Pay the Devil

Pay The Devil

Jack Higgins

Take care, for after raising him, it becomes necessary to pay the Devil his due.

Irish saying

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Epigraph

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

APPOMATTOX STATION 1865

PROLOGUE

IRELAND 1865

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

About the Author

ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS

Copyright

About the Publisher

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

PAY THE DEVIL was first published in the UK only by Barrie & Rockcliffe Ltd in 1962 under the authorship of Harry Patterson. The book went out of print very shortly after its first publication, was never reprinted and never appeared in paperback.

The author was, in fact, the writer familiar to modern readers as Jack Higgins. Harry Patterson was one of the names he used during his early writing days.

In 1999, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So Jack Higgins has created an entirely new framework to the original book, added some scenes and made some changes throughout. We are delighted to be able to bring back pay the devil for the pleasure of the vast majority of us all who never had a chance to read the original edition.

PROLOGUE

They were hanging a man on the bridge below as Clay Fitzgerald rode through the trees on the hill. It was raining heavily, dripping from his felt campaign hat, soaking into the caped shoulders of his shabby grey military greatcoat.

The man who followed him was black, of middle years, tall and thin with aquiline features that hinted at mixed blood. Like Clay, he wore a felt hat and a frieze coat crossed by a bandolier of shotgun shells.

‘We got a problem, General?’

‘I’d say so, Josh. Let me have that spyglass of yours, and I wish you wouldn’t call me general. I only had one hundred and twenty-three men left in the brigade when General Lee gave me the appointment. Now it’s more like twenty.’

Behind them a young horseman eased out of the trees wearing a long cavalry coat in oilskin, Fitzgerald’s galloper, Corporal Tyree.

‘Trouble, General?’

‘Could be. Stay close.’

Clay Fitzgerald took the spyglass then produced a silver box from a pocket, selected a black cheroot and lit it with a lucifer match. He dismounted and walked to the edge of the trees. Black eyes brooded in a tanned face, the skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones, one of them disfigured by a sabre scar. It was a hard face, the face of a man few would care to offend, and there was a quality of calm about him, of complete self-possession, that was disturbing.

Eight men on horseback advanced on the bridge below, hooves drumming on the wooden planks. At that stage in the war, it was difficult to distinguish which uniforms they wore, and it was the same with the two prisoners dragged behind, ropes around their necks.

As Clay watched, there was laughter and then a rope was thrown over a bridge support beam, a rider urged his horse away and one of the prisoners went up kicking. There was more laughter, flat in the rain. Clay Fitzgerald swung into the saddle.

He said to Tyree, ‘Find the men and fast.’ Tyree turned his horse and was away.

Josh said, ‘Are you going to be foolish again?’

‘I’ve never been good at standing by, you know that. Wait here.’

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.

‘Well, it seems to work, General.’ Clay turned as Josh came in with the surgical bag. ‘Should be some laudanum left in there.’

Lee said, ‘So you’re still around, Josh. It’s a miracle.’

‘You, me and Colonel Clay, sir. Lot of water under the bridge.’

He opened the bag and Brown said, ‘No laudanum, Colonel.’

‘It could put you out if I give you enough, Captain. Kill the pain.’

‘No, thanks. I must have my brain working. The general needs me. Whiskey will do fine, Colonel. Let’s get on with it.’

Clay glanced at Lee, who nodded. ‘A brave boy, and he’s entitled to his choice. Just do it, Colonel,’ and there was iron in his voice.

‘Then with your permission, sir.’

He nodded to Josh, who took the bottle of whiskey that stood on Lee’s table, uncorked it and held it to Brown’s lips.

‘Much as you can take, Captain.’

Brown nodded, swallowed, then swallowed again. He nodded. ‘Enough.’

Clay said, ‘Thread a needle, Josh.’ He bared Brown’s arm. ‘You’ll feel this. Just hang in there.’

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 honourable 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 honour 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 savoured 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 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.