‘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
