Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [6]
“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 offense, 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
1
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.