The Trainmasters (48 page)

“Still, perhaps it would be a good idea for you to go,” Egan said uncertainly. There was hardly any conviction in his voice
when he made that suggestion. “I could handle things here while you were gone,” he added lamely.

“I have three sons in the hands of some people who might do anything at all to them. I’ve lost my wife already. I don’t want
to lose my sons, too. I could not possibly live with myself if I did not try everything in my power to save them.”

Egan nodded gravely. John’s feelings were exactly his. “So what
can
we do, then? No matter whether you go to Philadelphia now or not, we haven’t much time.”

“I realize that. There’s not much time for the captives; and whatever Edgar Thomson’s message means, there’s not much time
available for me before I have to deal with him one way or another. I would dearly love to leave instantly for Philadelphia,
and if necessary for England, but until I know that Peg and the women and my sons are safe, I can’t do that.”

Then John rose from the chair where he’d been sitting and started to pace back and forth in an agony of intense thought.

At last he stopped his pacing and, standing before Egan, he said quietly, “I think I know where the Keans must be keeping
them.”

Egan bent his head, breathed in, and then looked up at John and exhaled. “You do?”

“Yes,” John said, then hesitated. “There’s been a thought nagging at the back of my mind… Do you remember Francis Stockton’s
story, the part where he and Graham followed Collins up north of Tyrone to the big house in the woods?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I think it’s likely that the captives are there.”

Egan thought a minute, then he agreed. “Of course, that’s the likely place isn’t it? And you want to find out for sure?”

“More than that,” John said slowly, but with rising passion. “I want to go in there swiftly and suddenly and by surprise,
and I want to clean the place out. If it turns out that the women and children are not held there, I would be willing to bet
my life someone in that place will know where they are.”

Suddenly, Egan stood up to show his resolve. “Yes, by Jesus! Let’s do that!” Then, in a softer voice he added, “So how do
you propose to go about it?”

“Let’s talk to Francis and work something out.”

“Should I fetch him?”

“Do that,” John said. “Bring him right away. Meanwhile I want to send a telegraph message to Mr. Thomson.”

“What will you tell him?”

“That I’ll come to Philadelphia as soon as I can manage it.”

John Carlysle had guessed right: The Keans were keeping Teresa, Deirdre, and the three children in the cellar of the big house
north of Tyrone, though they intended to move them soon, since their enemies had seen the place—and there were large plans
in the works for both captives and enemies.

The captivity up until now had not been a painful one. The Keans clearly had no desire to physically harm any of their prisoners.
But the time of captivity had been far from pleasant; there was no doubt about that. The cellar was damp and chill, even though
it was summer. The food they were given was plentiful enough, but mean and unappetizing. For sleeping they had blankets to
lie on that were hardly better than rags. And they were allowed a trip to the privy only three times a day and always under
close supervision.

On Monday, the first day of their captivity, they were allowed outside for a brief recreation; but Alex had taken that opportunity
to try to make a break. His attempt failed, and it forfeited further recreation periods for the others.

Now it was Wednesday, late in the afternoon of their third day in the cellar, and Teresa was telling a story to the children.
She had been telling stories practically since their first moments in the cellar, for these had proved the only comfort available
to the prisoners during their time of captivity. It was fortunate that her store of tales was practically inexhaustible, since
there was nothing else for them to do.

Outside there was a loud commotion. Since the captives had arrived the big house and its environs always seemed busy, but
now they heard the bustling of even more men than usual. It sounded like they were setting up camp in the open spaces around
the house. The captives could hear, too, the irregular drumming of ever more horses, the creaks and deep rumbles of Conestoga
wagons, and the moaning of the oxen that pulled them.

Inside, Teresa was in the midst of the tale of King Macbeth, who had gained his kingdom by murdering all the other claimants
to the throne.

The two boys were sitting directly in front of Teresa, with rough blankets between their bodies and the damp dirt floor. Deirdre
held Peg in her lap off to one side.

“And then the queen turned deathly pale,” Teresa said, “and she flung herself in despair into the—”

At that moment the cellar door, which opened to the outside, was flung open, and full daylight exploded down the cellar steps
and into the cavelike space below. All of the captives instantly forced their eyes shut to block out the painful glare. Blinking
and wiping away sudden tears, they squinted to see who the intruder was. And then they managed to squeeze their eyes open
a bit more, for much of the glare was now shielded from them by the large, hulking figure of Matthew Kean, who was standing
at the top of the steps.

“Teresa O’Rahilly,” he called out, “where are you?” Under his breath he added, “You evil bitch.”

“I haven’t left,” Teresa said sullenly.

“Teresa, you come up here,” he said, ignoring that. “We’ve got somethin’ to show you.”

Teresa rose to her feet, reluctantly obeying him. Then she glanced at Deirdre. “Can you finish the story for me?”

“I don’t know that one, Tess,” Deirdre said with disappointment in her voice.

“It’s a pity, then,” Teresa said.

“Will you finish it later, Tessie?” David asked.

“There’s nothing surer,” Teresa said as she climbed the stairs.

When she reached the top she paused to look around. Everywhere were men and horses and wagons. The place teemed with people
and activity; it was as busy as the Philadelphia docks with a dozen ships just in.

What’s all this about?
she asked herself.

Matthew then led her around the house but not inside. Instead he took her out through the crowd and up a rise. This was topped
by a low, rounded knoll that was itself surmounted by a dark, heavy wooden armchair. The chair was empty. But sprawled a few
feet below it in the dirt was a body—dead or unconscious, she couldn’t tell. But she could tell whose body it was. It was
Graham Carlysle’s.

“Graham!” she cried and tried to rush to his side. But an iron grip around her arms prevented her.

“Let me go!” she pleaded.

“He’s alive,” Matthew said. “Just unconscious. But he’ll survive; never you worry about that.” Then he looked at her; there
was black rage in his eyes. “He’ll survive what’s wrong with him now anyhow. Later’s another thing…”

Somehow she wrenched free, or, what was more likely, he let her go, and she was instantly down next to Graham, cradling him
in her arms.

She quickly established that Matthew was telling the truth. Graham was indeed alive, but he was in a very bad way. He’d been
savagely beaten. There wasn’t a particle of his face free of rough bruises, cuts, or abrasions. And his breathing was hard
and labored.

“Graham! Wake up, Graham. Please, Graham!” she whispered over and over into his ear. But there was no response.

“I’ll be back when he comes around,” Matthew said. He was now standing behind the big, thronelike chair. “But for the time
bein’, I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Would you get him some water and a rag at least?” she asked.

“Get them yourself, bitch. There’s water down to the well over there. And some gourds.” He pointed. “You got clothes you can
use as rags.” He gave her a final look. “I’ll be back,” he promised, then walked off.

She went to fetch the water. When she returned, she lifted up her skirt and tore some rags from her petticoat. Then she started
to bathe Graham’s face and clean his wounds. After a while he began groaning and trembling, showing the gradual return of
consciousness.

“Graham?”

His lids fluttered almost imperceptibly, and then she could see that his eyes were open a crack. His mouth twisted a little.
He was attempting a smile of recognition.

“Tess, darlin’,” he croaked. He tried to lift his arm to touch her, but pain prevented that.

“Don’t try to say anything,” she said. “Just lie there while I bathe your face.”

She continued doing that, and the opening in his eyes closed. It didn’t reappear for at least another half hour. During that
time Matthew looked in on Teresa and Graham a couple of times. But when he saw that the situation hadn’t changed much, he
walked off again.

Now Graham’s eyes were fully open, and his head was in Teresa’s lap.

“What happened to you?” she asked when she was sure he was finally able to speak. “How did they get you?”

“Are the others all right?” he asked.

“No one’s hurt,” she said. “They’re keeping us locked in the cellar.”

“Well,” he said, “at least nobody’s hurt.”

“
You’re
hurt,” she said softly. “Look at you!”

“I’d rather not,” he said, trying to treat his wounds lightly.

“What did they do to you?”

He shrugged. “The arm, I think, must be broken. And maybe some ribs.”

“I’ll bind the arm in a minute. Let me see the ribs.” She hitched up his shirt and looked at his side. It was a mass of ugly,
dark bruises. “I can’t tell whether they’re broken or not.”

“There’s nothing you can do about that, in any event.”

“But I can bind the arm. At least I can make you a little bit more comfortable than you are. It will have to wait to be properly
set, though.”

And so she tore off another large piece of her petticoat and wrapped it tight around his broken arm.

While she was busy with that, he told her how he’d come to be captured and that it had been Matthew who’d performed the beating.
He’d done it coolly and silently, his hands and fists and elbows moving like clockwork. Matthew hadn’t betrayed a twitch of
emotion the whole time.

“What do you make of that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense. Wild, fiery rage would make sense, but not the iciness. He acted like he
was possessed, taken over, doomed to act out his revenge.”

She shook her head, understanding no more than he did. Then she said ruefully, “So here you are now.”

“Here I am.”

“And you believed they’d let us free if they had you?”

“I thought it was worth a try,” he said, sadly. “And besides,” he continued, “I thought you could use a man at your side.”

“How did you think
I
was going to use a man?” she asked with just the trace of an ironic smile. “Here?”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Maybe I can help. Without me there were only two women and three kids.”

“Not the way you are,” she said. “You aren’t going to help at all, hurt the way you are.” But her look belied her words, confirming
that she was glad he had done what he had done—even risked what he had risked.

And then Matthew Kean reappeared. He was accompanied by his father, George, and two other men that Teresa did not recognize.

“Who’s the older one?” Graham whispered to her when the others started to walk up.

“That’s George Kean,” she answered. “Matthew’s father. And,” she took in a breath, “Ben’s.”

Graham didn’t say anything then. He simply tried to give the two Keans and the other men as hard and as cold a stare as circumstances
would allow.

And then Graham struggled to his feet. He didn’t want to talk to these people lying on his back. He was able to stand, but
only with Teresa’s help. She stood behind him, propping him up.

The Keans moved forward, leaving the other two behind them. Evidently they were acting as guards.

“Your note said you were going to let the women and children go,” Graham said angrily to George. George, meanwhile, had settled
himself down in the big chair. Matthew stood next to his shoulder.

“You’re right,” George said to Matthew, looking up at his son, “he is a feisty one.”

“Your note said you’d let them go,” Graham persisted.

“Yep, it did,” George said. “And I will keep my word on that. I’ll let ‘em go. But not yet. We’ve got other things they need
to do first.”

“You have me now…” Graham said, but his voice trailed off. He knew there was no use arguing with them.

“Now,” George said with a smile, pleased at Graham’s change of attitude, “do you want to hear what’s going to happen?”

“Go ahead,” Graham said, choking a little. He was losing his voice as a result of the beating.

“Here, take some water,” Teresa said, offering him a glass.

He took it with his good hand and drank a sip.

“Now,” George began again, “I do want to tell you what’s about to happen to you. You need to have it in your minds, so you
can look on it and dwell on it total and entire … until I do it.”