Pay the Devil

Josh said, ‘With the general’s permission, I’d like to point out that when your daddy made me your body servant, you was eight years old. I’ve whipped your backside more than once, but only when you needed it, and I’ve gone through four years of stinking war with you.’

‘So what are you trying to say? That you always got your own way?’

‘Of course, so let’s do it,’ and Josh put his heels to his horse.

They went down fast, pulled in and cantered onto the bridge. The eight men, milling around the remaining prisoner, laughing and shouting, settled down and turned. They were all bearded and of a rough turn and armed to the teeth, the uniforms so worn that it was difficult to determine whether they were blue or grey.

The prisoner on the end of a rope was very young and wore a shabby Confederate uniform. He was soaked to the skin, blue with cold and despairing, shaking with fear.

Clay and Joshua reined in. Clay sat there, the cheroot in his teeth; Josh kept slightly back, his right hand in the capacious pocket of his frieze coat. The man who urged his horse toward them wore a long riding coat over whatever uniform. His face was hard, empty of any emotion, black-bearded. He reined up and took in Clay’s rank insignia on his collar.

‘Well, now, boys, what have we got here? A Reb cavalry colonel.’

‘Hey, he could be worth money,’ one of the men said.

It was quiet, the rain rushing down. Clay said, ‘Who am I dealing with?’

‘Name’s Harker; and who might you be?’

It was Josh who answered. ‘This here is Brigadier General Clay Fitzgerald, so you mind your manners.’

‘And you mind your mouth, nigger,’ Harker told him. He turned back to Clay. ‘So what do you want, General?’

‘The boy here,’ Clay said. ‘Just give me the boy.’

Harker laughed out loud. ‘The boy? Sure. My pleasure.’

He snatched the rope holding the young prisoner from one of the men, urged his horse forward and reined in, kicking the boy over the edge of the bridge. The rope tightened.

He turned. ‘How do you like that, General?’

Clay pulled out his sabre and sliced the rope left-handed. His right came up from under the cavalry greatcoat, holding a Dragoon Colt. He shot Harker between the eyes, turned his horse and shot the rifleman behind him. Josh pulled a sawn-off shotgun from the pocket of the frieze coat, shot one man on his left in the face, then as fire was returned, ducked low in the saddle and fired again beneath his mount’s neck. At the same moment, there was a chorus of rebel yells, and Tyree and a scattering of horsemen came down the hill.

The four men left on the bridge turned to gallop away, and a volley of shots emptied their saddles. The riders milled around, one of them, a small man with sergeant’s stripes on a battered grey uniform.

‘General?’

‘Good man, Jackson.’ Clay pulled his mount in at the edge of the bridge and looked down. The boy was on his hands and knees on a sandbank, wrists still tied. ‘Send someone down to retrieve him.’

Jackson wheeled away to give the order and Josh, who was talking to the cavalrymen, came over.

‘Don’t do that to me again, General. This war is over.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘General Lee’s been pushing toward Appomattox Station looking for supplies and relief, only our boys have found there’s nothing there: Lee’s got twenty thousand men left. Grant’s got sixty. It’s over, General.’

‘And where’s Lee now?’

‘Place called Turk’s Crossing. He’s overnighting there.’

Clay looked over the rail of the bridge, where three of his men had reached the boy. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then let’s go and find him.’

When he and his men slipped through the Yankee lines, it was raining heavily. Turk’s Crossing was a poor sort of place. General Lee was billeted in a small farmhouse, but had preferred the barn. The doors stood open and someone had lit a fire inside. The staff, and what was left of his men, were camped around in field tents.

When Clay and his men moved in, Tyree had the day’s password when the pickets challenged them. It was always a difficult moment. After all, it was Confederate pickets who had killed General Stonewall Jackson after Chancellorsville.

Clay reined in beside the farm and turned to Sergeant Jackson. ‘You and the boys find some food. I’ll see you later.’

The riders moved away. Josh dismounted and held his bridle and Clay’s. ‘What now?’

A young aide moved out of the barn. ‘General Fitzgerald?’

‘That’s right.’

‘General Lee would be delighted to see you, sir. We thought we’d lost you.’

Josh said, ‘I’ll hang around, General. You might need me.’

Lee was surprisingly well dressed in an excellent Confederate uniform, and sat at a table his staff had set up by the fire, his hair very white.

Clay Fitzgerald walked in. ‘General.’

Lee said, ‘Sorry I can’t call you general any longer, Clay. Couldn’t get your brigade command ratified. We’re into the final end of things, so you’re back to colonel. Heard you’ve been in action again.’

‘One of those things.’

‘Always is, with you.’

At that moment, a young captain came out of the shadows. He wore a grey frock coat over his shoulders, his left arm in a sling, and carried a paper, which he handed to Lee.

‘Latest report, General. The army’s fading away. Lucky if we’ve got fifteen thousand left.’

He swayed and almost fell. Lee said, ‘Sit down, Brown. The arm, not good?’

‘Terrible, General.’

‘Well, you’re in luck. I have here the only general cavalry officer in the Confederate army, Colonel Clay Fitzgerald, who’s also a surgeon.’

Brown turned to Clay. ‘Colonel? I had a message for you,’ and then he slumped to one knee.

Clay got him to a chair, turned and called, ‘Josh – my surgical bag and fast.’

The wound was nasty, obviously a sabre slash. Brown was sweating and in great pain.

‘I’d say ten stitches,’ Clay said. ‘And whiskey, just to clean the wound.’

‘Some men might say that’s a waste of good liquor,’ Lee said.