The Last Horseman (39 page)

‘Just get him home for me, Ben. I’ll get there somehow. Might take me a while longer is all.’

They had reached halfway along the rolling stock and could hear the low bleating of the cattle. Radcliffe reined his horse close to Edward. ‘Go with Ben. I intend to give them something to chase for a few hours.’

‘Father...?’

‘Edward, if my love is enough to keep you in that saddle then you’ll make it with room to spare... but you’re the one who has to be tough enough to do it... and I know you can.’

The boy was in pain but sat determinedly in the saddle. ‘You’ll come home? You’ll be there?’

Radcliffe gave a reassuring smile and touched his son’s face. He could not bring himself to make another promise that might be broken. He eased his horse away from the others.

‘Portuguese East Africa,’ Pierce said, stretching out his arm. ‘A week.’

Radcliffe gripped the big man’s hand. There was a lifetime of friendship and understanding in it.

‘Ben... this goes wrong... you tell him about his mother,’ Radcliffe said and without waiting for Pierce’s complaint spurred his horse towards where sentries manned their picket lines at the five-foot-high stone wall five hundred yards into the darkness.

Mhlangana led the others quietly along the length of the train. They heard shouts of alarm behind them as the herd of cattle began to low and trample tents. Moments later muzzle flashes and gunshots in the distance broke the darkness. Joseph Radcliffe had spurred the Irish horse into the pickets and leaned forward in the saddle to give it its head across the high wall. Like a night demon it flew silently, bearing its rider to safety. The sentries’ cries of alarm carried through the night as they fired blindly.

‘
Halt!
’

‘
Stop him!
’

‘
Boers! Commandos!
’

The alarm ricocheted like a bullet through the night but by the time soldiers ran from their bivouacs and faced the agitated herd of cows others ran blindly in panic, believing they were under attack. Orders were barked as floundering men were brought under control: ‘
Stand to arms! Stand to!
’

Pierce brought up the rear and turned in the saddle. There was no pursuit and the temporary chaos faded in sight and sound as the darkness engulfed them. Somewhere in the great expanse of the veld his friend rode alone.

General Reece-Sullivan and his officers stayed on alert throughout the night but by dawn the expected attack had not arrived. Unshaven and irritated, he had ordered a search of the camp to ensure no infiltrators had penetrated their defences. Sir George Amery had attended to the hospital guard. When the stricken man regained consciousness Amery found him unsteady on his feet; he therefore delayed the guard’s recovery and the report of the escape by applying a dose of chloroform. An act of concern for the man’s welfare, he told himself, so that he would not stumble and hurt himself further.

It was only when the bodies of Major Taylor and his jailer were found that a rapid search by soldiers alerted them to the fact that Radcliffe had escaped and Edward had been taken. One of the African levies was missing and Evelyn Charteris was not in her quarters. Reece-Sullivan almost ran to his office, a twist of fear forewarning him that Radcliffe had seen the plans for the impending attack. He stood in front of the ripped map. Every troop location for the advance was missing.

‘Sir?’ his aide-de-camp queried after the general had stood stock-still in front of the vandalized map for a full minute. Reece-Sullivan took another half-minute before he brought his scattered thoughts under control. He had jeopardized the advance and his commander-in-chief would be as unforgiving towards him as he had towards Major Taylor, the Boer and Edward Radcliffe. He would be relieved of command. At the very least. Perhaps worse. Reece-Sullivan was beating thousands of the enemy but one man threatened to bring down everything. He needed as strong a case as he could muster to convince any inquiry that he had acted in an appropriate manner.

‘I was right all along,’ he said, forcing calm into his voice. ‘And my report shall reflect that the American was obviously a spy here to aid the enemy. It’s obvious to me that if one looks at the facts, as we now know them, that Radcliffe and Major Taylor most likely worked together and were complicit in the murder of the woman who threatened to expose them. Radcliffe, with the help of someone, who we will presume to be one of the natives, escaped and killed his accomplice and his guard. We were not to know that he had somehow bribed this missing African to help him. The record will show that Radcliffe was to be executed. As a spy. Him and the boy.’ General Reece-Sullivan took refuge from the uncertainty of his thoughts and his future behind his tidy desk. ‘Have the sentries who were on duty here last night charged with dereliction of duty.’

The aide-de-camp recognized the cover-up might work, but not all the pieces fitted.

‘And the Charteris woman, sir? She has a public following back home – even among some politicians. Are you... are we... saying that she was involved?’

Reece-Sullivan hesitated, concealing his uncertainty for the moment by selecting a cigarette from the silver cigarette box. ‘No, of course she was not involved. A woman like Mrs Charteris might be a nuisance to us, but her humanitarian efforts have garnered widespread support, as you say. No... she... she was obviously forced to accompany Radcliffe...’

He paused. There needed to be a sound reason for his report to be feasible and accepted with as few questions as possible.

‘To care for the injured boy,’ his aide-de-camp suggested.

Reece-Sullivan lit the cigarette. ‘Yes. Exactly. Very well. Signal those concerned, tell them Radcliffe is going to warn the Boers. He’ll have to go down the valley.’

‘It’s too early, general. The heliograph won’t work. The mist hasn’t lifted yet, sir.’

‘Then when it does,’ Reece-Sullivan retorted sharply. Then relented. ‘Thank you.’

*

The valley was little more than a hard-baked swathe of scrub and anthills, like most of the battlefields the British had found themselves fighting across during this war. Broad enough for a battalion to march abreast, its twisting route cut north-west through the mountain ranges and their escarpments. Reece-Sullivan’s commanders had been moving their troops along the left flank of the valley for days, using the high ground to set their infantry. The plan was for the artillery in the north to bombard the Boer positions. Some would try and escape northwards, that was expected, but there were cut-off battalions waiting for them, while here in the south the Scottish and Irish troops would have a day’s sport firing down into the defenceless Boers as they were forced into the killing ground. They would have no cover and mass surrender would be their only option once the firepower cut into them. If these thousands of Boers were taken out of the war – one way or the other – Reece-Sullivan’s regiments would have a clear route to march north and attack the rear flank of the massed Boer army. A decisive victory was close at hand.

Pierce and the others were on the opposite mountain range. Mhlangana had taken them safely through the night and put enough distance between them and the English troops. Pierce called a halt and eased Edward from the saddle, laying him in the coolness of the rocks as the sun rose behind them. It would soon bring all the force of its heat to bear. As Evelyn tended to the wounded boy and Mhlangana prepared cold food, Pierce, rifle in hand, backtracked the few hundred yards to where sawtooth peaks shielded them from the valley. It felt as though he were on the roof of the world. The river of mist curling below twisted sluggishly, evaporating in the sun’s rays. Pierce pulled open his field telescope and studied the distant troop positions. He could see men behind the rocks spread right along the opposite ridge. Sweeping his eye along the escarpment, he saw that they were little more than three hundred feet above the valley floor, but this gave the soldiers a strong defensive position and an ideal place to set an ambush. His own safety and that of those with him was of constant concern and he scanned the ground behind them, left and right along the route Mhlangana had brought them – but there was no sign of pursuit. By nightfall they would be well clear, a day closer to Portuguese East Africa and a ship home.

The night ride had gone well. Their slow, unhurried pace helped the wounded boy and the morphia that the surgeon had given them would see him through. Pierce had no doubt that Edward would be strong enough to survive, but the old soldier’s experience told him that his friend might not be so lucky. He scanned the valley again as the morning mist rose up like ghosts of the dead, disappearing into the rocks and sky. It laid its gossamer dampness over him, leaving a residue of moisture on his jacket. He wiped a hand across his face. This place would soon be a vale of tears.

He was careful to angle the eyeglass so that the sun’s rays did not catch it and expose his position to those on the opposite ridge; now that the mist had lifted he saw the ranged troops more clearly in the sharp morning light. A sudden glint caught the corner of his eye. In the far distance a heliograph mirror flashed. He lowered the field telescope and saw the dark shape of man and horse below. They were motionless. He tightened the focus. It was Radcliffe on the Irish stallion.

Pierce’s cry of recognition and fear caught in his throat. He was helpless. All he could do was watch.

*

Brevet Major Lawrence Baxter buttoned his tunic. It had been a long cold night and his mouth tasted of the staleness that came from cheap tobacco and rough, hip-flask brandy. There had been no hot food for the past twenty-four hours and he willed the distant guns to start their rumbling thunder so the poor bastards could be driven on to his riflemen’s fire. He was grateful that the Royal Irish were at the end of the line. The Scottish regiment up the line to their left would have first go at the retreating Boers coming from the north and those that got through had Belmont’s marauders to deal with. It seemed unlikely that anyone desperate enough to gallop down the valley would survive. The sooner the killing started the better, he reasoned. Kill and move on. Keep killing until someone cried enough and signed a peace treaty that would haunt a nation for eternity but would at least save his soldiers from mutilation and death. He banished the pessimism from his mind. He would get his men through as best he could.

‘Will you look at him!’ cried Mulraney. ‘Jeezus, the man’s a sight for sore eyes!’

Baxter looked towards Mulraney as Sergeant McCory quickly approached with a field pad’s sheet of paper clenched in his fist. He handed it to Baxter.

‘Heliograph message, sir. We’re to stop Mr Radcliffe getting through the valley. Orders are to shoot him.’

Baxter checked the text. It confirmed what McCory had said.

‘What in God’s name is going on?’ he said and strode quickly towards Mulraney and the others who gazed down from their positions onto the valley.

‘You see him, major?’ said Mulraney. ‘Man’s sitting like he’s not a care in the world. Shouldn’t we tell him the
boojers
are gonna come full bloody tilt down there once the guns start?’

Baxter shook his head. It didn’t make sense. ‘What the hell is he doing down there?’

He heard the creak of a saddle and a horse’s hoof scuff the ground. He looked over his shoulder. Belmont was tying a sweat rag around his neck; a half-smoked cheroot drooped from his lips. ‘I suspect he’s waiting for me,’ said the dragoon. He tossed the cheroot, settled his slouch bush hat on his head and without haste guided the horse towards the meandering track that led down to the valley.

‘Sir?’ said McCory, needing an answer.

Lawrence Baxter squinted through the sunlight at the horseman below. ‘The men are to hold their fire. Send a message asking for confirmation.’

That confirmation came soon enough. The mirrors flashed back and forth. The direct order was to be obeyed without hesitation. By the time the final message was in Baxter’s hand Belmont had navigated his horse down the rocky path and the Royal Irish soldiers were standing watching the two men below them. None knew why the dragoon captain had ridden down but barracks rumour from the time at the Dublin garrison was that the arrogant Belmont had insulted Radcliffe’s dead wife and thrashed his son on the New Year horse race. Others said Belmont had severed young Radcliffe’s arm in the Boer ambush. Whatever the cause, there was a score about to be settled.

‘Two to one your man Radcliffe will take him,’ said Mulraney.

‘I’d have a guinea on that if I had it,’ said another.

‘Five to one,’ said Corporal Murphy. ‘Major Radcliffe’s an old hand.’

‘Belmont’s a mean bastard,’ said Flynn, picking a lump of dust-clogged snot from his nose. ‘I’d have a half-crown on him.’

‘Shut the gab!’ said Sergeant McCory, but stood behind his men, as interested as they were in what was going on.

*

Belmont settled his horse fifty yards from Radcliffe. He saw that the American had a fine mount, better than his own. But Belmont was the younger and stronger man by some years and that’s what mattered.

‘War changes everything,’ said Belmont, watching Radcliffe, who seemed equally unconcerned about what was going to happen between them.

‘Killing never changes,’ said Radcliffe. ‘And you damned near killed my son.’

‘I did,’ said Belmont, drawing his sabre, feeling the horse bristle as it sensed his tension. ‘He would have shot me. It was fair.’

‘I know, but I’m still going to kill you for it,’ said Radcliffe. ‘There’s a meanness in you that needs to be stopped. You’re a man that needs killing.’ He slid the cavalry sabre from its scabbard.

Belmont gathered the reins in his left hand, the leather tight against his riding gloves. He saw Radcliffe do the same. The Irish horse tucked in its head, its haunches bunching, hooves back-pacing, coiling for the charge. Man and horse eager to attack.

A moment of realization broke into Belmont’s concentration. ‘You’re buying time. That’s what this is about. Did you get the boy away?’ he said, letting his eyes sweep across the opposite mountains. ‘Course you did.’