Pay the Devil (v5) (16 page)

They were safe enough after that. Marteen led the way, twisting and weaving from one valley to another, splashing through marsh and bog, all the time working steadily higher into the hills. They rode for an hour in single file before emerging from a small valley onto a steep hillside.

Before them, no more than two miles away, lay the sea, and below, a small loch cut deep into the heart of the hills, black with depth near the center, purple and grey near the edges where basalt ledges lifted to the surface. Clay dismounted and stood in the desolate light of gloaming, looking north to where the peaks of the mountains were streaked with orange.

The beauty of it was too much for a man, and he breathed deeply on the sweetness of the heather, still wet after heavy rain, then followed Cathal and Marteen down the steep hillside, past a trickle of water that fell through drooping ferns. They reached a rough track, mounted again and rode along the side of a loch, following a running stream which gurgled through the quiet evening.

Behind them the hills lifted in a smooth swell into the dark arch of the sky, where already a single star shone, and as they turned a curve in the valley, he saw a small hunting bothy in a green loop of grass beside the river.

It was stoutly built of dressed stone and roofed with turf. As Marteen dismounted, he said, “We’ll be safe enough here, Colonel. It’s only half an hour to the cliffs. The tide will be out and we can follow the beach to the place where the Frenchman is landing.”

He and Cathal sprawled on a crude bench and talked of America in subdued tones. With the natural resilience of youth, the past was already becoming of less importance to them than the future. Clay walked away and sat on a boulder by the river.

His wounded arm nagged at him constantly and his mouth was dry as a bone. He leaned down and scooped water up in the palm of his hand, savoring the coldness of it with conscious pleasure.

He thought of Joanna and was filled with a feeling of savage loneliness and the heart seemed to dry and wither inside him. Whatever a man tried to do, Fate always dealt the last card—that was life. By accepting it, a man saved himself a great deal of pain.

For a moment, he was filled with that terrible knowledge of his own littleness that comes to a man from time to time. He had known it before, standing amidst the carnage of the battlefield, realizing that next time it could be him, accepting that whatever one did always led nowhere.

Above his head, a single cloud of red fire seemed to burn itself out as he watched, and then the light died on the bald faces of the hills, and night dropped its heavy cloak across the valley.

He sat there for a long time, gazing out toward the sea blindly. Finally, Cathal came and tapped him on the shoulder. They mounted and rode away from that place, their harness jingling softly in the night.

They went carefully, keeping to the shadows of the valley, dismounting when they reached the cliffs, to lead their horses down a treacherous, crumbling track, with boulders gleaming whitely in the moonlight below.

The sand stretched before them, wet and shining in the moonlight where the sea had receded. Cathal spurred his mount into a gallop and they thundered along at the water’s edge, occasionally riding belly-deep through the sea to round a spur of rock into another bay.

The ship lay half a mile offshore, her spars and rigging etched clearly against the night sky. Clay looked up at the moon with a slight feeling of panic, wishing for a cloud to dim its light until they were safely on board.

Marteen laughed excitedly and rode out into the breakers to round another point of rock. Cathal followed him and Clay brought up the rear. A wave sucked them out, and as the stallion began to swim, water slopped over Clay’s knees and the cold chill of it somehow brought him back to life, so that he laughed as excitedly as Marteen had done.

And then they were splashing on to the beach and the longboat waited a hundred yards away, floating in shallow water, four seamen at the oars while another stood knee-deep in the water.

“We’re in luck,” Cathal shouted over his shoulder. “No need for a lantern tonight.”

The boys dismounted quickly, and Marteen ran forward into the sea and clapped the seaman on the shoulder. “Three passengers, me bucko.”

The man said something unintelligible in reply, and as Clay approached, Marteen explained with a smile, “He only speaks French, Colonel.”

Clay turned to the seaman and said in perfect French, “We desire a quick passage out of here, my friend. I’m told you can arrange this?”

The sailor beamed. “Colonel Fitzgerald?” Clay nodded and the man continued. “We have been waiting for you. Please get into the boat as quickly as possible.”

“You were expecting us?” Clay said in astonishment as they clambered over the gunwale.

“But naturally, Monsieur,” the seaman replied, taking the helm.

Clay sat in the prow and looked back toward the beach as the oarsmen pulled strongly for the ship. The three horses stood at the water’s edge, looking rather forlorn, and he thought with a pang of Pegeen and wondered who her new owner would be. Then the stallion lifted his head and snorted and the horses turned and galloped away along the beach in the moonlight.

As the longboat approached the schooner, the anchor was already being raised and sails unfurled. Sharp commands in French drifted clearly across the water, and then they were bumping against the side.

Marteen and Cathal mounted the rope ladder first, Clay following. As he stepped over the rail, a tall, angular man in reefer jacket and salt-stained cap moved forward and held out his hand. “Colonel Fitzgerald?” he said in English. “I am Captain Jourdain. I hope we can make you comfortable until we reach Bordeaux. If you go below now, you will find someone waiting to show you to your cabin. For the moment, you must excuse me. I shall not feel happy until we are well away from here.”

He moved along the deck to the wheel, giving orders in a low voice, and Cathal scratched his head in puzzlement. “Now wouldn’t you say they were expecting us, Colonel?”

Clay nodded, frowning. “It certainly looks that way.” He shrugged. “Your father must have got word to them somehow.”

“What are you worrying your head about?” Marteen asked his brother. “Let’s go below and see what kind of a cabin they’ve given us. I’ve heard queer things about these French boats.”

They went down the companionway, talking excitedly together, and Clay walked toward the prow and stood, one hand on a shroud, and looked back toward Ireland.

“Are you sorry to be leaving?” a quiet voice said.

For a moment, he remained motionless, and then he turned slowly. She was standing by the mast, a dark cloak about her, and Joshua was at her shoulder. He smiled and turned away along the deck as Joanna moved closer.

Clay pulled her into his arms, kissing her, and then pushed her away and shook his head in bewilderment. “But how? I don’t understand.”

“Father Costello,” she said simply. “He knew about this boat, although he wasn’t supposed to. He knew it would be your only way out of the country.”

“But how did you get out of Drumore?”

She shrugged. “Father Costello is a very resourceful man. We lay in the bottom of the trap and he covered us with a rug. Captain Vale gave him a special pass to visit the bereaved at some of the outlying farms.”

“Did you see Vale yourself?”

She nodded. “Yes, he made it his business to find me straightaway.”

“Did he have anything to say about me?”

“Only that he didn’t understand you.”

Clay laughed lightly. “That’s hardly surprising. I don’t even understand myself.” He sighed and there was great bitterness on his face. “I wonder if it will ever change, if there is any hope for those people back there?”

“There is always hope,” she said firmly. “God lets no man suffer for too long.”

“Fate plays strange tricks at times,” he said. “I arrived in Ireland looking for peace and quiet. Instead I found a situation I couldn’t ignore. Now I’m leaving, a hunted fugitive, lucky to escape a hanging.”

“You consider your visit an entire misfortune, then?” she said, gazing up at him and the moonlight glinted amber and gold in her dark eyes.

He gazed back. “Not an entire misfortune,” he said. “No.”

He cupped her face in his hands and gently kissed her on the mouth. His arm slid around her waist and she leaned against him. He gave her no other answer, for it was not needed. Together, they looked their last on Ireland, as it merged into the dark horizon of night.