LITMIR.BIZ

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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, blockade-running. He took the pitcher to the well too often. He was on one of his own boats when they ran into a Yankee frigate. It went down with all hands.’

      Lee nodded gravely ‘Your mother died early. I remember her well. Your father, as I recall, was somewhat of a duellist.’

      ‘That’s an understatement.’

      ‘And the elder brother, your uncle?’

      ‘On my grandfather’s death, he inherited an estate in the west of Ireland. He had a plantation only twenty miles from here. Left it in the hands of a manager.’

      ‘So what happens now?’ Lee asked.

      ‘God knows, General. What happens to all of us?’

      ‘It’s simple, Clay. I’ve had contact with Grant. We meet at Appomattox tomorrow to discuss surrender terms.’ He brooded. ‘Grant and I served in the Mexican Wars together. Ironic it’s ended this way.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s a good soldier and an honourable man. I’ve already made it clear in a communication that I want all of my men who own their own horses to keep them.’

      ‘And he’s agreed?’

      ‘Yes.’

      There was a moan from Brown lying on the truckle bed in the corner. Josh, who had been sitting on watch, got an arm around him as the young captain sat up. Clay went to him at once.

      ‘How do you feel?’

      ‘Terrible.’

      ‘Come and sit by the fire.’

      ‘I’ll get him some coffee,’ Josh said, and went out.

      Brown slumped into a chair, and Lee asked, ‘Are you all right, boy?’

      ‘Fine, sir. Hurts like hell, but there it is.’ He turned to Clay. ‘My thanks, Colonel.’

      ‘My pleasure.’

      ‘I was hoping to meet you. Your uncle had a house near here. Fairoaks?’

      ‘That’s right. He went to Ireland and left a manager in charge.’

      ‘Well, he used to have a house. Burned to the ground by Yankee cavalry. I passed it two days ago. One of the field hands had a letter. Some lawyer from Savannah called, looking for you. Said he’d be at Butler’s Tavern for a week. Name of Regan.’

      ‘I know Butler’s Tavern. It’s about thirty miles from here.’

      ‘The letter said if he couldn’t get you there, he’d be in Savannah. You know this man?’

      Clay nodded. ‘My father was a blockade-runner. Regan managed his affairs.’

      ‘Sorry I don’t have the letter, Colonel. We were in a skirmish with Yankee cavalry just after I got it, and it disappeared.’

      ‘That’s fine,’ Clay said. ‘You’ve told me what I need to know.’

      Josh came in with coffee in a tin cup and gave it to Brown. Clay turned to Lee. ‘What now, sir?’

      ‘For me, Clay, Appomattox and the final end of our cause. Humiliation, of course, but I see no need for you and your men to endure it. You have family business to attend to. I think I’d prefer it if you and your men simply faded into the night. I should think that in ones and twos you’d have little difficulty in passing through the Yankee lines, especially in such wooded country.’

      ‘Is that your order, General?’

      ‘My suggestion.’ Lee held out a hand. ‘We ran a good course, my friend. Just go.’

      The emotion was hard to bear. Clay shook hands. ‘General.’ He turned and walked out and Josh followed.

      He found his men under the trees, sheltering under two stretched tarpaulins beside a fire. Sergeant Jackson stood up.

      ‘What’s happening, General?’

      ‘Not general any longer. Back to colonel, boys. I’ve seen General Lee. He carries on to Appomattox tomorrow, where he will surrender to General Grant.’ There was a stunned silence from the men. ‘It’s over, boys.’

      Young Corporal Tyree said, ‘But what are we going to do, Colonel? All I know is the war. I joined at fourteen.’

      ‘I know, Corporal. General Lee’s suggestion is that we slip away in small groups, pass through the Yankee lines and go home.’ He turned to Josh. ‘The money bag.’

      Josh produced a leather purse from the bottom of the surgical bag. ‘Here you go, Colonel.’

      Clay handed it to Sergeant Jackson. ‘One hundred English gold sovereigns. Distribute it equally. It’s the best I can do, and don’t let’s prolong this. It’s too painful.’

      ‘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

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