Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [69]
Kevin laughed harshly. “Is it women you think we are, Colonel?” He gestured toward the crowd. “Look about you. We’re well-armed. Twenty of the latest carbines direct from New York, besides fowling pieces and shotguns. This is no rabble of peasants armed with scythes and pitchforks. That lodge is only the beginning. We intend to hang George Hamilton to one of his own trees. If we can’t lay hands on him, he can roast inside the house.”
He turned away and gave crisp, incisive orders to one of his lieutenants to take thirty men round to the back. They moved away quickly, skirting the boundary wall, and Clay urged Pegeen toward Kevin and said desperately, “But Joanna is still in there. We must get her out before the shooting starts.”
Kevin shrugged and said in a voice of stone, “I’m sorry, but it’s too late to do anything for her now.”
“Not if I can help it!” Clay said harshly. He forced a way through the crowd, men scattering to avoid Pegeen’s trampling hooves, and then he was clear and galloping up the drive toward the house.
Someone started to fire from a window and he leaned low in the saddle and then the firing stopped. As he dismounted outside the front door, it opened and Burke emerged, the Dragoon Colt in one hand.
“So you’ve decided to come back to us, Colonel?” he said calmly.
Clay mounted the steps and faced him. “Dennis Rogan is dead and there’s a mob of over a hundred angry people down there who intend to burn you out. I’ve come for Miss Hamilton. The least you can do is to let her go free before any harm comes to her.”
A strange smile appeared on Burke’s face. “You constantly surprise me, Colonel Fitzgerald. Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder how you ever survived the war.” He cocked the Colt and raised it until it was pointing straight at Clay’s heart. “You’ll oblige me by stepping inside.”
The door had been barricaded with furniture, and as they moved in, one of the men closed it and two others pushed a heavy chest of drawers back into place against it.
“That won’t hold them for long,” Clay observed.
“It won’t need to,” Burke said. “We expect a little help to arrive soon. When it does, that mob will smile on the other side of its damned face.”
He gestured toward the stairs and Clay moved ahead of him. Burke followed and another guard brought up the rear. They mounted the servants’ stairs and halted outside the little room on the third floor in which Clay and Dennis Rogan had been imprisoned that morning. Burke unlocked the door and Clay passed inside.
Joanna was standing at the window and she turned to face them, dismay appearing in her eyes when she saw Clay. He smiled reassuringly and took her hands. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Colonel,” Burke said. “I haven’t the slightest intention of allowing Miss Hamilton to leave, nor do I intend to allow you to slip through my fingers again.” He nodded toward the window. “You should have an excellent view of the proceedings, but I wouldn’t hope for too much if I were you. I’m leaving a guard outside. Please don’t try anything foolish.” The door closed behind him.
Clay held Joanna close and frowned slightly. Not for one moment had he imagined that Burke would allow her to leave, but at least they were together again. The point at issue now, was how to get away?
They crossed to the window and stood together, looking out between the bars. The villagers flooded in through the main gate, half a dozen farm carts pushed before them as a shield. Kevin Rogan and several more mounted men rode behind, urging them on with cries.
Somehow it all seemed remote and unreal down there on the grass, like some child’s game of make-believe. Then the firing started from the house and the villagers replied. The peculiar acrid odor of burnt powder rose up on the wind and tingled in the nostrils, carrying with it for Clay a hundred memories of battles in the past.
A man screamed and fell forward onto his face, and then another. This was where it started, Clay reflected grimly. The harsh