Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [3]
“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,