Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [1]
THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER
YEAR OF THE TIGER
DRINK WITH THE DEVIL
ANGEL OF DEATH
SHEBA
ON DANGEROUS GROUND
THUNDER POINT
MIDNIGHT MAN (also published as
EYE OF THE STORM)
THE EAGLE HAS FLOWN
COLD HARBOUR
MEMORIES OF A DANCE-HALL ROMEO
A SEASON IN HELL
NIGHT OF THE FOX
CONFESSIONAL
EXOCET
TOUCH THE DEVIL
LUCIANO’S LUCK
SOLO
DAY OF JUDGEMENT
STORM WARNING
THE LAST PLACE GOD MADE
A PRAYER FOR THE DYING
THE EAGLE HAS LANDED
THE RUN TO MORNING
DILLINGER
TO CATCH A KING
THE VALHALLA EXCHANGE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
PAY THE DEVIL
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with
the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / November 1999
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1999 by Jack Higgins.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-05305-8
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Take care, for after raising him, it becomes necessary to pay the Devil his due.
Irish saying
APPOMATTOX STATION
1865
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.