Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [73]
“Don’t worry,” Clay said. “I won’t take any chances. I’ll see you in half an hour.” Father Costello slapped the pony with the reins and it trotted away down the drive and turned through the gates onto the main road.
The crowd fell silent as smoke rose high into the sky and orange flames blossomed from the windows. Now the excitement, now the emotion was passed, Clay saw doubt upon many faces and traces of unease, as if they were just beginning to realize the extent of their act and appreciate the consequences.
Here and there, people slipped away, some assisting a wounded friend. Clay mounted a farm cart and held up his hand. Faces turned toward him and a strange hush fell upon everyone.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and said in a quiet voice that reached each individual clearly, “For good or ill, the work here is finished. Sir George sent a messenger to Galway this morning asking for aid from the authorities. You’d best get to your homes before the military arrive.”
Almost at once, the crowd broke, as people turned and started to hurry away. Clay jumped down to the ground and picked up his smouldering jacket. He took out the Colt and checked it. There were still three unused bullets in the drum and he thrust it into his waistband and turned to examine some of the bodies which lay stretched on the grass before the house. As he did so, a troop of cavalry swept in through the main gates and halted.
They moved into line with skill and efficiency, red tunics standing out clearly against the grey stone boundary wall behind them. The mob came to a halt, and there was a silence, and then heavy drops of rain began to spot the ground.
An officer’s voice sounded clearly, sabres gleamed, as each man drew with a precision that would have done credit to the parade ground. There was a moment of dreadful stillness, as the whole world seemed to wait, and then a bugle sounded on the evening air and they advanced at the trot.
Most of the crowd scattered, some running back toward the house, others making desperately for the beech trees and the boundary wall, knowing their one chance of safety was to reach the woods.
Clay ran along the front of the house and followed the drive round to the stables. His luck still held. There was no Pegeen, but several saddled horses were tethered to a fence. Obviously, some of the men who had attacked the rear of the house had emptied the stables in case they burned with the rest of the building.
Clay unhitched a black stallion and swung into the saddle. Behind him, hooves thundered and an officer galloped round the corner of the house, sabre ready. He raised it to strike and then an expression of amazement appeared on his face and he lowered his weapon.
It was Vale, the young captain Clay had met at Sir George’s reception. Clay urged his mount forward and struck him across his sword arm with the barrel of the Colt. Vale cried out in pain and Clay wrenched the sabre from his grasp and said, “Sorry, Vale, can’t stop to explain now.”
He thrust the Colt back into his waistband and urged the stallion up through the orchard, swinging the sabre in his right hand. A man was running through the trees on his left, scrabbling with his fingers into the soil as he slipped on the wet grass. Behind him thundered a trooper, sabre poised to strike. Clay took the stallion into him sideways. He had one glimpse of the man’s startled face beneath the peak of the shako, before he smashed the hilt of his sabre into it, sending him toppling from the saddle.
The fugitive grabbed for the bridle of the riderless horse and Clay, having given him his chance, went on. As he breasted the final slope and moved out of the apple trees toward a gap in the wall, a young lieutenant galloped out of the trees on his left and thundered to meet him.
How many times have I done this, Clay thought? How many times through the long, bitter years, and he swung