Early on a crisp January morning in
the year 1797, a tall, rugged man with a shock of red hair and a slight youth
wearing a battered, cocked hat, walked south from the
By the light of the stars, they
proceeded briskly, talking little, whistling and singing to pass the miles
away. By
As the rickety vehicle took the road
eastwards, Hugh Ro stood watching, his face strained and pale as though his
heart was leaving him. For several minutes he stood, immobile; then he turned abruptly and walked away, nor once looked back.
His eyes were misted with tears.
There were tears in Caroline's eyes
also, but she hid them from the carrier. The rough road wound away into a
troubled and misty future.
“What is that mountain to the north?”
she asked, hoarsely.
“That is Shehy,
sir. There's a pass through them mountains by the Cousane
Gap, but it would be no way fit for a pony an' cart. 'Tis
many a time I travelled it on foot. A great view you get up there in the
mountains.”
Caroline nodded, hardly hearing what
he said. Her mind was flying away over the mountains, far away to the
north-east where Lucy would be waiting to welcome her, the little frilled and ribboned room with its downy bed ready to receive her.
Could its frail walls ever shut out the memory of the storm, the stranded ships
dragging their anchors, Fergal's pale face glimpsed in the flickering light of
a torch, his hands holding hers?
At Dunmanaway
she parted company with the carrier and, anxious to press on, she set out on
foot; by starlight she could shorten the way to Bandon; from there it would be
a straight run home. Home! As she walked, she thought of home
..... of so different homes. What a long way it
had been from Dunalla to the cosy room in
She had started out bravely, anxious
to avoid prying eyes, oblique questions. But, as she proceeded, darkness
impinged on her confident mood. January chill made her shiver; the unfamiliar
road was haunted by unnameable menace. From black shreds of cloud, the stars
leered fitfully like winking, watching eyes. Wisps of fog drifted over the
meadows, furtive as evil spectres. Clumps of furze crouched by the wayside; the
stream muttered to itself. There was not a soul on the darkening road, nor a house-light to be seen. She missed Hugh Ro's whistled
music and the sound of his companionable feet.
The eerie stillness was broken by the
clatter of horses' hooves. She heard the gruff voices of men calling to each
other. Some distance ahead of her there rose, like
ghost riders, a company of horsemen. They had erupted out of nowhere, it seemed ..... some haunted spot of
underworld connection. They were riding away from her, but she must pass that
haunted spot. Were they devils? There were those who could call up devils, she
believed. Who had called up these riders of the night?
Fighting off her terror, she moved
slowly forward. Presently she came to a clump of stunted trees. Among the
trees, she made out the shape of an abandoned building. It was the dilapidated
remains of an old church. All around it, in the tangle of brambles and withered
grass, tombstones leaned and tottered, their lettering slimed with moss. The
empty windows of the church gaped darkly into the misty gloom.
If there was a church, there must have
been people. A cluster of tumbledown cabins began to take shape; not one was
complete, nor was there any sign of habitation. A wisp of mist mimicked smoke
from a chimney, then drifted away. The few remaining doors hung ajar on rusted
hinges. Only the church door stood fast and solid. This was a village of the
dead, the habitat of a community that had died of plague or had been spirited
away.
A faint glow seen through a window
aperture drew her; whether it was real or imagined,
she could not be sure. She stumbled over the rough path to the door. Her
fingers touched the rough-cut stone of the wall. The church was real enough and
the oak of the door was firm. She pressed against it and, slowly, it creaked
open. The interior atmosphere was curiously warm. It smelt of wood-smoke. The
darkness was suffused with a faint glow. Upon what unearthly celebration had
she intruded: a mass of the dead or a witches' Sabbath?
She entered cautiously, her eyes
growing used to the reeking dusk. There was a lingering savour of roasted
meats, a faint odour of horses, even of humanity. Yet the church was quite
deserted.
A flame sputtered into life, then died
in the heap of greying embers seen momentarily in the middle of the floor. She
moved towards the glow and, finding a piece of charred stick, stirred the grey
embers into life. More charred wood lay about the dying fire. She piled it on
and presently the whole interior was filled with a rosy light. Here and there a
trace of gilt winked, the altar, the pulpit and the lectern took shape, light
and shade picking out their deeply incised carvings. There was no other
furniture. In one corner a pile of freshly gathered wood was stacked. Piles of
heather and grass were laid out as if for bedding. Dry leaves and
horse-droppings strewed the bare flagged floor.
There were traces of a recently
consumed meal. She found some bread wrapped in a cloth and a half empty wine
bottle. She had not eaten all day; now she was ravenous. Crouching by the fire
glow, she supped of what remnants she could find, then, replete and weary, she
stretched on a heathery couch, her sealskin wrapped around her. Presently she
fell asleep.
The fire died down and a damp chill,
creeping across the floor roused her to the moan of wind along the walls and
the eerie rustle of dry leaves. The place seemed haunted. Half awake, she
wondered what strange company had bivouacked here, then
rode away into the night. All over the country in recent times men had met in
secret to swear dark vows. Were these such an outlaw
band? Would they return?
The answer came very soon. She heard
the approaching thud of horses' hooves. There was a shouted order. They halted.
There was the sound of a firm footfall on the stony path. She cowered in the
gloom, waiting.
The door rasped open. A man's
footsteps echoed on the flagged floor. A tall figure loomed over her. As he
bent down, she lost consciousness.
When she came to, the stranger was
chafing her hands. His touch was strong and tender. She seized his hands and
clung to him. Then his arms were folded about her and his mouth was warm on
hers. There was a passion in his kiss ..... of desire mingled with anger. He drew her abruptly to her
feet. Maybe it was for the benefit of the young lieutenant who had just arrived
at the door, but Captain Marsmain's voice was harsh ..... even arrogant:
“You're all right now, young man. You
can ride back to Bandon with us. There we'll decide what is to be done with
you.”
“There are only the two horses,” the
lieutenant said, spotting what appeared to be a youth in his senior's grasp.
“Then you'd better find another. Walk
till you do,” Marsmain replied sharply.
“I have no money .....”
“Money, be damned. We are not buying
horses, now. This is a war. If the owners of horses want our protection, they
must be prepared to surrender their horses when they are needed. Have you never
heard of living off the country?”
The lieutenant saluted and went out.
He was not used to living off the country; this was his first practical lesson.
Nick Marsmain began tumbling the bedding. With the
aid of a torch, he found what he had returned to seek .....
the leather case containing his log book.
“Now,” he said, turning to Caroline, “you
will have a real opportunity to show your equestrian skill. The route will not
be cross-country, but the horse is spirited. Let me see how you handle him.”
His tone stung Caroline. She would
show him. Two horses were cropping grass by the roadside. The black stallion,
Nick's own horse, was to be her mount. He regarded her with tossing head and
hostile eye. Nick helped her into the saddle, the horse prancing with corn‑fed
energy. She could feel the power of the beast. Yet she must control him. Nick
did not wait to see how she fared, but sprang to his own saddle, calling out:
“Follow me. We have a long rough road
ahead and it is through enemy territory. The whole country is enemy territory
now. But you won't mind that, I'll warrant.”
After the first half mile or so,
Caroline felt herself gaining the submission of the horse. With her light
weight to carry, he would have preferred to lead rather than follow; like his
master, he was used to leading. But her hands were strong and skilled on the
reins. The notion of riding by night through “enemy territory” intrigued her.
She had never been called upon to think of any part of her country as enemy
territory. Until these latter days, the small, scattered garrisons had been
seen as alien in essence, but largely harmless: the militia were men of the
people, and remained so at heart; their officers were the strangers, or so the
peasantry saw them, though many of them came of families long resident in
Ireland. She had never been entirely on one side or the other; now she was
thrown on the military side. Her own countryfolk were
the “enemy”. There was danger in the whispering hedges. It was a rough ride in
every sense of the word.
Marsmain was angry with her and would offer no
comfort. Young girls who would not wait for their lovers deserved whatever
befell them. He spurred ahead over rough and rut, through mire and pot-hole, an
officer on duty who brooked no impediment. When a dog ran, barking, from a
wayside farmstead, a swift crop-lash sent him yelping in pain to his own
quarter. It could have been man.
Soon they caught up with the company,
some half dozen militiamen, who saluted their officer and fell in behind him.
If they noticed that a fresh youth had replaced their young lieutenant, it was
not for them to comment or question. They plodded on, glad to be nearing their
base; it had been no joke bivouacking in that ghostly old church.
As they clattered into Bandon, the sky
was beginning to clear. Marsmain dismissed his men
and rode on beckoning Caroline to follow. Presently they turned into a street
of tall, narrow brick houses. Before one of these Marsmain
dismounted and, bounding up the steps beat a tattoo on the door-knocker. A
light appeared in an upper window, then wound
downstairs. The door opened cautiously and Caroline glimpsed a tall woman,
candlestick in hand. There was a soft exchange of words; then Marsmain beckoned her forward.
The dingy hall was similar to that at
“This is Caroline,” he said. “Caroline,
this is Arabella.”
Arabella extended a languid hand which belied
her searching look.
“The mud will wash off,” Nick
explained dryly, “and the male facade. Have your maid prepare a hot bath. Then
feed the girl and let her have a long rest. I shall sup with you tonight. I
expect to see a complete transformation.”
“You take a great deal for granted,
Nick,” Arabella said with a shrug.
“You can hardly deny that it is my
prerogative, Arabella.” Arabella
raised her splendid eyebrows. Her voice had a sharp edge.
“Have you no orders for your new
protégée?” she asked.
“None for the moment, except to eat
and sleep.
Caroline, I advise you to make a friend of Arabella.
She can be a deadly enemy.”
As the door slammed behind him the two
women stood transfixed, staring at each other. Their appraisal was at once
hostile and sympathetic; they could be friends or enemies. Arabella
recognised a rival, Caroline a sort of duenna ..... like the aunts, but younger.
Arabella gave the bell-rope an impatient tug.
A hollow clangour reverberated through the nether regions of the house and
presently a pale-faced, sleepy maid appeared.
“Prepare a bath for my guest,” Arabella commanded, “and see that the blue bedroom is
aired. Tell cook we shall breakfast in my boudoir .....
on something substantial.”
She led the way upstairs, Caroline
stumbling wearily behind her. On the landing she flung open a door.
“This is my sanctum,” she announced
proudly, “you may wait here till your bath is ready.”
Caroline glanced at her muddy boots
but Arabella ignored the gesture and led her into the
warm, musky room. It was like an Aladdin's cave. Shut off from the wintry world
by heavy velvet hangings, it seemed to have no relation to the world of rough
roads, frosty hedges and spectral mists. It was a womb-warm interior of crimson
and gilt, plushy with deep carpeting, plump cushions,
deeply upholstered chairs; a bewilderment of jewel colours, it glinted with
gilt and mirrors and oddly shaped ornaments. It was like a stage set for some
sensuous drama.
For some moments there seemed nothing
on which Caroline could rest her eyes. Then she saw the motif of theatre
programmes above the mantel centred by a gilt-framed portrait in oils which
dominated the whole room. The subject was a woman elaborately dressed standing
erect and queenly. She recognised a younger version of Arabella.
Arabella watched her expression with pleasure.
“Yes,” she said, “I was an actress.
When that portrait was painted I was the toast of
“It is very handsome. You must have
had a great many admirers.”
Arabella tossed her head nonchalantly, but her
smile evinced genuine pleasure. When she smiled she seemed younger. The thought
struck Caroline that she was young enough to have been the actress for whom
Nick Marsmain fought a duel. Arabella
seemed to read her thoughts.
“Yes,” she said, “Nick Marsmain loved me too ..... in his
way. He loved many women, yet has never found a woman he would make his wife.
You may be that woman. We shall see. I wish you a better fortune than mine.”