The Last Horseman (35 page)

Saliva thick on his tongue, the lieutenant turned away quickly to the side of a hut, where he leaned and vomited, his wretchedness witnessed by Evelyn Charteris through the hospital ward window. She could not see the execution site, which was concealed by the buildings between the hospital and the firing squad, but as the stretcher-bearers carried the boy’s shattered body towards the mortuary tent her mind formed a graphic picture of his death. Only hours earlier he had lain in the bed next to Edward. The room was silent. Men stared at the ceiling, prayer or curse behind their lips. The guard got to his feet and tugged the calico curtain across.

‘No need for anyone here to see that,’ he said.

She nodded, thankful for his concern.

‘You all right for a bit? I’ll get these lads a brew, put a bit extra sugar in for them.’

She smiled in gratitude. Tea. The great British panacea for the ills of the world.

*

Pierce had watched them strap the boy to the chair and used the distraction of the execution to move closer to Radcliffe. His friend was shaving in a bowl of water outside his hut. His guard stood some way off talking to another soldier as they both looked towards the execution site. At the sound of the rattling gunfire Pierce followed Radcliffe’s gaze to where the general stood at his window, smoking a cigarette, seemingly unperturbed at the result of his orders. Radcliffe turned and saw Pierce, glanced at his distracted guard and threw out the waste water.

‘I need more water,’ he called.

The guard looked quickly, settled on Pierce and pointed in his direction. ‘Boy! Water!
Amanzi!
’

Pierce hurriedly went to a hand pump and filled a pail of water, then carried it to Radcliffe. Satisfied that his order had been carried out, the guard shared a cigarette with the other soldier. As Pierce poured water into the bowl, Radcliffe stooped and swilled his face, being careful not to be seen talking by his guard.

‘Mrs Charteris brought me in,’ said Pierce.

‘She told me.’

‘Said she’d try and help Edward.’

‘Yes, she is, thank God.’

‘She told me he lost half his arm.’

‘Belmont set the ambush. He did it.’ Radcliffe smothered his concern and regret. ‘Edward’s strong. He’ll pull through. I know he will.’

It was all Pierce could do not to extend a hand of comfort to his friend’s shoulder. He kept a wary eye on the guard and made a fuss of cleaning Radcliffe’s bowl. ‘I saw you in the street with Belmont. I had you covered. I’m sorry, Joseph, I couldn’t get to the rail line.’

‘Made no difference. We were too late anyway. Listen, the Boer they shot was a wounded boy. I tried to save him but Reece-Sullivan follows orders like a damned train on a track. He’s notching up a reputation. They arrested an English officer for killing the Irish girl. Taylor. You remember him?’

‘Taylor? The asshole captain from Dublin last Christmas?’

‘He’s a major now,’ said Radcliffe as he towelled his face.

‘A major asshole. I remember him. Gave me some bruised ribs that night. You reckon he did it?’

‘Seems so. There was a witness. I saw him brought in and I heard my guard talking about it. Taylor’s had a court martial. A quick one. And that means that Reece-Sullivan is wasting no time. He doesn’t want any unfinished business before they advance. Have you seen Baxter and any of the Irish regiment?’

Pierce acted as if he were a servant, helping Radcliffe on with his jacket. ‘Him and some of the others were in the firing-squad detail.’

‘See if you can speak to him. I need help, Ben. I reckon Reece-Sullivan is going to order Edward’s execution before too long.’

‘Edward? He can’t,’ said Pierce, trying to grasp why the boy would be shot.

The guard began making his way towards them, grinding out the cigarette beneath his studded boot. Radcliffe turned his back to the approaching man. ‘He will. I’ll appeal to him but if he refuses then we have to get Edward out. I don’t know how long they’ll let me wander around here. Not much longer if they issue the order. Get to Edward in case I can’t. Tell him we’re going to make a run for it. He has to be ready.’

‘How soon you plan on doing this?’

‘Tonight.’

‘With a wound like his?’

‘No choice, Ben. I heard the soldiers talking; a supply train comes in at midnight. They leave it in the siding before offloading. Taylor will be shot at dawn tomorrow, and unless I can argue Edward’s case with the general, they’ll shoot my boy at the same time. They’ve got a war to win. We’ve seen this before. Field punishment barely gives pause to an army’s advance.’

Pierce nodded. ‘Midnight,’ he agreed.

Major Frederick Taylor pressed his face against the wooden door, desperate to stop himself from falling to the ground as fear sucked the strength from his legs. He fought back the tears that threatened to engulf him. His mind had painted a tableau of what had gone on outside as he heard every pitiful sound of the boy being taken to his death. The small window was too high to see out of even though he’d dragged the wooden cot with its riempie-laced base beneath it. The thought had even occurred to him that the provost was slack in his duties. A determined and desperate man could have fashioned a noose from the bed’s leather cords. And do what with them? The one rafter supporting the tin roof was probably beetle-infested like every other piece of wood in the damned country. It would snap if any weight were brought to bear. Despite the slit of a window letting in the daylight the room already felt like a tomb. He had to control the panic otherwise he would die. There was always a chance for life and he had to seize it. Slowly but surely he regained control of his emotions, wiped the sweat from his face and calmed his breathing. He dried his palms on his tunic. This time when he put his face close to the door he sought out the crack in the heat-warped grain.

‘Guard,’ he whispered.

He could hear no sound outside in the passage. He gently tapped the door and raised his voice slightly. ‘Guard, I need you. Are you there?’

He listened hard, cursing the pounding in his chest that filled his ears with his own terrified heartbeat. Nothing stirred on the other side of the door. The guard was elsewhere. Probably talking to others about how the army was going to kill one of its own chosen sons.

‘Guard,’ he called again.

He waited and moments later was relieved to hear the sounds of an army boot scuffing the dirt and the rattle of a rifle strap. Then there was the unmistakable sound of a man standing on the other side of the door.

‘What is it, major?’ said the guard.

‘Please open the door,’ said Taylor.

‘And why would I do that?’ answered the guard.

Taylor felt his mouth drying. He licked his lips. Now was the time to risk everything. ‘You can help me.’

He heard the man grunt. ‘I don’t think anyone can help you, major, not unless they fire blanks.’

Taylor pressed his face closer to the crack and whispered urgently: ‘I have gold. Sovereigns. Gold sovereigns. Help me and they’re yours.’

Taylor held his breath. All the man had to do now was to go to the corporal of the guard and tell him that the prisoner had tried to bribe him. He waited. The silence meant the man was thinking about the proposition. Had he even seen a gold sovereign before? Taylor doubted it. The gamble was worth it. The very mention of gold touched every man’s nerve.

‘Step away from the door,’ said the guard.

Taylor held back a gasp of relief. He did as he was told without hesitation.

‘Tell me when your back is against the wall. No funny business, major. I’d as soon shoot you now as let you wait until the firing squad tomorrow.’

Taylor closed his eyes and let his breath ease from his chest. Was the man going to search him and take the hidden sovereigns or could he be bought? It only took three long backward paces for him to reach the cell wall.

‘I’ve done as you asked,’ he said, striving to keep his voice even.

He heard the jangle of keys and the grinding of a key in the lock. The door swung open and the guard stood with his rifle levelled at the hip. The two men stared at each other for a moment.

‘What game you playing at?’ asked the guard.

‘No game. I swear,’ Taylor said.

He had not thought about this man before now. He was as faceless as any of the soldiers who had crossed Taylor’s path, but now he studied him. The man’s coarse features reflected a working-class life and the scarred knuckles that gripped the rifle probably indicated a man who would use his fists to settle an argument. A rough-edged man then, not young, probably close to middle age, thirty-something, perhaps even forty. Signed up to take the Queen’s shilling to keep himself out of prison. Or desperate not to end up in the workhouse. He was no front-line soldier. Unfit perhaps. Considered poor fighting material as far as soldiering was concerned. Better to be kept rear echelon. He would want as easy a life as he could get. Not unlike himself, Taylor acknowledged.

Taylor carefully bent and felt inside his boot.

‘Careful now,’ said the guard, an edge to his voice. ‘If there’s a knife coming out of there, I’ll shoot you dead. Make no mistake.’

The man had not yet been bought or his silence guaranteed.

Taylor eased out a thin strap of leather from the inside of his boot that held a dozen gold half-sovereigns one below the other. Taylor held it in front of him. ‘I can get more of these. Get me out of here, come with me and we will make for the gold- and diamond fields together.’

‘You been in the sun too long before you murdered that whore, major? Is that what’s happenin’ in your brain box? Gone a bit queer in the head, have you?’

‘Listen to me, I have friends who own parcels of land in the Transvaal goldfields and they will look after us. They know my family. They’ll give us a stake. Once my family know I am free they’ll send money. We can buy a stake of our own.’

‘Aye and then I’ll end up in a convenient accident down a bloody mine shaft.’

‘No, no, you’re wrong. I swear. We will be partners. I would not forget a man who helped me and neither would my family. The kaffirs do the work. You would be my mine manager. Don’t you see there’s gold ripe for the digging? Why in God’s name do you think we’re fighting this godforsaken war?’

He thumbed a couple of sovereigns free and extended them to the guard, who quickly looked over his shoulder although he was the only one on duty. He edged closer.

‘No funny business,’ he said and took the coins from Taylor’s outstretched fingers. ‘I’d want a paper signed by you so that I have my rights. I’ll not be a part of this unless I have that guarantee.’

‘Of course. And when you have that you can register it with a lawyer, any lawyer, anywhere. That protects you. Get me pencil and paper and I’ll write whatever it is you want.’

The guard rubbed the coins together, and then raised one to his mouth and bit into it, as if that would give the fool any idea of its worth or quality. Then he backed away again. Taylor smiled as if he had pacified a threatening dog with a titbit.

‘All right,’ said the guard. ‘I’ll get us horses –’

‘And supplies,’ Taylor interrupted. ‘Tonight.’

‘Don’t take me for a fool, major. I’ll get what’s needed.’

The guard backed out of the room. Taylor felt the warm gush of relief course through him.

He nodded, smiling at the man who would secure his freedom and give him life. ‘We’ll get out of this stinking war and we’ll make more money than you dreamed of,’ he said, knowing he would kill him at the first opportunity.

*

Pierce returned to the stables, but Mhlangana had gone. A field kitchen levy told him where. Pierce lifted a small sack of flour on to his shoulder, using the pretence of being an African labourer again, the only way he could move through the gathered troops as he searched for the Royal Irish Regiment of Foot. Soldiers were breaking camp and being gathered into marching formation. There was no sign of the small detachment that he had seen forming the firing squad, and no regimental flag or pennant proclaimed where they might be encamped. Frustratingly, his search was hampered because he knew he dare not ask their whereabouts as his accent would immediately give him away. The rail tracks passed close to the field hospital and he was torn between trying to get to see Edward and Evelyn Charteris or finding Lawrence Baxter to solicit his help. He spotted Mhlangana and a group of Africans unloading lengths of rail track from a flatbed. Mhlangana saw him skirt the work party and moved to where other Africans were heaving the weighty lengths of iron on to the criss-cross stack of stored railway lines.

‘You have seen Mr Radcliffe?’ asked Mhlangana.

Pierce nodded. ‘I’m looking for the Royal Irish Regiment. Do you remember them from the battle for the hills?’

The African thought for a moment. He shook his head. ‘There were so many soldiers. I do not remember.’

Pierce felt the edge of desperation creep into his voice. If anyone knew the Royal Irish’s whereabouts this man who laboured for the army was his best hope. ‘Think, Mhlangana. When we used the guns. Those men we helped. The infantry. They are the men I’m looking for.’

There was little time for further interrogation. The work party had to return to unloading the flatbed.

Mhlangana’s brow creased as he tried to remember. ‘Too many soldiers, my friend. They all look the same.’

Pierce turned and ignoring the flour sack strode quickly to where soldiers had begun marching from the camp. He quickened his pace along the railway line that ran parallel to the departing troops. Amid the body of marching ranks, each led by officers on horseback, he caught sight of the young lieutenant who had officiated at the firing squad, and the officer who rode next to him was Baxter. Pierce began to run, but now some of those who marched on the column’s right flank glanced his way. Damned if his lungs weren’t already burning. An old man’s legs could buckle on this uneven ground. Pierce pumped his arms, forcing his legs to carry him faster. The sentry post was a few hundred yards away. The steady footfall of the hundreds of men scuffed the hard ground, a relentless whispering rhythm that smothered his own sharp pace. Pierce gasped for air. He had covered less than two hundred yards but he was hurting. He saw one of the sentries turn to face him. An African running alongside soldiers was not a normal sight. The soldier slipped his rifle from his shoulder and held it across his chest. If he cried out a challenge and Pierce failed to respond then it could earn him a bullet. Pierce stopped and leaned on his knees, sucking in the hot, dry air. He spat. The soldiers’ pace never faltered.
Scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff.
Dust rose, half obscuring the receding figures. Baxter was too far ahead now for Pierce to even make out his features. For a moment he thought Baxter’s instinct had alerted him: he half turned in the saddle and glanced back – most likely at his own men, Pierce realized as he straightened and half raised his arm in forlorn hope.