello nodded. “An interesting observation. The trouble is that human beings hate each other so easily. How often, I wonder, has the rebel burned down a man’s house, not for political reason, but for private vengeance?”
“And there you’ve come to the kernel of the problem,” Clay said. To his horror, he realized he had spoken in his normal voice.
The priest did not seem to have noticed. “One thing, sir. I want you to give me your word you will do no killing here this night.”
Clay turned and his smile was hidden by the scarf. “I may have to crack a head or two, Father,” he said. “But no more than that.”
The publican came back into the room. “That’s all set then, Captain.”
“One more thing,” Clay said. “Have you a sharp knife handy? I fancy his hands will be bound.”
The publican produced one from beneath the bar and Clay said, “You stand there. When they come through the bar, I’ll push Rogan toward you. You can sever his bonds while I deal with the others.”
At that moment, there was the unmistakable sound of wheels coming along the village street and he turned to the window. The coach approached slowly through the mud, armed horsemen at front and rear.
Father Costello got to his feet and smiled gently. “It would seem that the time has come for my performance.” He paused with the door half-open and looked directly at Clay. “Remember your promise,” he said, and then the door closed behind him.
The cavalcade stopped as he held up his hand, and it was impossible to hear what was said. Father Costello went to the door of the coach and Sir George appeared, a frown on his face. After a while, he gave an order. Four of his men dismounted, the others rode off toward the bridge. The door opened and Father Costello moved back inside and walked across to the fire, hands outstretched to the blaze. Clay waited behind the door, and Kevin Rogan was pushed inside and Sir George followed him, a pistol in one hand.
Rogan’s hands were twisted behind him and bound securely with rope. Clay put a foot in his back, sending him hurtling across the bar, pushed Sir George sideways with one powerful swing and rammed the door in the face of the man who followed.
He shot the bolt and turned, as Sir George raised himself on one elbow and fired. The bullet hit Clay in the upper part of his left arm and the shock of it stopped him dead in his tracks. As pain flooded through him, he kicked the pistol from Sir George’s hand and ran for the door at the back of the bar.
Kevin was already into the kitchen, hands free, and Clay followed, pushing him across the yard and through the gap in the wall. It was almost dark and the horses whinnied a greeting from the gloom. Clay swung into the saddle and, a moment later, moved away through the woods, Kevin at his heels.
They splashed across the ford on the outskirts of the village and took the track which led up onto the moor. Behind them, faintly through the rain, they could hear an outcry from Kileen, and Clay grinned through the pain. In any event, Morgan’s maxim had proved true and a bullet was a small price to pay.
He reined in Pegeen and Kevin Rogan moved beside him. “Why are we stopping here?” he demanded from the darkness.
“Because this is where we part company,” Clay told him. “I’ve saved your life, Rogan. Now it’s your turn to do something for me. Your father holds Peter Burke hostage for your safe return. If you’re not home by midnight, Burke