from his mind. Whatever happened, he intended to keep strictly neutral. At most, he would stay at Claremont a month or two. After that, Sir George Hamilton could have his way and buy the place at the price suggested in the letter Clay had found waiting for him in Galway on the previous day.
It was dusk as they came into Drumore and rain was still falling steadily. The cottages were small and mean, with roofs of turf and thatch, and the blue smoke from their fires hung heavily in the rain. There were perhaps twenty or thirty of these dwellings scattered on either side of the narrow, unpaved street for a distance of some hundred yards.
About halfway along the street, they came to a public house, and as Clay heard the sounds of laughter from inside, he reined in the horse and jumped to the ground.
The building was rather more substantial than the others, with a yard to one side and stables in which several horses were standing, their flanks steaming in the damp air. The board nailed to the wall above the door carried the legend cohan’s bar in faded lettering.
Joshua leaned out of the window. ‘What have we stopped for, Colonel?’
Clay shook rain from his hat and replaced it on his head. ‘Remembering Burke’s account of the state of things at Claremont, a bottle of brandy might come in very useful before the night is out. Have you any money handy?’
Joshua fumbled inside his left sleeve and finally extracted a leather purse, which he passed across. Clay opened it and took out a sovereign. ‘This should be enough to buy the place up, from the looks of it,’ he said, giving Joshua his purse back. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’
The door opened easily at his touch and he stepped inside, closing it behind him. The place was thick with smoke and illuminated by two oil lamps which swung from one of the blackened beams supporting the ceiling. A turf fire smouldered across the room and eight or nine men crowded round the bar, listening attentively to a tall youth of twenty or so, whose handsome and rather effeminate face was topped by a shock of yellow hair.
For the moment, Clay remained unnoticed and he stayed with his back to the door and listened.
‘And what happened then, Dennis?’ a voice demanded.
Dennis leaned against the bar, face flushed, a glass of whiskey in one hand. ‘It’s for a good cause, me fine gentleman, says I, and if you’re honest with me, you’ll come to no harm. His face was the colour of whey and his hand was shaking that much, he dropped his purse in the mud.’
A young boy of fifteen or sixteen was standing beside him and he said excitedly, ‘Show them the watch, Dennis. Show them the watch.’
‘In good time, Marteen,’ Dennis said. He emptied his glass and placed it ostentatiously down on the bar. Someone immediately filled it and Dennis slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out Clay’s hunter.
He held it up by the chain so that it sparkled in the lamplight, and an excited murmur went up from his audience. ‘Would you look at the elegance of it,’ someone said.
Clay moved forward slowly and stood at the edge of the group. The first person to see him was Marteen and his blue eyes widened in astonishment. Men started to turn and Clay pushed his way through them until he faced Dennis. ‘My watch, I think,’ he said calmly.
There was a sudden silence. For several moments, Dennis stared stupidly at Clay, and then he seemed to recover his poise. ‘And what the hell would ye be meaning by that?’
Clay gazed slowly around the room. The faces were hard and unfriendly; some stupid, others with a glimmering of intelligence. Then he noticed the man who leaned negligently against the wall at the far end of the bar. He was tall and powerful, great shoulders swelling beneath his frieze coat.
His hair was the same colour as Dennis’s, but there the resemblance ended. There was nothing weak in this man’s face, only strength and intelligence. He picked up his glass and sipped a little whiskey and there was a smile on his lips. He gazed into Clay’s eyes and it was as if they knew each other.
Clay turned back to Dennis and said patiently, ‘The money isn’t important, but the watch was my father’s.’
No one moved. Dennis scowled suddenly, as if realizing his reputation was at stake, and thrust the watch back into his pocket. He picked up his shotgun, which was leaning against the bar, and rammed the barrel into Clay’s chest. ‘I’ll give ye five seconds to get out, me bucko,’ he said. ‘Five seconds and no more.’
Clay gazed steadily into that weak, reckless face, then turned abruptly and walked to the door. As he reached it, Dennis said, ‘Would ye look now? He’s messed his breeches for the second time this day.’ For a moment Clay hesitated, and then as laughter swelled behind him, he opened the door and passed outside.
He pushed Joshua roughly out of the way and dragged a carpet bag out onto the coach step and opened it. He was not angry and yet his hands shook slightly and there was a familiar, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach.
‘What is it, Colonel?’ Joshua demanded in alarm.
Clay ignored him. He found what he wanted at the bottom of the bag, his Dragoon Colt, the gun which had been his sidearm ever since his escape from the Illinois State Penitentiary with General Morgan in ’63.
He hefted the weapon expertly in his right hand and then walked quickly to the pub door and opened it again. Laughter swelled to the ceiling as Dennis further embellished his story, and for the moment, Clay was again unobserved.
A stone whiskey bottle stood on the bar near Dennis’s elbow some twelve feet away. It was not a difficult shot. Clay levelled his weapon and pulled the trigger. The bottle exploded into pieces like a bomb, showering the men with whiskey and scattering them across the room.
Dennis’s face had turned sickly-yellow in the lamplight and his eyes were round and staring. His tongue flickered across dry lips as he frantically looked for assistance. No one moved and there was fear on every face, except for the tall man who still leaned against the wall at the end of the bar, but now his smile had gone and he held his right hand inside his coat.
Clay’s face was a smooth mask, inscrutable and yet in some way terrible. He moved forward and touched Dennis gently under the chin with the cold barrel of the Colt. ‘My watch!’ he said tonelessly.
The youth’s face seemed to crumple into pieces and he produced the watch and purse and placed them on the bar top with shaking hands. ‘God save us, sir, but it was only a joke,’ he said. ‘No harm was intended. No harm at all.’
For a moment longer, Clay gazed fixedly at him, and somewhere a voice said in a half-whisper, ‘Would ye look at the Devil’s face on him.’
Sweat stood on Dennis’s brow in great drops and there was utter fear in his eyes. Then Clay turned away, slipping the Colt into his pocket. The youth lurched to a nearby chair and collapsed into it, covering his face with his hands.
The publican, a large red-faced man, faced Clay across the bar and wiped his hands nervously on his soiled apron. ‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ he asked.
‘Presumably you deliver liquor to local residents?’ Clay said.
‘I do indeed, sir,’ the publican assured him. ‘I supply Sir George Hamilton himself.’ He produced a dirty piece of paper and moistened a stub of pencil with his tongue. ‘What would ye like, sir?’
Clay
