by Jack Higgins
He poured raw whiskey over the open wound, and the young captain cried out. Josh passed over the curved needle threaded with silk.
Clay said, “Stand behind the chair and hold him.”
Josh did as he was told, and as General Lee watched impassively, Clay poured whiskey over his hands, the needle and the thread, held the lips of the wound together and passed the needle through the flesh, and mercifully at that first stroke, Brown cried out again and fainted.
An hour later, after a meal of some sort of beef stew, Clay and Lee sat at the table and enjoyed a whiskey. Outside, the rain poured relentlessly.
“Well, here we are at the last end of the night on the road to nowhere,” Lee said.
Clay nodded. “General, it’s a known fact that President Lincoln offered you command of the Yankee army on the outbreak of hostilities. No one disputes your position as the greatest general of the war.” He helped himself to another whiskey. “I wonder how different things might have been?”
“Waste of time thinking that way, Clay,” Lee told him. “My fellow Virginians were going to war. I couldn’t desert them. After all, what about you? You’re from good Irish American stock, your father and that brother of his. You went to Europe, medical schools in London and Paris. You’re a brilliant surgeon, yet you chose my path.”
Clay laughed. “Yes, but I’m Georgia-born, General, so, like you, I had no choice.”
“You’re too much like your father. I was sorry to hear of his death. Three months ago, I believe.”
“Well, everybody knew he’d been operating schooners out of the Bahamas, blockade-running. He took the pitcher to the well too often. He was on one of his own boats when they ran into a Yankee frigate. It went down with all hands.”
Lee nodded gravely. “Your mother died early. I remember her well. Your father, as I recall, was somewhat of a duellist.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“And the elder brother, your uncle?”
“On my grandfather’s death, he inherited an estate in the west of Ireland. He had a plantation only twenty miles from here. Left it in the hands of a manager.”
“So what happens now?” Lee asked.
“God knows, General. What happens to all of us?”
“It’s simple, Clay. I’ve had contact with Grant. We meet at Appomattox tomorrow to discuss surrender terms.” He brooded. “Grant and I served in the Mexican Wars together. Ironic it’s ended this way.” He shrugged. “He’s a good soldier and an honorable man. I’ve already made it clear in a communication that I want all of my men who own their own horses to keep them.”
“And he’s agreed?”
“Yes.”
There was a moan from Brown lying on the truckle bed in the corner. Josh, who had been sitting on watch, got an arm around him as the young captain sat up. Clay went to him at once.
“How do you feel?”
“Terrible.”
“Come and sit by the fire.”
“I’ll get him some coffee,” Josh said, and went out.
Brown slumped into a chair, and Lee asked, “Are you all right, boy?”
“Fine, sir. Hurts like hell, but there it is.” He turned to Clay. “My thanks, Colonel.”
“My pleasure.”
“I was hoping to meet you. Your uncle had a house near here. Fairoaks?”
“That’s right. He went to Ireland and left a manager in charge.”
“Well, he used to have a house. Burned to the ground by Yankee cavalry. I passed it two days ago. One of the field hands had a letter. Some lawyer from Savannah called, looking for you. Said he’d be at Butler’s Tavern for a week. Name of Regan.”
“I know Butler’s Tavern. It’s about thirty miles from here.”
“The letter said if he couldn’t get you there, he’d be in Savannah. You know this man?”
Clay nodded. “My father was a blockade-runner. Regan managed his affairs.”
“Sorry I don’t have the letter, Colonel. We were in a skirmish with Yankee cavalry just after I got it, and it disappeared.”
“That’s fine,” Clay said. “You’ve told me what I need to know.”
Josh came in with coffee in a tin cup and gave it to Brown. Clay turned to Lee. “What now, sir?”
“For me, Clay, Appomattox and the final end of our cause. Humiliation, of course, but I see no need for you and your men to endure it. You have family business to attend to. I think I’d prefer it if you and your men simply faded into the night. I should think that in ones and twos you’d have little difficulty in passing through the Yankee lines, especially in such wooded country.”
“Is that your order, General?”
“My suggestion.” Lee held out a hand. “We ran a good course, my friend. Just go.”
The emotion was hard to bear. Clay shook hands. “General.” He turned and walked out and Josh followed.
He found his men under the trees, sheltering under two stretched tarpaulins beside a fire. Sergeant Jackson stood up.
“What’s happening, General?”
“Not general any longer. Back to colonel, boys. I’ve seen General Lee. He carries on to Appomattox tomorrow, where he will surrender to General Grant.” There was a stunned silence from the men. “It’s over, boys.”
Young Corporal Tyree said, “But what are we going to do, Colonel? All I know is the war. I joined at fourteen.”
“I know, Corporal. General Lee’s suggestion is that we slip away in small groups, pass through the Yankee lines and go home.” He turned to Josh. “The money bag.”
Josh produced a leather purse from the bottom of the surgical bag. “Here you go, Colonel.”
Clay handed it to Sergeant Jackson. “One hundred English gold sovereigns. Distribute it equally. It’s the best I can do, and don’t let’s prolong this. It’s too painful.”
“Colonel.” Jackson’s voice was a whisper as he took the money.
Clay walked away, then turned. “It’s been an honor to serve with you. Now get the hell out of here,” and he turned again and walked away through the rain.
The rain continued like a biblical deluge. It was as if the end of the world had come, which, in effect, it had, as Lee’s army struggled toward Appomattox, and it was late afternoon when Clay and Josh emerged from the trees on the bluff above Butler’s Tavern. It was on the other side of the stream below, an old rambling building of stone, single-storeyed and with a shingle roof. Smoke curled out of the great stone chimney at the eastern end.
“Looks quiet enough to me, Colonel,” Josh observed.
“Well, keep your hand on that shotgun just in case,” and Clay urged his horse down the slope.
They splashed across the ford and advanced to the hitching rail, where two mounts stood in the pouring rain, still saddled.
“A poor way to treat good horseflesh,” Josh said.
“Yes, well not ours,” Clay told him and dismounted, handing him his reins. “Put them in the barn, Josh, then join me inside. Some hot food and a drink wouldn’t come amiss. I’ll see if Regan is here.”
Josh wheeled away and Clay went up the steps to the porch, opened the door and passed inside.
There was a log fire in a great stone fireplace, a bar with a slate top, bottles on the shelves behind. A young girl stood behind the bar, drying some glasses. She was no more than eighteen, her straggling hair tied up, and she wore an old gingham frock. Her face was swollen, as if she had been weeping.
Two men sat at a table by the window wolfing down stew from well-filled tin plates. They were both unshaven and wore shabby blue infantry uniforms. They stopped eating as Clay paused, and took in his grey uniform and Dragoon Colt in the black holster. He looked them over as if they weren’t there and walked to the bar, spurs clinking.
“Mr. Holt, the owner, is he around?”
“Killed three days ago, sir, riding back from town. Someone shot him out of the saddle. I’m his niece, Sybil.”
“Have you anyone to help?”
&nb
sp; “Two young black boys worked the stables, sir, but they’ve run away.”
One of the men at the table sniggered, the other laughed then said, “Hey, bitch, another bottle of whiskey here.”
Clay turned to face them. “I figure I’m first in line here. Show some manners.”
One of them, the one with a red kerchief round his neck, started to his feet, and Clay put a hand on the butt of the Dragoon. The man subsided, eyes wild.
Clay said to the girl, “I was looking for a friend, a Mr. Regan?”
“He has a room at the back, sir.”
“Would you be kind enough to tell him Colonel Clay Fitzgerald is here?”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
She went through to the back and Clay moved behind the bar, took down a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, as the door opened and Josh entered, water dripping from the brim of his hat.
“Taken care of, Colonel, and I took pity on those two mounts outside, put ’em in the barn, too.”
The two men stopped eating and the one with the red kerchief at his neck said, “Niggers stand outside in the rain, that’s their proper place, and I don’t take kindly to you touching my horse, boy.”
Clay laid his Dragoon on the bar, and poured two glasses of whiskey. “Over here, Josh. A young lady’s gone for Regan. Somebody shot Holt.”
Josh produced the sawn-off from his left pocket and came forward. He took one of the glasses and savored the whiskey.
“Now I wonder who would have done a thing like that, Colonel?”
At that moment, young Sybil appeared, Regan behind her, a small, bearded man of middle years, wearing steel-rimmed glasses. He grasped Clay’s hand warmly.
“Colonel, a pleasure to see you alive.” He turned to Josh. “And you, Joshua.”
“You’ve news for me, I believe,” Clay said. “You left word at Fairoaks.”
“That’s right. Let’s sit down.”
He drew Clay to the fire and sat opposite him. Josh leaned against the wall, watching the two men. Sybil stayed behind the bar, drying glasses.
“I had business in the area, Clay, and hoped you’d be close to Lee and I wanted to check out things at Fairoaks.”
“It’s not good, I hear.”
“Burned to the ground by Yankee cavalry. Nothing for you there, Clay.”
“Never thought there would be.”
“The thing is, I’ve got more bad news. Your uncle Sean died a month ago and left you no money, only two properties: Fairoaks, burned to the ground, and Claremont, the old family house in Ireland that he returned to when your grandfather died. In a manner of speaking, it’s suffered a similar fate. It’s half burned to the ground.”
“What are you telling me?”
“There’s trouble in Ireland these days, lots of trouble. Rebels who call themselves Fenians, who want to throw the English out.”
“But my uncle was Irish American.”
“Who owned a big house, a large estate. The aristocracy’s seen to be on the side of the establishment.”
“Hell, at the end of it, what does it matter?” Clay told him. “Two burned-out properties. I end up with nothing.”
“Not really,” Regan said. “I’ve got documents with me for you to sign, relating to your uncle’s estate. Then I need you in Savannah.”
“And why would that be?”
“To appear before Judge Archie Dean for your identity to be accepted by the court at the request of the Bank of England in London.”
There was a pause. “Why?” Clay persisted.
“Your father made a fortune blockade-running, Clay, but he was always foxy and he knew the South would lose. So, he deposited his funds in London and some in Paris.”
Clay said, “What are we talking about?”
“Well, forget about American currency. Confederate money is a joke and the dollar is strained. If we stick with pounds sterling, I’d say there’s somewhere over a million.” There was silence as Clay stared at him, and Regan said lamely, “Of course, I do have my fees.”
Clay looked up at Josh in astonishment, and behind them, the man in the red kerchief snarled at Sybil, “Hey, bitch, let’s have another bottle.”
She hesitated, then took one down from a shelf and came from behind the bar. As she reached the table, the other man grabbed her, pulled her on his knee and yanked up her skirt. She cried out.
Josh said, “God, how I hate that.”
Clay stood up, walked forward and produced the Dragoon. He rammed the muzzle into the forehead of the one fondling the girl. “Let her go now or I’ll blow your brains out.”
The man released his grip slowly; Sybil slipped away. Red Kerchief said, “No offense, Colonel.”
“Oh, but you have offended me,” Clay told him. “Take their pistols, Josh.” Josh complied and Clay stood back. “Out we go, straight to the barn, and be sensible. Just ride away.”
They stood glaring at him, then turned and walked out through the door, Clay and Josh following them. Clay stayed on the porch and watched Josh take them to the barn, shotgun ready. They went inside. A few moments later, they emerged on horseback.
“Damn you to hell, Colonel!” Red Kerchief called, and they rode away.
Josh turned and moved back to the porch.
In the darkness beyond the fence, Red Kerchief turned and reached into his saddlebag, taking out a Colt. “You got your spare?” he demanded.
“I sure as hell do,” his companion said.
“Then let’s take them,” and they turned and galloped back out of the darkness, already firing.
Josh turned, dropping to one knee, and gave Red Kerchief both barrels. Clay’s Dragoon came up in one smooth motion and he shot the other out of the saddle.
Sybil and Regan came out of the door behind and Clay said, “No problem, child, we’ll dispose of the bodies before we leave.”
Regan said, “You all right, Clay?”
“Not really,” Clay said. “I’ve been killing people for four years. Frankly, I could do with a change.”
Joshua walked back, reloading his shotgun. “What kind of a change, Colonel?”
Clay holstered his Dragoon, took a cheroot from his silver box and lit it. He blew out smoke. “Josh,” he said, “how would you like to go to Ireland?”
IRELAND
1865
1
The coach lurched violently to one side as a wheel dipped into a pothole and the luggage piled upon the opposite seat was thrown against the man sleeping in the far corner, hat tilted forward over his eyes.
Clay awakened as the vehicle came to a halt. They had been four hours on this apology for a road, and since leaving Galway conditions had got steadily worse.
He glanced out of the window at the rain soaking into the ground. The road ran through a narrow valley beside a small stream, with a scattering of trees on the far side shrouded in mist.
He opened the door and stepped down into the mud.
Joshua said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Colonel, but I always understood you to say that Europe was civilized.”
He wore a heavy greatcoat buttoned tightly to his chin and a horse blanket was draped across his knees. Rain dripped steadily from the brim of his felt hat as he sat with the reins of the coach in his hands.
Clay turned slowly and grinned. “This is Ireland,” he said. “My father always told me God made things a little bit different here.”
Joshua wiped rain from his face with one sleeve. “I’d say the good Lord forgot about this place a long time ago, Colonel. I’m beginning to wonder what we’re doing here.”
“So am I, Josh,” Clay told him. “So am I.” As the rain increased in force with a sudden rush, he continued, “You look like a drowned rat. Better let me take over for a while and you can ride inside.”
“I’m so wet already, it doesn’t make any difference,” Joshua said.
Clay shook his head. “No arguments. Come down and get inside. That’s an order.”
His tone brooke
d no denial and Joshua sighed, threw back the blanket and started to clamber down. At that moment, two horsemen moved out of the trees and splashed across the stream.
The leader reined in sharply so that his horse danced sideways on its hind legs, crowding Clay against the side of the coach and splashing him with mud. A shock of yellow hair showed beneath the brim of his battered hat, and the eyes above the red bandana which covered the lower half of his face were vivid blue. His rough coat was buttoned up to the neck and he held a shotgun crooked in his left arm.
Four years of being on the losing side in a particularly unpleasant war had taught Clay Fitzgerald to accept the vagaries of life as they came. He produced his purse and said calmly, “Presumably, this is what you want?”
Before the man could reply, his companion, who had reined in on the other side of the coach, moved round and said in an awed voice, “Would you look at this now, Dennis? A black man. Did you ever see the like?”
The man addressed as Dennis laughed. “Every time a Spanish boat puts in at Galway.” He snatched the purse from Clay’s hand and hefted it. “Rather light for a fine gentleman like yourself.”
Clay shrugged. “Only a fool would carry more in times like these.”
The man slipped the purse into a pocket and leaned forward. “That’s a fine gold chain you’ve got there,” he said, pointing to Clay’s waistcoat. “Would there be a watch to go with it?”
“A family heirloom,” Clay told him. “My father left it to me. You’d get little for it.”
The man reached down and grabbed for the chain, tearing it free with a ripping of cloth. He held it up and examined the watch. “A gold hunter, no less. I’ve wanted one all me life.” He shook his head reprovingly. “You’ve not been honest with me, me bucko, and that makes me wonder what might be travelling with you in the coach.” He turned to his companion. “Pull his baggage out into the road and go through it quickly.”
The boy dismounted, pushed Clay roughly out of the way and leaned inside the coach. After a moment, he turned, a black leather bag in one hand. “You’ll find nothing of value in there,” Clay told him. “Only some surgical instruments and medical drugs.”
