Chapter 16
An hour after dusk, a lone rider was seen by a boy making his way home from the city. The figure was unmistakable. The child ran home to tell his father that David Drummond was back. A farmer also leaving the fields saw the rider, too. He told his friends at the tavern. Drummond was toasted and wished God's protection.
A few people in the tavern had not lifted their ales to the man's health. They finished their drinks and reported the sightings. Riders were sent out quickly to investigate. They scoured the area but found only a few tracks heading into the damp hills. Near midnight, a figure was noticed in a hollow on a black horse. Chase was given.
Phileas did not know he had been seen until the muffled hoofbeats in the soft damp hills were heard. He had taken off, riding for the cover of a small, wooded area, deeply grateful that David's horse was of good quality. Once in the trees, he blended into the shadows like a ghost in his black outfit on a jet horse. His pursuers came within a few yards of him at one point, but could not see him for the brush. He kept hidden until the damp morning brought a thick mist to the hills. He used that cover to make his way back to the inn.
A second black clad rider on a dark chestnut mount watched the road heading into the Kingston estate. The rider saw no coach approaching the house, only an old wagon carrying a trunk with two men in attendance. She cursed the caution she had been forced to observe. The road and surrounding country were as open as Phileas had said. They would have been spotted immediately. They might have taken the wagon if there had been cover for their approach.
Just intolerable for him to be right so often.
The late-night dinner party had been in full swing when the wagon reached the back kitchen doors. Its cargo was carried down to the wine cellars with an entourage of witnesses.
"You had best have the right man, Charlie," Kingston said. "We have had witnesses claiming to have seen Drummond on the roads for two nights."
"I swear, sir, this is the right man," Charlie said. "I know Drummond and got a good look at him before and after we pulled him out of the carriage. We followed him from the clinic where the O'Donnell girl was. He spent the entire night there at her bedside. If that ain't enough to assure you, see him for yourself."
"My very intention," Kingston said.
David Fogg saw light, blinding light. His trunk had been opened to the first glimpse of light since his one meal on the road. He raised his hand and squinted against the offending light.
His arm was pulled, and the trunk overturned, throwing him to a damp stone floor. He was dragged across it and thrown against a wall. His hands were manacled with chains, while the cloth bindings on his wrists and the ropes at his feet were removed.
For the first time in two, maybe three days, David could stretch and move his limbs. Blood worked its way back to his hands, making them tingle and ache. David leaned into the wall for support as his legs threatened to buckle.
A mocking voice came to his ears, several rude voices. One was Kingston's. That voice was gloating to someone outside the lamplight about how Ireland handles criminals of his, Drummond's, caliber. Another voice belonged to Brandon Ashley. That old enemy rammed his cane into David's stomach. When the chained prisoner doubled over, his head was quickly jerked back up by the hair and slammed against the stonewall, bringing him to his knees.
Ashley's glowering face scowled in David's view. "I warned you when you crossed me, I would repay your insolence tenfold. See if you can smirk my words off now." The landowner growled angrily as the cane was swung down into David's middle again.
"Now, now, my friend," Kingston said. "No more of that. If you break any bones, he won't be able to stand straight when we put him on the gibbet."
Ashley moved out of the light to allow a third spectator to take his place. This one was a young man dressed up like he was headed to a formal dinner. The young man did not approach him any closer or speak. He just watched from a distance.
"See what Irish justice can do, my good fellows?" Kingston was saying. "Our agents of the law apprehended him, a highwayman, in your fair country. No doubt he thought the change in scenery would hide his identity. We do not let blackguards of this type go so easily."
A young Frenchman looking at the accused tried to take in the battered appearance of the once immaculate Fogg with controlled indifference. It did not quite happen. At the end of Kingston's pretty speech on the thoroughness of Irish justice, he turned and saw the look at the shock and disgust on his guest's face at the condition of the prisoner. For a moment he saw the scene from the viewpoint of a disinterested party and realized the mistake of allowing Drummond to be seen before he could be cleaned up and fed.
"Don't concern yourself, sir," Kingston said. "Mail packets are rough transportation and keeping him hidden from his many accomplices was necessary. You were told how the ignorant around here hero-worship the blackguard?"
Verne nodded.
"He will be given food from the banquet and a chance to clean up and recover. He'll be good as new by morning." Kingston ushered the Frenchman and his other guests out, leaving Drummond with one lantern.
David Fogg blinked, adjusted to the glow of only one light source. Carefully, he allowed himself to slip down the wall into the hay. He was cold, hungry, and sore from the trip and minor beating. But all-in-all, his spirits were recovering. He stretched out his legs and arms, flexing the muscles, grateful the chains holding him were long. He fell sideways, breathing shallowly as he assessed his recent damage.
Nothing major, just more bruises.
David reviewed the promise of a mock trial before walking into a hangman's noose. Even so, his poor circumstances did not overwhelm him. The young dandy who had been brought to view Irish justice was a dressed-up version of his cousin's friend from France. If Jules Verne was here, then so was Phileas. Hope spread through him. For once in his time as David Drummond in Ireland, he would not be alone.
