The Last Horseman (36 page)

The soldiers marched on.

Pierce cursed. It was still early in the day and already a boy had been shot to death and the reality was that another would soon die.

Time was running out.

*

He reached the field hospital in time to see three Africans carrying small pails of broth and bread for the sick and wounded. A fourth man carried a tray of freshly washed bandages. Pierce quickly grabbed a dozen rolls in the spread of his hands, ignoring the questioning African. Once inside it was too late for any complaint and Pierce followed one of the levies into the prisoners’ ward.

Evelyn Charteris had her back to him as she carefully tended one of the men’s wounds. Pierce placed the bandages on a small trolley that held dressings. The hospital guard didn’t even look at him. Routine bred complacency. Pierce swiftly saw where Edward lay as the African levy spooned broth into tin plates. Pierce picked up a plate and spoon and went to Edward, who turned his face from the wall at the sound of the footsteps and saw him. A quick gesture for silence stopped the boy from calling out his name. Pierce knelt by the bed and put the food on the upturned ammunition box. Under the pretence of helping Edward sit up, he whispered urgently.

‘We’re getting out of here, near enough midnight. I’m gonna be coming through the door for you then.’ Pierce reached under his shirt and pulled out the bone-handled knife. ‘We found this along the way,’ he said, pressing it into Edward’s hand. The boy pushed it beneath the blanket.

Pierce gave him an encouraging smile. Edward’s brow furrowed with uncertainty. Pierce placed a hand on the boy’s chest. ‘Save your questions for later.’ He glanced back at the guard who had got to his feet and started to help hand out the plates to the patients. ‘Is he here all night?’

Edward nodded.

‘Come midnight you’ll hear a train whistle coming in. You call him over, get him close... kill him. Go for his throat,’ said Pierce. ‘You’ll only get one chance, son. Do it quick and do it right.’

The guard looked at the two Africans in his ward. ‘All right, let’s have you natives out of here. Come on now. Orderlies have to get these men washed once they’ve finished their grub.’

Pierce whispered quickly. He could see the boy was still uncertain. ‘You have to, son. If you don’t none of us is going to get out of here alive. Your father and me... we have to stop them hurting you...’

‘No... Benjamin... they’ve been kind to me...’

‘Son. Plain and simple. Unless I get a message to you telling you otherwise... these kind people are gonna put you in front of a firing squad. Now you fix on that thought and do what I told you.’

As Pierce turned for the door Evelyn looked up and saw him. She had the presence of mind to keep her surprise silent. With a glance at Edward she followed Pierce outside. She bundled soiled bedclothes into a laundry bag to make a conversation less suspicious to anyone who looked their way.

‘Mr Pierce, what’s going on? Is there any news of what they intend doing to Edward?’

Pierce took the bag from her. ‘Mrs Charteris, shouldn’t you be back in Bergfontein by now?’

‘I am not allowed to travel until the general gives me permission. Please don’t evade the question. Mr Radcliffe has already told me of the risk of Edward being executed.’

‘The less you know the safer you will be,’ he told her, but as soon as he had spoken he saw the anger flare in her eyes.

‘Do not play me for a fool, Mr Pierce. I deal with lies and incompetence every day of my life while people die around me. I will not be kept in the dark about this boy’s fate. Not after the murder that was committed this morning. Now, tell me, what it is you and Mr Radcliffe are planning – because if there is any way I can help I will.’

Pierce looked at the woman whose passion challenged the Empire-makers. She had a will of iron and a hide as tough as a plains buffalo, a toughness which could pass well camouflaged behind that mask of beauty. Only those who had dealt with her might know how determined she was.

‘All right. Joseph is going to make a final appeal to the general today. If it is denied then we will take Edward from here tonight.’

This straightforward answer caused her to hesitate. The plan was madness. The wounded boy was still in need of care. How would they get him out of a guarded room, and then ride off to God-knows-where?

‘You cannot. It’s impossible. There’s a guard day and night and the boy has yet to make sufficient progress from his wound. He could die in the saddle – assuming you even got past the picket line.’

‘You asked; I told you. I suggest you get some sleep tonight, Mrs Charteris, you don’t want to be around later.’

Pierce turned away. She reached out and grabbed his arm. ‘Wait. You must understand that he is very weak and needs medical attention. Someone must treat the boy wherever it is you intend going. He needs medication and his wound needs dressing every day. If infection sets in he will die.’

‘All right, you said you wanted to help: can you get bandages and dressings, whatever he needs, and medicine to give him a chance? I’m not asking you to take anything from those wounded men in there that would not be used on Edward. Make up a satchel of supplies you think he’ll need for at least a week’s ride. We’ll do the rest. Can you do that?’

She sighed and shook her head, urgency making her eyes dart between him and the hospital. ‘Only Sir George has the keys to the medicines we would need. Some fresh bandages perhaps. That’s all – and perhaps a couple of field dressings.’

‘OK. That’s better than nothing.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ she suddenly blurted out, taking both herself and Pierce by surprise. ‘He’ll need nursing.’

‘Lady, I know you’re tough but we’ll be riding hard for the border, wherever the hell that is. It’s no place for a woman – even one like you.’

‘Don’t patronize me, Mr Pierce. I shall nurse him. Tell me where I must be and I will be ready.’

‘We’re talking about riding a horse day in day out. This is no buggy ride.’

‘I was brought up on a farm, Mr Pierce. I can ride as well as any man.’

Pierce smiled. ‘I’m sure you can, Mrs Charteris, and God help any man who says you can’t. I’ll send word.’

Pierce put the laundry bag on his shoulder and strode off into the camp. If they were lucky enough to pull off this escape they would need a guide to get them away safely.

Radcliffe was escorted to the general’s office and as he entered the building he saw Sir George Amery standing with his hands clenched behind his back, staring through the window at the increasing bustle of activity in the camp. He turned to Radcliffe.

‘Mr Radcliffe, it has been suggested to me that your son may be in danger. The general’s aide-de-camp informed me that a decision has been made but would not tell me what that decision is. With your permission I would like to speak to General Reece-Sullivan on your and your son’s behalf.’

‘Sir George, I am most grateful,’ said Radcliffe as the aide-de-camp opened the general’s door.

‘Gentlemen, the general will see you now.’

Radcliffe stepped back to allow the distinguished surgeon across the threshold. Once inside the aide-de-camp closed the door and remained in the room. There were two other officers who stood either side of the general.

‘Sir George, Major Radcliffe,’ the general said in a perfunctory greeting and gestured towards the two officers. ‘Colonel McFarlane and Major Summers served on Major Taylor’s field court martial. They have assisted me in my decision-making regarding Boer prisoners of war, and I have invited them to be here so that you will know that the decision reached is not mine alone. There will be no suggestion of prejudice on my part.’

Sir George took a purposeful stride towards the general. It seemed for a moment that he was about to rap his knuckles on Reece-Sullivan’s desk, but restraint won the moment. His tone was critical enough. ‘Before this matter goes any further I protest most strongly against the execution of the wounded boy this morning. It was barbaric. He was my patient.’

General Reece-Sullivan balanced his fingers lightly on the desk in front of him. ‘We value your services, Sir George, but military matters you really must leave to us.’

‘You can be assured, general, that my protestations will be made known to the newspapers in England. We are not fighting savages; this is a war between two white nations, where a level of civilized decency must prevail.’

Neither man had been invited to sit in the general’s presence, and Amery stood ramrod straight, his height obliging the general to crane his neck. The surgeon’s eyes blazed behind the pince-nez spectacles.

Radcliffe quickly interrupted what he knew could soon become a war of words between two colonial die-hards.

‘Black or white, Sir George, the general here doesn’t distinguish between them. Caste, creed or rank, no one escapes military justice. Am I correct, general, isn’t that what you told me?’

For a moment, Reece-Sullivan felt, surprisingly, that Radcliffe had leaped to his defence. ‘Quite right, Radcliffe. Thank you.’

‘You see, Sir George, the general knows he has the authority to commute a death sentence to penal servitude but that does not send out a strong enough message, does it, general?’

‘Soldiers understand that. Radcliffe is correct, Sir George. We are fighting a guerrilla war. Our enemy does not face us man to man. We must inflict our superiority against them whenever, and however, is practicable.’

‘My son came here to find his friend who served with the Royal Irish. He came as any boy seeking adventure would. I had the opportunity of speaking to Lieutenant Baxter after the battle of Pieters Hill. He explained to me how my son was shot, mistakenly, by his soldiers as he rode towards them when they were clearing a Boer farmstead. They did not know his identity and his troops came under fire from a nearby commando. It was these men who took my son with them. He did not join the enemy forces; instead they helped him recover from his wound because they realized that I was his father. It is my name that causes you to think of him as a traitor. He’s just a boy. Send him home.’

General Reece-Sullivan listened patiently. There was no need for him to act otherwise. A decision had already been reached. It made no difference what these non-combatants said; they were civilians in a fighting man’s war.

The surgeon pressed his case. ‘I would urge you to consider Mr Radcliffe’s appeal quite seriously, general, otherwise should you authorize this boy’s execution I will have no choice but to go directly to Lord Kitchener,’ said Sir George.

Lieutenant Colonel McFarlane said, ‘Our telegraph wires were cut two days ago by the Boers. Lord Kitchener had already instructed that each field commander has the right, under army regulations, to make appropriate decisions in these matters. I believe the general has followed the correct procedure, Sir George. It really is a military matter.’

Reece-Sullivan picked up the document from his desk. ‘The surviving commandos under your care, Sir George, will be held as prisoners of war.’

Radcliffe felt a brief surge of relief. Sir George Amery dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘Thank you, general. Thank you,’ said the surgeon.

However,’ said Reece-Sullivan, looking directly at Radcliffe, ‘not your boy.’

Radcliffe and Sir George knew the decision had gone against them.

‘You cannot –’ said Radcliffe.

Reece-Sullivan stood like a figurehead between the two officers. ‘See the reality. An Englishman shot and killed two British soldiers while riding with Irish volunteers of the Foreign Brigade. He will be executed tomorrow morning.’ He pointed to the sheet of paper on his desk. ‘The field punishment has already been signed.’

Sir George Amery looked as distraught as Radcliffe.

‘No,’ said Radcliffe, his mind racing, searching for any vulnerability in the general’s decision. ‘No... you cannot execute him. His mother is Irish. Under Irish law he can claim citizenship from the maternal line. It’s a law recognized even by the English courts. He has committed no act of treason.’

Reece-Sullivan and the officers could not hide their concern. Colonel McFarlane looked surprised, but Major Summers leaned forward and spoke quietly, shielding his mouth with his hand.

‘General, as you know I served with the judge advocate’s office before I transferred to my line regiment. He is correct. It’s a point of law that cannot be ignored. If the boy claims the citizenship of his mother he is, strictly speaking, a prisoner of war.’

Neither Radcliffe nor Sir George could hear what was being said, but a spark of hope flared when Radcliffe saw Reece-Sullivan’s scowl. But then the general shook his head and turned away from the two officers to face Radcliffe.

‘Your father was English. You were born in England,’ challenged Reece-Sullivan.

‘I’m a naturalized American. My father took me there when I was barely two years old,’ Radcliffe answered.

The general pushed a sheet of paper on his desk with his forefinger, squaring it so that the desktop retained its order. ‘As far as I am concerned, in English law the child takes the birthright of his father. Your son is English whichever way one looks at it.’ He raised his eyes and looked directly at Radcliffe. ‘You will be allowed to see your son before sentence is carried out. You are not deemed to be an enemy, Radcliffe, but you will remain under escort – and confined until after my troops have moved up the line and the offensive has begun.’

*

Mhlangana watched the black American stride towards the stables. He was a stranger in a country where he had no business to be. How, Mhlangana wondered, had a man who looked as strong as any warrior, and who would be a respected elder, an
umkhulu
, in any Zulu clan, come with the white man as a friend and not as a servant? Zulus had fought their wars. They had once slain Xhosas and taken their land, they had beaten the redcoat English in the past, but these new soldiers dressed in the colour of the dirt fought a white enemy. And when the black American went back to his land, wherever that was, then the war would go on until the Boer was brought to his knees. Would the defeated Boers be whipped with a sjambok
?
Would the English make them their servants? If they did, what would that do for the Africans? How much lower could they sink under the white men? Perhaps the day would come when the great African tribes, Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, Pondo, Tswana, all of them and more, forgot their enmity towards each other and raised their spears together. He sighed. It would never happen. Too much had been lost in the past and the spirits of their forefathers wandered in a land ruled by white ghosts. Mhlangana went about his cleaning duties in the stall, deliberately ignoring Pierce who dumped the laundry bag.