by Russell Kirk
Up this dim path, surely little but sheep, goats, and deer had gone for many years. Here and there a hazel bush clung to the cliff’s edge. Though the day was cool, that sharp climb made Logan pant. After half an hour, he was at the summit, and much of Carnglass spread out before him – or would have been visible, had not the mist been growing thicker. He could make out the big hill – on the map it was called Mucaird – in the middle of the island, but the ridge and hill would have shut off Old House and New House, even had the day been clear. As a gust of wind in this high place dissolved the fog for a few moments, he glimpsed a derelict farm or sheep-steading nestled against Mucaird. And the valley between him and the high hill was not an even plateau, but rugged and broken with spurs of rock, though the bracken waved over the higher parts of it. He turned his glasses toward the south. There, across the deep blue of the Sound of Carnglass, lay the low isle of Daldour.
Now he would have to descend the inner face of a cliff, perhaps four hundred feet high, to the green valley: a descent more precarious than the climb from Dalcruach, for boulders lay tumbled upon the inner face, as if ready to fall to the valley floor, and their shapes were hidden by a dense growth of fern. He must step with care. Down he started.
But about three boulders down, he halted again. The mist – here it hung cloud-like – lay just over his head, the sunlight coming through in a dim religious way. At the moment, the valley beneath him, nevertheless, was quite clear of fog. And almost straight down, in the part of the valley at the foot of his cliff, men were moving. Logan turned his binoculars upon them.
Away to his left, a small puppet that must be a very big man was running frantically across the valley floor, just here rocky and bare. Some two hundred yards behind him, three other men trotted. These were armed men: it was rifles they seemed to be carrying. None of them were looking upward toward Logan. One of the three halted, knelt, brought his gun to his shoulder, and fired. The report echoed uncannily from the cliffs. He had shot at the big man leaping toward the further rocks: there could be no doubt of it.
But the big man was not hit. He had reached some boulders near the southern cliff, and now crouched behind one of them, drawing something from the long cloak or coat he wore. As his three pursuers came on – the man must have been hidden from their view, Logan thought – a report came from behind the cluster of boulders: the big man had a pistol. Immediately after firing, the man in the coat darted on to the next clump of boulders, and waited there. Stooping and taking what cover they could in the bracken, his three adversaries cautiously pushed forward, about ten yards from one another. The big man held the advantage of higher ground. As the three neared the rocks he had just left, and so came within range of his pistol, the big man fired a second time. Now the three pursuers fell flat on their faces, for the bullet seemed to have ricocheted against a boulder perilously close to the foremost rifleman. And taking advantage of their discomfiture, the big man scrambled on toward the mouth of a small ravine that appeared to twist into the southern cliff.
Swinging his glasses toward the three riflemen, Logan thought he caught some movement to their rear. He focused the binoculars. Though he could not be sure, it seemed to him that someone or something was stealthily drawing closer, through bracken and gorse, to the three men. Whatever it might be – and if it was not an optical illusion – it kept hid in the green stuff; no head ever showed. If there, it must be moving on all fours, beast-like; what one detected was not a form, but a trail of movement through the dense bracken, to be discerned only by an observer who, like Logan, was perched high above.
Logan looked back toward the big man, who was just disappearing into the gully or den at the southern cliff. Two of the pursuers, who now had got to their feet, fired at him as they stood. The big man stumbled, recovered, and was gone into the recess. And the riflemen resumed, at a walk, their tracking. Then the bank of mist settled over Logan’s head and lower into the valley, cutting Logan off from sight of whatever was happening below. He heard two more shots, though; and then silence followed. Through all this, no human voice had drifted up to him.
Logan clung astonished to his perch. Here in Carnglass were wheels within wheels. He had suspected something was amiss in the island: but to discover, as if he were an Olympian looking down upon the follies of humankind, this curious sport of island man-hunting was bewildering even to Hugh Logan, who had been around. This, after all, was a small corner of Great Britain, in the year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and sixty. In Mutto’s Wynd, his own struggle with Jock Anderson’s gang conceivably might have been only a chance encounter; and even if it had been part of someone’s design, no more had been meant, perhaps, than a brutal robbery. The sinister-ludicrous figure of Captain Gare had come to him at Oban through no chance encounter, but that insubstantial personality had vanished before a little chaffing. This affair in the valley of Carnglass was deadly serious – this stalking of a man as if he were a rabbit. And Logan had not the faintest notion of what pursuers and pursued might be.
So what should he do now? The mist, reinforced by a light rain, had become so dense below him that the remaining descent of the cliff, in these conditions, would be almost foolhardy until some sunlight worked its way through. In any event, what with this delay, it seemed improbable that he could make his way to the Old House before sunset. And, judging from the silent hunters far below, to knock at the gate of the Old House after sunset might be highly imprudent. Logan did not relish the thought of being taken for the big man with the pistol, supposing that person still to be in the land of the living. Besides, the quarry might be doubling back across the valley by this time, and for Logan to descend unknown into that scene from the Inferno, with bullets flying, wasn’t the best policy for a rising man of law. Everything considered, he had better creep back along the dim path to Dalcruach, and there spend another night in the black house, even though this must mean he had taken a full week to reach Lady MacAskival. He could make a safer start early in the morning; perhaps Lady MacAskival’s demoniac gillies did not hunt before breakfast. And there was a queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. It was thoroughly improbable that any man would try to make his way over the cliff to Dalcruach this evening, what with fog, wind, and the clammy emptiness of the dead clachan in the cul-de-sac.
So Logan, still marvelling, shuffled carefully back toward Dalcruach, where he could enjoy the peat fire, and eat his remaining sandwiches, and write some memoir of this past week to post to Duncan MacAskival when the business was accomplished. He had found a kerosene lamp on one of the shelves, with fuel still in it. He might even read a bit in old Balmullo, for the sake of settling his nerves. Though the hasp was torn loose, the heavy door could be barred from within by a balk of sea-worn timber that fitted into holes on either side of the door-frame; and Logan did bar it. Now no one could get at him suddenly except through the thatch of the roof. And if folk outside did not know Logan to be unarmed, they would think twice about bursting blindly through the roof. Lighting the lamp, Logan took some sheets of paper – somewhat blurred and dampened by water – from a pad in his pack, settled himself at the table, and began to write with his ball-point pen.
He would save the sandwiches until he had finished writing. He was hungry, though; and despite the moist air, his throat felt dry. Logan put down his pen, threw his oilskin over his shoulders, and went out to the spring that bubbled only ten yards from the door. Coming back with a full pail, he drank deep and put the rest of the water – tasting faintly of peat – by the shelves. He drew up the chair and resumed his writing.
Then a deep voice spoke behind him. “Will you be a writer, or a philosophist?” the voice said.
Upsetting his chair, Logan sprang nimbly round to face the voice. He saw a very big man in a drenched ragged overcoat; and in the man’s massive fist was a little old pistol, held steadily. The big man was bareheaded and baldheaded: a sloping dome of a head, with strong flattish features, battered and seared, and a broad, full-lipped mouth.
Blood was caked all down one cheek of that hard face, and seemed still to be oozing from a gash high on the bald skull, where a little flap of skin fell away from the bone.
Logan’s visitor stood gigantic in the shadows, close by the boxed bed; probably he had hidden there. “Don’t move your hands,” the deep voice said. “I’m Seamus Donley: so don’t move your hands. I said to you, ‘Will you be a writer, or a philosophist?’ Or, now, will you be a police-detective?”
Immobile, Logan thought he detected some humor in that wide mouth. “Good evening, Mr. Donley,” Logan said. “Put away that toy, and eat a sandwich with me.”
“Turn round, Mr. Police-Detective,” Donley told him, “and hold your hands high.” There was nothing else Logan could do; besides, if the man had meant to shoot him in the back, he could have done that already. Donley’s rough hands ran over and into Logan’s pockets. “Now where might your gun be, Mr. Police-Detective? Your friend Seamus has looked in your rucksack and in the bed already.” This was a wild Irishman: the brogue was pronounced, and possibly a little exaggerated, as if Donley strove for effect. “I have no gun, Mr. Donley.”
“Swing round again and let me look at you,” Donley grunted. He had stepped back a pace, by way of precaution, but in the lamp-light Logan saw clearly enough the reckless, not ill-natured face of a man in late middle age; and below that face an immense barrel-chest and powerful arms. The gunman must stand nearly six feet six. “Faith,” Donley went on, “I come near to believing you. You’ve the look of innocence. But whatever were they thinking of to send an acolyte of a police-detective after Jackman’s fellows? Now listen to me, Mr. Police-Detective: if you’ve a gun about you, fetch it out, for you need it as much as yours truly, Seamus Donley. Would the lads in the Republican Army ever have believed that Old Seamus should be asking a police-detective to help him? Sure, it’s your life, man, as much as mine. We can’t tell but Jackman’s chaps might be at the door this living minute.”
“I don’t understand you, Mr. Donley, and I didn’t bring a gun.”
Donley scowled. “Saints in heaven! Now’s no time for playing little games, Mr. Police-Detective. This is not London. Those fellows would put you over the cliff as quick as myself. That’s what they did with Lagg; but you can’t know that. You know me: any police-detective knows Seamus Donley, that lay in Derry gaol four hard years, breaking out last Christmas. Do you think it’s myself would be telling you my own name, and showing you my own face, if we’d no need for standing back to back? A fine young police-detective you are! Here, now: I’ll send Meg to bed.” He thrust the gun back inside his coat. “There, I’m trusting you, Mr. Police-Detective, and you must be after trusting me. We’ll put out the light, for ’tis a standing invite to Jackman and his bully boys.” Donley blew out the wick. “And we’ll trample the turfs.” Donley crushed under his boots most of the peats, and tossed ashes over the rest of the fire, leaving only a faint glow. “These three days gone, Mr. Police-Detective, Jackman’s gang have let me be after dark, but they might change; and there’s others might come.”
Logan groped about the table in the dark. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you much refreshment, Seamus Donley, but there are two sandwiches left, and most of a bottle of whiskey. Why do you take me for a detective?”
“I’d have eaten and drunk your victuals before now, Mr. Police-Detective, but you gave me no time. I’d but a moment to slip through your door and into your bed while you were at the well. A fine young police-detective you are! But Don-ley’s not the man to let his host go hungry.” He handed back half a sandwich to Logan, wolfing the others. “And the poteen: that’s the medicine for myself when I’ve been three days and nights in caves and bogs. One morning I caught a rabbit and ate it raw, and another time I cut a sheep’s throat and had a supper of the bloody ribs; but for the rest, it was birds’ eggs got on the cliffs and sucked on the run, and a few shellfish I pulled from the rocks on this very beach.”
Logan – his eyes had adjusted fairly well to the dark now – brought two tumblers from the shelves and filled them with whiskey. “Your health, Mr. Seamus Donley.”
The Irishman chuckled. “There’s this to be said, young fellow my lad: you’re a cool police-detective. And how do I know you’re a police-detective? Why, what else might you be? It’s not an Englishman that you are, though – there’s that for you. I’m thinking you’ll be an Edinburgh man.”
He might get more information out of Donley, Logan reflected, if he did not try to dispel this illusion. “More whiskey, Mr. Donley? Of course. And what is it I can do for you?”
Donley drained at a gulp his second tumbler of whiskey. He had taken a chair opposite Logan, and sat relaxed, though watchful: a hardened customer. “Why, just this, Mr. Police-Detective: first we’ll take those oars of yours out of this hovel, and then we’ll launch that boat of yours between the two of us, with myself inside, and then it’s Seamus for Scotland and Mr. Police-Detective back to his but-and-ben in Carnglass – back to Hell, that is.”
Upon the thatch the rain fell heavily now, and the wind has risen. “You have turned daft, Seamus Donley,” Logan said. “Listen to that wind. You’d never get over the skerries in that little old boat this night, let alone row to the mainland. Daldour would be the best you might hope for.”
“Daldour?” Donley snorted. “And land among the heathens? Why not the Cannibal Isles? Besides, there I would rot in Daldour till you, Mr. Police-Detective, might choose to come for me in the police-launch. No, it’s not Derry gaol for Seamus. It’s a Kerry man I am, and as good a boatman as any in these islands – born by Bantry Bay. No, I’ll be hid in Glasgow or Birmingham or Liverpool before you report to the Chief Constable, my boy – supposing that ever you get clear from Carnglass, which I do very much misdoubt.”
“If you must be fool enough to go boating this night, Mr. Donley, then wait an hour on the chance of the wind falling. The boat’s light enough for you and me to get her afloat, even so: the tide must be up beyond her now. The risk of this wind is greater than the risk of low water on the skerries.”
Bending forward, Donley gave Logan a light approving tap on the shoulder. “For a police-detective, you’re a decent sort. What would your name be?”
Logan told him.
“See here, Mr. Detective Logan: I’ll wait that hour, but no more. Never would I have guessed a police-detective would have a regard for Seamus Donley’s skin. And see here: you’d best come with me. If you’ll give myself your word of honor bright – you’re no Englishman, that I’ll say – to grant myself twelve hours pursuit-free once we set foot ashore, then it’s Seamus who’ll set you in Scotland safe, Mr. Scots Detective, and shake your hand at parting.”
“No, thank you, Seamus Donley,” Logan answered, “but I’ve business in Carnglass. Lady MacAskival will see that I get to Oban or Glasgow, when the business is done.”
“Lady MacAskival! Do you think they’d let you see her, or that the Old One gives orders today? And even were they all saints in Carnglass they’ve no boat to put at the service of one Mr. Logan, Police-Detective, with a face like the cherubim. Was it not my fire that fetched you here?”
“What fire?”
A note of pique came into Donley’s voice. “Then you will have known of Jackman’s doings earlier, and I’ve had half my labor in vain. I might have told Jackman that what with his crew, the police were sure to find him out. ’Tis this: I burnt the yacht and wrecked the launch three nights gone. That was for spiting and hindering Jackman. And I had hopes of folk spying the fire and sending word to shore.”
“Then they’ve had no communication with the mainland for three days?” This, Logan thought, could explain the confusion of Dowie and Gare.
“Three days? What with the storm, Jackman’s sent no messages, nor got any, all this week. The wireless is a wreck. Jackman will be raging like an imp from the Pit, that oily limb of Satan. Oh, he’ll be cursing the day he crossed Sea-mus Donley.”
He might worm the whole story grad
ually out of Donley, Logan hoped: it was clear enough that Donley assumed he already knew a good deal of it. “Tell me this, Mr. Donley, while we’re waiting here: what state are matters in at the Old House?”
“Do you take me for an informer?” The heavy voice, there in the smoky darkness, took on an ominous tone. It never would do to forget that Donley must be a thoroughly dangerous man.
“I take you for a man who’s been tricked, Mr. Seamus Donley, and who needs what aid he can find. While we’re on that topic, I’ll do what I can for that bloody spot on your head. Did a bullet come close to finishing you?” A little light shone from the peats, and by it Logan set to washing the wound and bandaging it with two clean handkerchiefs from his knapsack. Donley, gritting his teeth, seemed to trust Logan sufficiently to let him do the job, though he kept one hand upon the pistol within his coat. Logan put back the flap of skin upon the skull and improvised a kind of scarfbandage that probably would not endure long; he washed the caked blood from Donley’s lined face.
“No, that was a damned fall this afternoon, when Ferd was shooting at me, Mr. Detective Logan. In all my years with the I.R.A., I never came so close to my end. But I’ll even scores, trust Seamus for that.”
The man had not winced much during the bandaging. “Keep your hand in, my boy, and in no time you’ll be as fine a doctor as any at Dublin, or as Jackman himself. Jackman will be no true physician, but I’ll not need to be telling you that, Mr. Police-Detective. ’Tis a doctor of philosophy he’ll be, University of Leningrad, or Moscow. Yet I’m not the man to be stinting anyone of his praise: Jackman’s clever with splints and medicines, and all else under the sun. A clever child, Edmund Jackman. Jackman it was that drew me out of Derry gaol, he having use for me. Jackman it was, sure, but not for Seamus’ sake. For doing the Devil’s work, there’ll be none better than Jackman.”