Pay the Devil (v5) (2 page)

“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?”

“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 brooked 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.”

The boy opened the bag and examined the contents. “He’s telling the truth, Dennis,” he said, holding it up so that his companion could have a look.

“So you’re a doctor, are you?” Dennis said.

Clay nodded. “Among other things.”

“I’ve the greatest respect for the profession,” Dennis told him. “On another occasion, I’d let ye pass, but these are hard times, and at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing your money is going to a good cause.” He nodded to the boy. “See what else ye can find.”

Clay thought of the hundred gold sovereigns hidden inside his spare riding boots at the bottom of the leather travelling trunk and sighed. He slid one foot forward tentatively, ready to grab for the shotgun when the right opportunity presented itself.

At that moment, a cry sounded from somewhere nearby, that was immediately followed by the flat report of a rifle, muffled by the rain. The bullet dented the ground beside the coach. Dennis cursed, trying to control his frightened horse with one hand, as he turned and looked behind him.

Several riders were plunging down the hillside toward them, and Dennis turned and menaced Clay with the shotgun. “Up with you, Marteen,” he said to his companion.

The boy swung a leg over the broad back of his mare and dug his heels into its sides. Without a word, Dennis followed him. They splashed across the stream and broke into a canter on the other side, disappearing like shadows into the mist.

Joshua scrambled down to the ground and leaned against the coach while he mopped his damp face with a handkerchief. “Colonel, what kind of a country
is
this?”

Clay shrugged. “Everything that lawyer told me in Galway must be true. I thought he was exaggerating.” He grinned. “Don’t tell me an old campaigner like you were frightened?”

“I stopped being frightened after Pittsburgh Landing, when we rode into that Yankee Artillery regiment in the dark and you bluffed our way right out again,” Joshua told him. “I was only worried in case you tried something silly.”

“I must admit I was thinking about it,” Clay said.

Joshua snorted. “Then that shot came just in time to save you from getting your fool head blown off.”

At that moment, the riders who had been making their way down the hillside reached the coach. Three of them galloped straight across the stream without stopping and disappeared into the mist on the other side. The fourth reined in his horse and dismounted.

He was in his early thirties, thickset and muscular, in muddy jackboots and tweed riding coat, his mouth cruel in a pale face. Clay disliked him on sight.

The man glanced curiously at Joshua and touched the brim of his hat briefly with his riding crop. “Colonel Fitzgerald?” Clay nodded and he went on, “It seems we arrived not a moment too soon. My name is Burke. I’m Sir George Hamilton’s agent. He heard you had arrived in Galway yesterday and sent me to meet you. Did you receive his letter safely?”

Clay nodded. “It was waiting for me when I visited my uncle’s lawyers yesterday.” He smiled ruefully. “A pity you didn’t arrive five minutes sooner. I’d have been fifteen sovereigns and a gold watch the richer. Have you any idea who they were?”

Burke shrugged. “The country is swarming with such rogues. If we catch them, they’ll tell the judge they were true patriots collecting funds for the organization and damn the Queen’s eyes in the same breath.”

“I see,” said Clay. “Do these men belong to this Fenian Brotherhood I heard so much about in Galway?”

“Fenians, Moonlighters, Ribbonmen.” Burke shrugged. “There are several of these secret societies, all hell-bent on setting Ireland free, as they call it.” The rain continued its steady monotonous downpour and he went on briskly, “But this is no place for a conversation, Colonel. Sir George is hoping you’ll spend the night with him. If you’ll get back in to your coach, I’ll lead the way.”

Clay shook his head. “That’s very kind of him, but I prefer to go on to Claremont tonight. Is it far from here?”

“Drumore is another four miles along the road,” Burke told him. “Claremont is about a mile the other side of it.” He seemed to hesitate, a slight frown on his face and then went on, “You’ll find cold comfort there tonight, Colonel, and that’s a fact. The house isn’t fit for man nor beast.”

“But I understand my uncle was living in it until his death,” Clay said. “Surely it can’t have deteriorated to such an extent?”

“But you’re forgetting about the fire,” Burke said.

Clay shook his head. “No, the lawyers gave me full details. I understand the damage was extensive.”

Burke nodded. “Most of the house went. Your uncle lived in the west wing for the last six months of his life. It was the only part left with a roof.”

Clay shrugged. “There have been many occasions during the past four years, Mr. Burke, when I desired nothing more of life than a roof over my head—any kind of roof. If my uncle managed to continue living there, I’m sure I’ll survive.”

“Suit yourself, Colonel.” Burke swung into the saddle of his horse and gathered the reins in his left hand. “One thing more,” he said. “Mind how you go when you reach Drumore. They don’t take kindly to strangers.”

“Not even to one called Fitzgerald?” Clay asked, with a smile.

Burke’s face was grim. “These are hard times, Colonel, as I think you’ll be finding out for yourself before very long.” He spurred his horse forward and disappeared around a bend in the road.

Clay stood gazing after him, a frown on his face. He turned and said to Joshua, “What do you think?”

Joshua shrugged. “It can’t be any worse than some of the places we slept in during the war, Colonel. One thing’s for sure, I don’t like that man.”

Clay grinned. “As usual, we’re in complete agreement. There’s something unpleasant about him, something I can’t quite put a finger on, but it’s there.”

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance and he reached into the coach and, taking out a heavy overcoat, pulled it on. “It looks as if the weather intends to get worse before it gets better, and I’m beginning to get bored with this particular view of the countryside. If you’ll get in, we’ll move on.”

For a moment, Joshua hesitated, as if he intended to argue the point, and then he sighed heavily and climbed inside. Clay slammed the door behind him and then pulled himself up into the driver’s seat and reached for the reins. A moment later, they were moving along the muddy road.

Rain dripped from the edge of his hat, but he ignored it, his hands steady on the reins. He considered his conversation with Burke and asked himself again, and not for the first time, why he had come to Ireland.

Certainly there had been nothing to keep him in Georgia. Four years of war had left him with only one desire—peace. It was ironic that he should have come to Ireland of all places in search of it. If the stories he had been told in Galway were true, and the events of the past hour seemed to bear them out, he was stepping straight into the heart of an area racked by every conceivable kind of outrage and murder.

The elementary justice of Ireland’s claim to self-government was something he had learned at his father’s knee, together with harsh, bitter accounts of the treatment meted out to the unfortunate peasantry by English landlords. Later, his years as a medical student in London and Paris, and then the war, had all conspired to push the matter into a back corner of his mind as something relatively unimportant, in that it did not affect him personally.

However much the native Irish had right on their side, highway robbery was no way in which to attract sympathizers, he reflected, thinking of the two thieves. It occurred to him for the first time that although their clothing had been rough, their horses had been superb animals and he frowned, wondering who they were and what had driven them to such a deed.

Perhaps they were members of this Fenian Brotherhood he had heard so much about? He brushed rain from his face and dismissed the thought from his mind. Whatever happened, he intended to keep strictly neutral. At most, he would stay at Claremont a month or two. After that, Sir George Hamilton could have his way and buy the place at the price suggested in the letter Clay had found waiting for him in Galway on the previous day.

It was dusk as they came into Drumore and rain was still falling steadily. The cottages were small and mean, with roofs of turf and thatch, and the blue smoke from their fires hung heavily in the rain. There were perhaps twenty or thirty of these dwellings scattered on either side of the narrow, unpaved street for a distance of some hundred yards.

About halfway along the street, they came to a public house, and as Clay heard the sounds of laughter from inside, he reined in the horse and jumped to the ground.

The building was rather more substantial than the others, with a yard to one side and stables in which several horses were standing, their flanks steaming in the damp air. The board nailed to the wall above the door carried the legend COHAN’S BAR in faded lettering.

Joshua leaned out of the window. “What have we stopped for, Colonel?”

Clay shook rain from his hat and replaced it on his head. “Remembering Burke’s account of the state of things at Claremont, a bottle of brandy might come in very useful before the night is out. Have you any money handy?”

Joshua fumbled inside his left sleeve and finally extracted a leather purse, which he passed across. Clay opened it and took out a sovereign. “This should be enough to buy the place up, from the looks of it,” he said, giving Joshua his purse back. “I’ll only be a moment.”

The door opened easily at his touch and he stepped inside, closing it behind him. The place was thick with smoke and illuminated by two oil lamps which swung from one of the blackened beams supporting the ceiling. A turf fire smoldered across the room and eight or nine men crowded round the bar, listening attentively to a tall youth of twenty or so, whose handsome and rather effeminate face was topped by a shock of yellow hair.

For the moment, Clay remained unnoticed and he stayed with his back to the door and listened.

“And what happened then, Dennis?” a voice demanded.

Dennis leaned against the bar, face flushed, a glass of whiskey in one hand. “It’s for a good cause, me fine gentleman, says I, and if you’re honest with me, you’ll come to no harm. His face was the color of whey and his hand was shaking that much, he dropped his purse in the mud.”