Pay the Devil

‘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 offence, 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 (#ulink_f3260211-9ed4-5512-a9a8-0407185e5e6c)

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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.