Scarlett (122 page)

“The rest of you, in your houses, there’ll be no trouble if you send out the priest Colum O’Hara. I have a warrant for his arrest. No one will be hurt if he gives himself up.”

Scarlett had a mad impulse to laugh. This couldn’t be happening. She’d heard right, she did know the voice, she’d last heard it next to her ear speaking words of love. It was Charles Ragland. Once, only once in her entire life, she had gone to bed with a man who wasn’t her husband, and now he had come from the far end of Ireland to her town to arrest her cousin. It was insane, absurd, impossible. Well, at least she could be sure of one thing—if she didn’t die of shame when she looked at him, Charles Ragland was the one officer in the entire British army who would do what she wanted him to do. Go away and leave her and her cousin and her town alone.

She dropped the horse’s reins and strode forward. “Charles?”

Just as she called his name, Charles Ragland shouted, “Halt!” He fired his revolver into the air.

Scarlett winced. “Charles Ragland, have you gone crazy?” she shouted. There was the crack of a second shot, drowning out her words, and Ragland seemed to jump into the air, then fall sprawling. Scarlett started to run. “Charles, Charles!” She heard more shots, heard shouting, ignored it all. “Charles!”

“Scarlett!” she heard, and “Scarlett!” from another direction, and “Scarlett,” weakly, from Charles when she knelt by him. He was bleeding horribly from his neck, red blood spurting onto, staining his red tunic.

“Scarlett darling, get down, Scarlett
aroon
.” Colum was somewhere nearby, but she couldn’t look at him now.

“Charles, oh, Charles, I’ll get a doctor, I’ll get Grainne, she can help you.” Charles raised his hand, and she took it between hers. She felt the tears on her face, but she had no knowledge of crying. He mustn’t die, not Charles, he was so dear and loving, he’d been so tender with her. He mustn’t die. He was a good, gentle man.

There was terrible noise all around. Something whined past her head. Dear God, what was happening? Those were shots, people were shooting, the British were trying to kill her people. She would not allow it. But she had to get help for Charles, and there were boots running, and Colum was shouting, and oh, God, please help, what can I do to stop this, oh, God, Charles’ hand is getting cold. “Charles! Charles, don’t die!”

“There’s the priest!” someone shouted. Shots fusilladed from the dark windows of the houses of Ballyhara. A soldier staggered and fell.

An arm closed around Scarlett from behind, she threw up her arms to defend herself from the unseen attack. “Later, my dear, no fighting now,” said Rhett. “This is the best chance we’ll ever have. I’ll carry you, just go limp.” He threw her across his shoulder, his arm behind her knees, and ran crouching into the shadows. “What’s the back way out of here?” he demanded.

“Put me down and I’ll show you,” said Scarlett. Rhett lowered her to her feet. His big hands closed on her shoulders, and he pulled her to him impatiently, then kissed her, briefly, firmly, and let her go.

“I’d hate to be shot without getting what I came for,” he said. She could hear the laughter in his voice. “Now, Scarlett, get us out of here.”

She took his hand and ducked into a narrow dark passageway between two houses. “Follow me; this goes to a boreen. We can’t be seen once we’re in it.”

“Lead on,” Rhett said. He freed his hand and gave her a light push. Scarlett wanted to keep hold of his hand, never let go. But the firing was loud, and close, and she ran for the safety of the boreen.

The hedgerows were high and thick. As soon as Scarlett and Rhett ran four paces into the boreen, the sound of battle became muffled and indistinct. Scarlett stopped to catch her breath, to look at Rhett, to comprehend that at last they were together. Her heart was swelling with happiness.

But the seemingly distant sound of shooting demanded her attention, and she remembered. Charles Ragland was dead. She’d seen a soldier wounded, maybe killed. The militia was after Colum, was shooting at the people of her town, maybe killing them. She could have been shot—Rhett, too.

“We’ve got to get to the house,” she said. “We’ll be safe there. I’ve got to warn the servants to stay away from town until this is over. Hurry, Rhett, we’ve got to hurry.”

He caught her by the arm as she started to move. “Wait, Scarlett. Maybe you shouldn’t go to the house. I’ve just come from there. It’s dark and empty, darling, with all the doors left open. The servants are gone.”

Scarlett wrenched her arm from his clasp. She moaned with terror as she grabbed up her skirts and ran, faster than she had ever run in her life. Cat. Where was Cat? Rhett’s voice was speaking, but she paid no attention. She had to get to Cat.

Behind the boreen, in the wide street of Ballyhara, there were five red-coated bodies and three wearing the rough clothing of farmers. The bookseller lay across the sill of his shattered window, blood-streaked bubbles falling from his lips with the whispered words of prayer. Colum O’Hara prayed with him, then traced a cross on his forehead as the man died. The broken glass refracted the thin light from the moon that was becoming visible in the rapidly darkening sky. The rain had stopped.

Colum crossed the small room in three long steps. He seized the twig broom on the hearth by its handle and thrust it into the bed of coals. It made a crackling sound for a moment, then burst into flame.

A shower of sparks flew from the torch onto Colum’s dark cassock when he ran into the street. His white hair was brighter than the moon. “Follow me, you English butchers,” he shouted as he plunged toward the deserted Anglo church, “and we’ll die together for the freedom of Ireland.”

Two bullets tore into his broad chest, and he fell to his knees. But he staggered to his feet and forward for seven uneven steps more until another three shots spun him right, then left, then right again and to the ground.

Scarlett raced up the wide front steps and into the dark great hall, Rhett one stride behind her. “Cat!” she screamed. “Cat!” The word echoed from the stone stairs and marble floor. “Cat!”

Rhett grabbed her upper arms. Only her white face and pale eyes were visible in the shadows. “Scarlett!” he said loudly, “Scarlett, get hold of yourself. Come with me. We’ve got to get away. The servants must have known something. The house isn’t safe.”

“Cat!”

Rhett shook her. “Stop that. The cat’s not important. Where are the stables, Scarlett? We need horses.”

“Oh, you fool,” said Scarlett. Her strained voice was heavy with loving pity. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Let me go. I’ve got to find Cat—Katie O’Hara, called Cat. She’s your daughter.”

Rhett’s hands closed painfully on Scarlett’s arms. “What the devil are you talking about?” He looked down into her face, but he couldn’t make out her expression in the darkness. “Answer me, Scarlett,” he demanded, and he shook her.

“Let go of me, damn you! There’s no time for explanations now. Cat must be here someplace, but it’s dark, and she’s all alone. Let go, Rhett, and ask your questions later. All that isn’t important now.” Scarlett tried to break free, but he was too strong.

“It’s important to me.” His voice was rough with urgency.

“All right, all right. It happened when we went sailing and the storm came. You remember. I found out I was pregnant in Savannah, but you hadn’t come for me, and I was angry, so I didn’t tell you right away. How was I to know you would be married to Anne before you could hear about the baby?”

“Oh, dear God,” Rhett groaned, and he released Scarlett. “Where is she?” he said. “We’ve got to find her.”

“We will, Rhett. There’s a lamp on the table by the door. Strike a match so we can find it.”

The yellow flame of the match lasted long enough to locate a brass lamp and light it. Rhett held it up. “Where do we look first?”

“She could be anywhere. Let’s start.” She led him at a rapid pace through the dining room and morning room. “Cat,” she called, “Kitty Cat, where are you?” Her voice was strong but no longer hysterical. It would not frighten a little girl. “Cat…”

“Colum!” screamed Rosaleen Fitzpatrick. She ran from Kennedy’s bar into the middle of the British troops, pushing, shoving to get through, then down the center of the wide street toward Colum’s sprawled body.

“Don’t shoot,” shouted an officer. “It’s a woman.”

Rosaleen threw herself on her knees and put her hands over Colum’s wounds. “
Ochón
,” she wailed. She rocked from side to side, keening. The firing stopped; the intensity of her grief commanded respect, and men looked away.

She closed the lids over his dead eyes with gentle fingers stained with his blood and whispered goodbye in Gaelic. Then she caught up the smouldering torch and leapt to her feet, waving it to bring the flame back to life. Her face was terrible in its light. So quick was she that not a shot was fired until she reached the passageway that led to the church. “For Ireland and her martyr Colum O’Hara!” she cried triumphantly, and she ran into the arsenal, brandishing the torch. For a moment there was a silence. Then the stone wall of the church exploded into the wide street in a tower of flame and a deafening blast of sound.

The sky was lit brighter than day. “My God!” Scarlett gasped. The breath was knocked out of her body. She covered her ears with her hands and ran, calling to Cat, as one explosion followed another, then another and another, and the town of Ballyhara burst into flame.

She ran upstairs, with Rhett at her side, and along the corridor to Cat’s rooms. “Cat,” she called, again and again, trying to keep the fear from sounding in her voice. “Cat.” The animals were orange-lit on the wall, the tea set on a freshly ironed cloth, the coverlet smooth on Cat’s bed.

“Kitchen,” said Scarlett, “she loves the kitchen. We can call down.” She raced through the corridor again, Rhett at her heels. Through the sitting room with the menu books, account books, the list she’d been making of friends to invite to the wedding. Through the door onto the gallery to Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s room. Scarlett stopped in the center. She leaned across the balustrade. “Kitty Cat,” she called softly, “please answer Momma if you’re down there. It’s important, sweetheart.” She kept her voice calm.

Orange light flickered in the copper pans on the wall beside the stove. Red coals glowed on the hearth. The enormous room was still, filled with shadows. Scarlett strained her ears and her eyes. She was just about to turn away when the very small voice spoke. “Cat’s ears hurt.” Oh, thank God! Scarlett rejoiced. Calm, now, and quiet.

“I know, baby, that was an awfully loud noise. You hold Cat’s ears. I’ll come around and down. Will you wait for me?” She spoke as casually as if there was nothing to be afraid of. The balustrade vibrated under her clenched hands.

“Yes.”

Scarlett gestured. Rhett followed her quietly along the gallery and through the door. She closed it carefully behind them. Then she began to shake. “I was so frightened. I was afraid they’d taken her away. Or hurt her.”

“Scarlett, look,” said Rhett. “We must hurry.” The open windows above the drive framed a distant cluster of lights, torches, moving towards the house.

“Run!” said Scarlett. She saw Rhett’s face in the orange light of the fire-filled sky, capable and strong. Now she could look at him, lean on him. Cat was safe. He put his hand beneath her arm, supporting her even as he hurried her.

Down the stairs they ran and through the ballroom. The firelit heroes of Tara were life-like above their heads. The colonnade to the kitchen wing was glaringly bright, and they could hear a blurred roaring of far-off angry shouts. Scarlett slammed the kitchen door behind them. “Help me bolt it,” she gasped. Rhett took the iron bar from her, dropped it into its slots.

“What is your name?” said Cat. She walked out from the shadows near the hearth.

“Rhett.” There was a frog in his throat.

“You two can make friends later,” said Scarlett. “We’ve got to get to the stables. There’s a door to the kitchen garden, it’s got high walls, though, I don’t know if there’s another door out of it. Do you know, Cat?”

“Are we running away?”

“Yes, Kitty Cat, the people who made the awful noise want to hurt us.”

“Do they have stones?”

“Very big ones.”

Rhett found the door to the kitchen garden, looked out. “I can lift you onto my shoulders, Scarlett, then you can reach the top of the wall. I’ll hand Cat up to you.”

“Fine, but maybe there’s a door. Cat, we have to hurry now. Is there a door in the wall?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Give Momma your hand, and let’s go.”

“To the stables?”

“Yes, come on, Cat.”

“The tunnel would be faster.”

“What tunnel?” There was an uneven quality to Scarlett’s voice. Rhett came back across the kitchen, put his arm around her shoulders.

“The tunnel to the servants’ wing. The footmen have to use it so they can’t look in the window when we’re having breakfast.”

“That’s horrible,” said Scarlett, “if I’d known—”

“Cat, take your mother and me to the tunnel, please,” Rhett said. “Would you mind if I carried you, or would you rather run?”

“If we have to hurry, you’d better carry me. I can’t run as fast as you.”

Rhett knelt, held out his arms, and his daughter walked trustingly into them. He was careful not to clasp her too tight in the brief embrace he could not withhold. “Onto my back, then, Cat, and hold around my neck. Tell me where to go.”