David Dickinson - Death on the Holy Mountain

‘Very well,’ said Seamus, ‘we accept your offer. We will exchange the two of you for the wife of Ormonde and her sister. Please listen carefully while I outline the other arrangements. When we have finished our conversation, you, Powerscourt, and my colleague here will go outside under another flag of truce and explain the position to your friends skulking in the bushes out there.

‘In half an hour the two ladies will be escorted out of the house to the top of the drive. What happens to them from then on is up to your companions. Half an hour after that four of my colleagues will leave and set out towards their homes. They are not to be arrested. I am sure they will be followed but it is an essential part of this bargain that they are allowed home to see their families. That great carriage that came here the other day is to be brought here. You and I and Mick and Mr Fitzgerald here are going on a journey in it. The coachman can drive us. Any attempt to intercept us, to attack the vehicle, to impede its progress in any way and you will both be shot. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly clear,’ said Powerscourt, ‘and I am grateful for your decision about the two women.’ Not quite so keen on the decision about the two of us, he said to himself, but he kept his counsel.

‘Could I ask you about one aspect of your proposal, which may be hard to sell to the people outside?’

‘You may.’

‘Your four colleagues who are to be allowed to go home in the first instance. Do you think the people outside will feel able to permit that?’

‘I have two things to say to that, Lord Powerscourt,’ said the one called Seamus. ‘The first is that they were not involved in the actual kidnap in any way. Mick and I did all that. Those four joined us here to help look after the women. If you care to ask the women before they go how they have been treated, I am sure they will agree they have been well looked after. Only yesterday Ormonde’s wife was telling one of the lads that he must come and see them when all this is over. The two women have never seen either Mick or myself, not properly. We wore balaclavas when we seized them and we have kept out of sight here. So what would the charge be? Not kidnapping because they weren’t involved. Holding people against their will? They weren’t the ones making the decisions. Harsh treatment of poor women in captivity? Hardly likely when the women might testify in their defence. Indeed the two ladies have already said they would appear in court on behalf of the four young men if things turned out that way. And the second thing is quite simple. If the people out there don’t agree, then the whole deal is off. The women stay as our hostages. You two could go.’

‘That’s very clear,’ said Powerscourt with just a trace of bitterness in his voice. The redhead appeared again wrapping the tattered remains of what had once been a white shirt round a hurling stick The flag of truce was prepared. As Powerscourt and the young man stepped outside the front door, they could hear a faint rustling in the undergrowth ahead. A couple of crows flew past to explore the lake and the desolate hills beyond. The sun was shining. Major Arbuthnot-Leigh was wearing civilian clothes today, a tweed suit that might have seen stalking duty in the past and a hat that looked as though it could once have belonged to Davy Crockett. Powerscourt outlined the plans.

‘Not a particularly good hand, what?’ was the Major’s first reaction.

‘It could be worse,’ said Powerscourt. ‘All things considered, I think we should accept the offer.’

‘Are you sure? You don’t think the Paddies have got too many aces?’

‘I don’t think we have any choice,’ said Powerscourt. ‘At least one of those young men would rather die than make a deal of any kind. Blood sacrifice, that sort of thing.’

‘Bloody fool,’ said the Major. ‘Well then, I’ll get the carriage brought up. We’ve got a couple of spare horses here for the ladies to go to Leenane first of all. Damned pity their carriage has been hijacked – just like they were, I suppose, what? Never mind. The ladies coming out to the top of the drive in half an hour, you say? Do you think we should have a sort of honour guard to welcome the fillies home? Troopers lined up, rifles in the air, serenade of shots to greet them?’

‘No,’ said Powerscourt and turned back to the house. He didn’t see Mrs Ormonde and her sister go. He didn’t see the carriage arrive or the four young men depart, two to a horse and moving out on the Louisburg road. Nor did he see a group of six horsemen following them after a five-minute interval.

‘Now then,’ said Seamus, carrying a rough pack over his shoulder, ‘we’re ready to go. Let me tell you the rules. Mick and I have a pistol each, so we do. Any hostile move from either of you and you’ll be shot. You’re not to converse on the way. Any attempt at a rescue mission from the authorities and you will be shot. When we have reached our destination safely and unimpeded, you will be allowed to go. Is that clear?’

Powerscourt had a sudden vision of tens of carriages like this one sweeping up to Butler Lodge in the days of its glory, visitors come for the fishing or for parties or for balls, the music wafting out over the waters of the lake and disturbing the fish in the river. As he was ushered into the red velvet interior he saw himself being shown into a different sort of vehicle, the rough cart that had carried Sydney Carton to the guillotine, the doomed aristocrats packed close together, hair shaved off, a last journey across the streets of Paris to the mocking gibes of Madame Defarge and the awful finality of the guillotine. The worst of times.

He and Johnny were on one side of the conveyance, the two young men opposite. The Ormonde coachman, warned no doubt to be on his best behaviour, perched in his place on the top and muttered to his horses as they cantered slowly down the drive. The windows were tightly closed. Powerscourt had a slight sense of being in a luxurious coffin on its way to the grave. The two young men were conversing in Irish. Powerscourt tried to work out which direction they were going in as they reached the top of the drive and turned into the main road. If they went uphill they would be heading for Louisburg and Westport. If they went downhill they were going towards Leenane and Lady Lucy.

Five minutes after the coach departed, a group of horsemen, the hooves of their animals muffled, trotted slowly down the gravel track. As the road joined the main thoroughfare to Westport it passed a small waterfall, much favoured by local watercolourists and picnickers. After a few more miles along the side of Killary Harbour it crossed a bridge into Leenane. There the road forked, the right hand turning into a winding road that skirted the coast to Clifden, the left hand climbing up into the hills towards Maam Cross. Had Powerscourt or Fitzgerald been able to look out, they would have seen a female figure, standing back from the road to watch the coach and see where it went. The figure still had a hat with a very wide brim on top of her curls, and it made no move at all. She waited some more and received grave salutes from Major Arbuthnot-Leigh and his troopers as they passed. At least I know where Francis is going, Lady Lucy thought to herself, he’s going into the mountains. She had learnt the news of the exchange of the hostages when the man came for the carriage. She hurried back to the hotel and stared for a long time at a map on the dining-room wall. She could not see anywhere inland where the young men would want to go. They could catch a boat at Oughterard on Lough Corrib and escape detection for a couple of days on one of the islands. But she didn’t think these young men would be happy with that. Then she realized. She knew where Francis must be going. If you went on past Maum, over Teernakill Bridge and across the mountains to Maam Cross, on past Lough Bofin to Oughterard, down through Roscahill and Moycullen, you would come to Galway. Galway had many amenities, Lady Lucy thought, though she would not have classed herself as an expert. But she felt sure there were boats, plenty of boats. There might not be boats that sailed straight across the Atlantic from there, but there would be boats that could take you, discreetly, no doubt, to places where you could sail to America, Cork probably, the young men stowed away in some obscure cabin, or pressed into service as waiters in the restaurant. Galway – Lady Lucy suddenly remembered the song: