LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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