The Last Horseman (15 page)

‘Leave him! Back to the wagon!’

‘Shall we take ’em on, sir?’ McCory said.

‘Those are not our orders, sergeant. Get those men back. The Boers won’t risk attacking with their women and children here.’

‘Get your arses back here! At the double!’ Sergeant McCory bellowed.

One of the men turned back, instinctively hunching his shoulders despite the ineffective fire; the other, O’Mara, ran forward, ignoring the commands. His companion yelled: ‘Scouse! Come on! Get out of there!’

‘Not yet!’ he shouted back. There had to be something to loot. He turned the body over, rifled the pockets, but found nothing. The rider wasn’t much more than a boy. A dead boy with a head wound. He glanced back – the soldiers were leaving. It had been a long run for nothing. As he got to his feet he saw the boy’s exposed boots: they weren’t worth having, but the bone-handled knife that protruded was. The man bore a scar from ear to lip from a blade of lesser quality than this knife. Snatching his prize he ran back as fast as he could towards the retreating soldiers and Sergeant McCory’s curses.

By the time the commando made their way down from the hills the soldiers were gone.

‘We can still get the bastards,’ Corin said.

‘No. They’ve women and kids with them. They’ll find themselves a defensive position in the rocks and we’ll be cut to ribbons. Leave them be,’ Liam answered. ‘You men check the farm, see if there’s anything left we can use,’ he told them and rode forward to where Edward lay.

*

They recovered the boy’s body and tied the lad to a horse. By the time Liam’s commando found their next safe haven – a one-room barn well away from any British patrols in a ravine whose high boulders would offer a good defensive position should it be needed – there were already a hundred or more horses tethered outside. A dozen Africans squatted around a fire, huddled against the cold, eating from an iron pot nestled in the fire’s embers. A young Boer stood guard on a craggy outcrop as the men inside relaxed in the warmth and safety offered by the old stone building. Tobacco smoke fugged the air in the barn as the ragtag Boers drank and ate, mingling with the men from the Foreign Brigade. A couple of the Boers shuffled in a half-hearted dance while one of their men played a squeezebox and another dragged a bow over an old fiddle that had only three strings left on its battered body.

Liam and his commando pushed through the throng of men. ‘Jesus, these Boers might believe they’re God’s chosen people, but the Almighty must’ve had an off day ’cause these are the most boring bastards who ever tried to squeeze out a tune,’ said Corin, clutching his violin case to his chest.

Liam pulled one of the men to him. ‘Find Hertzog,’ he said. The fighter nodded and pushed his way through the men towards the barn’s dark corners. Within minutes he returned with one of the Boer commanders. Now that Oom Piet was dead Hendrick Hertzog was the senior man as far as the Boers were concerned and Liam knew as well as the next foreign fighter that a nod had to be given to those whose land had been invaded. He shook Liam’s hand and Liam bent his head towards the man’s ear, speaking plainly and slowly so that he might understand what had happened. Hertzog’s face registered his shock as he heard of the killings, and then turned to follow Liam outside.

Corin grabbed Liam’s arm and pushed his blanket roll at him. ‘It’s cold out there.’

‘You’re my brother not my mother,’ Liam told him.

‘It’s not for you,’ Corin answered.

‘He won’t need it,’ answered Liam.

Realization dawned on the younger man. ‘Jesus, Liam, you can’t kill the lad, the English already tried.’

‘He’s not part of any commando, Corin. If he has information about the British we’ll get it from him. It’s Hertzog’s decision whether he lives or dies.’

The night air polished the crystal stars as Liam led Hertzog to where a fresh-faced young Boer stood guard in the lee of the building. Edward sat slumped in the shadows, his back pressed against the wall, as one of the Africans prepared to put a freshly boiled dressing around his head. The bandage had been used before and would never be rid of the old bloodstains no matter how often it was boiled.

The Afrikaner spoke harshly to the African, words that Edward could not understand, but the man retreated quickly, taking the bandage with him. Edward ached from fatigue and the fall from the horse and the pounding in his head nearly blinded him, but as the African servant moved away he summoned the strength to reach down towards his boot and the knife that should have been there. Liam and Hertzog appeared before him.

‘You’ve taken my coat,’ Edward said, with a sense of loss more pressing than the lack of its protection against the night’s cold.

‘And it’s a good one at that. There’s a label inside that says it’s pure wool and made in Dublin,’ said Liam. ‘A fine coat that’s worth a bob or two. Now where did you get it is what I’m wondering. None of my lads have such finery.’

‘My father bought it for me... please... I’m cold,’ Edward admitted, the fear and pain from the wound mingling in confusion.

‘We’ve given it to one of the boys who ride with us. He needs it more than you,’ Liam said. ‘The British have patrols out in the hills; they’ve learned how to fight. They’re raiders like us, they live rough, colonial irregulars mostly, but they don’t take prisoners. Get m’drift? So we shoot spies. Tit for tat.’

Hertzog kicked the boy’s boot. ‘Are you a British spy, boy?’

Edward flinched. The man’s beard made him look even more menacing; it skirted his chin but he was clean-shaven around his mouth, which accentuated the lips that curled back in disgust.

‘I’m no spy. I tried to help the woman at the farm – that’s why I went out and shot the buck. And if I’m a spy why did the patrol shoot me?’

‘
Ja
, you’re a do-gooder, eh? They shot you because you look like a Boer. Not all these soldiers know who rides as a scout looking for us. Who do you report to? We had men killed, slaughtered by cavalry. Men and boys. One of them younger than you. You know about that?’

‘No,’ Edward insisted, beginning to think that no matter how he answered, this man was intent on killing him.

‘Stand up,’ said Liam. ‘On your feet.’

Edward pressed against the wall and staggered to his feet. He was dizzy and his head pounded. His knees gave way but he braced himself, determined not to appear weak in front of these violent men.

‘How did you get here? Why that farm?’ Hertzog demanded.

‘I don’t understand what you mean. I was lost,’ Edward said, stumbling for an explanation, suddenly realizing that he could not confess that he sought out his friend Lawrence Baxter with the Royal Irish.

Hertzog’s slap sent him reeling. ‘
Verdomde rooinek!
’

Edward tasted blood, and the blow nearly knocked him senseless. The night sky swirled.

‘You’re lying,’ Hertzog said. ‘My people are dead. You’re old enough to fight, boy. Who do you report to? Where are those horsemen camped? On your feet.’

Edward tried but could not find his balance. He was slipping under a veil of darkness, the man’s voice distant, a faint echo. He spat blood, tried to stand again but failed. His head wound throbbed viciously: the calloused hand that had struck him had opened the wound. He heard muted words between the two men who stood over him. The Afrikaner tugged a pistol from his belt and Edward heard the words that confirmed he was about to die.

‘If he has no information then he is of no use to us. He will slow us down.’

Edward raised his hand as the man levelled the pistol. There was no mercy to be seen in the older man’s face. He desperately tried to stay conscious so he could plead for his life. The Irishman appeared to look regretful at the impending execution.

‘I ran... away from home... that’s all... I don’t know anything about... anybody being killed... Don’t kill me... please... Let me go... or leave me here... I won’t say anything... I’m... Irish... Dublin... My name is Edward... Radcliffe... I... ran away...’

Liam Maguire pressed Hertzog’s gun hand down.

The frontier town of Verensberg was made up of a mixture of iron-roofed stone and timber houses, boardwalks and dusty streets that turned to calf-high mud when the rains came. It was a through line for the British Army as they ferried troops to the rail yards, and then on to the battlefields of the north and east. And where there were soldiers there would be camp followers, brothels and a music hall. For those soldiers in the field who were sent back wounded or who sought creature comforts away from the fighting Verensberg was a small oasis of distraction and sin.

The Diamond Hotel was well known among the troops for the number of prostitutes who plied their trade there. The room was packed with junior officers from different regiments who sat in boothed areas with whores on their laps and whiskey on the table. The rest of the audience was a mixture of civilians and black marketers. A quartet of musicians fought the noise of the raucous soldiers but the musicians were not the main attraction. The crowd waited for that rare sight, a woman of beauty who seemed beyond the reach of them all. And she could sing. That was why the room was packed that night.

A short, frock-coated man waddled on to stage, raising his hands to quieten his audience. Charles Frimley, oiled hair and moustache glistening in the heat from the stage lanterns, had once trodden the boards in some of London’s best music halls, but drink and debt and the threat of men sent to recover what he owed had driven him to seek opportunities further afield, and what better place to strike the gold in men’s pockets than a music hall with a pretty whore and her enticing song?

‘And Now...’ the master of ceremonies chirped, his voice rising, building the men’s expectations, savouring the emphasis on each word, ‘...For Your Delec-tation, For Your Tingling Groins and Tinkling Coins, With Breathtaking Bravura to Set Hearts-a-Breaking –’

‘Get on with it, you old bugger!’ one of the men shouted, which raised a chorus of approval. ‘There’s a bloody war on!’

As the laughter subsided Frimley acknowledged the heckler. ‘I take your point, sir. Your friends mentioned only a short time ago that you had devoted yourself to avoiding it.’

The soldier swore, embarrassed by the attention, and the truth that he was rear echelon. His friends roared with approval; one of them tipped a glass of beer over his head. Frimley knew he had the crowd in the palm of his hand. The audience would love him before the night was out. Drunken soldiers were God’s gift to a barroom that overcharged for tampered liquor and gave him his cut of the takings.

Belmont, sitting with half a dozen other officers, wearing their tunics unbuttoned, safe from official censure, stood on his chair, whiskey bottle in one hand, cigar in the other. ‘Where is she, Charlie? We know she’s here!’

The sweating mass of men howled their approval and drummed their heels on the wooden floor. Once again Frimley raised his arms and made a slight, courteous bow towards Belmont. ‘Ah, I thought I smelled a cavalryman!’

Belmont took the laughter and jeers in good grace.

‘A high-ranking officer perhaps? I hear, sir, you’re in command of the Post Office Hussars.’

Belmont made a mock bow to the laughter. ‘Aye, and we’ve delivered plenty of surprises for Dutchy!’

The room erupted with a furious cheer.

Frimley could hold them no longer: ‘Very well, my brave boys: the vivacious, the voluptuous, the wickedly witty and wilful... Miss Sheenagh O’Connor!’

As Frimley backed offstage Sheenagh, the sexiest whore this side of the battlefield, swept on stage in a dress fit for the finest of London ladies, but paid for by their officer husbands. As she swept her eyes across the baying men she settled her gaze on Belmont. He raised his glass to her. A familiar look passed between them. These two knew each other.

*

On the edge of town, far beyond the uproar that Sheenagh’s appearance created and the perimeter pickets that carelessly went about their duties in the belief that they were a long way from their enemy, Corin Maguire and a dozen other commandos lay shivering in the cold dirt, teased by the flickering warmth of the town’s lights. They were no more visible than the black shadows of the rocks. Edward sweated, trembling with fever, his hands still bound. One of the American volunteers, Jackson Lee, hunched close to Corin with the wounded boy between them. ‘Liam’s putting us at risk ’cause of this kid. It’d be a damned grievous thing if he got us shot ’cause of it.’

Corin pulled a half-bottle of whiskey from the man’s hands and swallowed a mouthful of the warming liquid. ‘Liam’s been my brother all my life. So I’ve known him longer than you have. He’s doing what’s right.’

The American took back what was left of the liquor. ‘I wish I knew why,’ he said.

‘It’s an Irish thing. You wouldn’t understand,’ Corin answered.

‘I had a grandmother from Cork.’

‘Jesus, the whole world has a grandmother from Cork. That doesn’t count.’

‘I don’t know why we didn’t just shoot the kid or leave him be. It’s a grievous thing being put at risk without knowing why,’ said Lee. ‘What’ll we do if he starts to moan or cry out? Sound travels far here.’

‘Are you listening to y’self? The music in town would deafen a bloody cavalry charge. The soldier boys are havin’ themselves some fun. Just as we would.’ He winced as the rough whiskey burned his throat. ‘Given half the bloody chance. God, what I wouldn’t give for a fat and comfortable woman tonight. Even if she was a heifer.’ He sighed and passed the bottle back. ‘Give the kid a slug.’

‘Waste it on him?’ Lee moaned.

‘Well, it’d help keep the lad quiet. And look at him, shivering like a cat being dragged from a barrel.’

The American leaned across and tipped the bottle to Edward’s lips. He sipped and coughed.

‘Now see what you’ve done? Making more goddamned noise than –’ Corin quickly raised an arm in warning. A dozen soldiers were being marched from the town towards them. Lee’s hand smothered Edward’s mouth. They fell silent, embracing their rifles, but after a dozen more yards the scraping footfalls turned away. The moment had made sweat prickle on Corin’s spine. If Liam didn’t sort something out by dawn, Corin reckoned, they might be discovered, that or the wounded and feverish lad that he had tucked close to him to offer a scrap of warmth would be dead. Whatever his brother planned, Corin told himself, it would be hard to escape come first light but he feared that Liam couldn’t do anything until then. One way or another Sheenagh O’Connor was going to be busy till daybreak.