The Last Horseman (40 page)

The horses scuffed the ground with anticipation, both riders controlling their fidgeting mounts.

‘It’s been a good war, Radcliffe, but it’s changing... trench warfare, big guns... small-minded generals... I’ll wager there’ll be little use for cavalry when this is over... No one to test ourselves against.’

The rising sun behind Radcliffe cast a long shadow. He had the advantage and knew he needed it. ‘You won’t need to,’ he said and spurred the horse on.

They charged, sword arm held forward, wrists half-turned, blades’ cutting edge ready to strike. It took less than ten seconds for them to barge and clash. Radcliffe’s horse was the stronger and he heeled it into Belmont’s. Muscle met muscle and the impact slowed Belmont’s blow but he had half expected the assault and blocked Radcliffe’s sabre thrust. Blades clanged, both men tight-reining their horses to keep them close. Their grunting efforts forced the blades back and forth in a flurry of slash and block, lunge and parry. Glancing blows cut into the horses. Wild-eyed, they snorted and whinnied. Belmont yanked the reins hard, forcing his mount’s head violently away while Radcliffe used his legs to urge the horse into the attack, saving its mouth from a vicious grinding of the bit. Their sabres locked; each man’s strength was tested. Belmont’s gritted teeth yielded a snarl. Radcliffe’s left hand was suddenly free of the reins and his body twisted, keeping Belmont’s sabre out of harm’s way, but slamming his fist into the side of Belmont’s head.

Had the morning breeze carried the mutterings from the Irish ranks, Radcliffe would have heard Mulraney swear that the American was a street-fighter. Radcliffe had once fought the Plains Indians hand to hand and that bitter experience gave him an edge. The dragoon rocked from the blow as Radcliffe drew back his sabre and slashed. The blade cut through Belmont’s field jacket but the man’s horse veered away, saving him from serious injury. Belmont hauled on the reins, spitting blood from the blow that had glanced down his face and split his lip. It was of no consequence to him: the taste of blood was good. He attacked.

Radcliffe barely had time to defend himself. Belmont was a seasoned fighter; he feinted and with a rapid turn of his wrist brought his blade down across Radcliffe’s chest. The sabre’s tip ripped cloth and cut skin; Radcliffe twisted but the blade’s momentum bit into his left shoulder and he felt the burn as it seared his flesh. He was suddenly vulnerable. His defence exposed. He pulled his foot free from the stirrup and raked Belmont’s thigh with his spur, an attack that made the dragoon curse and served to offset his expected blow, which slashed through the air inches from Radcliffe’s head.

Dust churned and sweat stung their eyes, but Radcliffe had bought vital seconds and rained a flurry of blows on his opponent. Belmont reeled but kicked his horse free from the melee. Both men sucked the dry, gritty air into their lungs. A quickening breeze made dust scuttle across the valley floor as they repositioned themselves for another charge. Belmont had claimed first blood. Radcliffe’s wound trickled stickily into his shirt, which clung to the wound. He took a second to check – it was a cut that he could staunch; no artery had been slashed. Despite the stinging pain he knew it to be superficial. A sabre’s heavy blade could take a limb, but he had been lucky. For a moment he sagged in the saddle and let the pain’s keenness hold him. The horse’s wheeling meant the sun’s glare was now against him and he squinted as Belmont turned his horse left and right, seeking the angle for his attack, assessing how best to deliver the killing blow to the wounded American.

Radcliffe heard a plaintive cry from a distant past. He and Pierce had once fought the Comanche, whose war-painted braves knew when death was about to take them. In his mind’s eye he saw the outnumbered warriors that the Buffalo Soldiers were about to kill. They chanted their death song and then urged their ponies forward, right into their enemy. This South African valley now swirled with their ghosts as the devil winds twisted up little dust storms – desert phantoms. For a moment Belmont was obscured and then the breeze died again. Radcliffe looked into the shimmering light. Perhaps the wound was more serious than he had thought.

The dragoon called out: ‘You should have stayed at home, Radcliffe. Your glory days are far behind you. Give it up.’

There was no need to spur the impatient Irish horse this time. It surged forward. Radcliffe raised himself in the stirrups, leaned forward, arm extended, sabre pointed towards his adversary. Belmont grinned and savagely kicked the sides of his blood-flecked horse. The American would be dead in seconds. Raising himself from the saddle like that was a mistake that would cost him his life. He had no defence below his chest. Eager for the kill Belmont urged his horse on. Even if Radcliffe struck downward Belmont knew the strike would take vital seconds too long. An arm’s length from his kill and Belmont blinked in disbelief. Radcliffe was no longer out of the saddle but lying low across the wild horse’s withers. He had lunged below Belmont’s guard.

The horses surged past each other. Radcliffe leaned back in the saddle and put pressure on the reins. The stallion pulled up, then turned under the leg kick and stopped, chest heaving, sweat-streaked flanks shuddering from exertion. Radcliffe watched Belmont, now thirty yards away. The dragoon was upright in the saddle but the reins were loose in his hands. He stared towards Radcliffe and then the bloodied sabre dropped to the ground. Radcliffe eased his horse forward at the walk. Belmont’s head slumped; his bush hat fell into the pooling blood below his mount. When Radcliffe reached him the dragoon lifted his head to face him. Blood seeped between his teeth as he grinned at Radcliffe.

He tried to say something but Radcliffe’s strike had cut deep into his chest. Radcliffe watched him unemotionally, waited until his head drooped again and then his body fell silently into the dirt.

Moments passed. Radcliffe peered into the heat haze that had settled across the valley’s distant horizon. Ride on or backtrack? If Reece-Sullivan had any sense he would have scouting parties scouring the escape route, which meant that if he backtracked he would come up against them. If he went forward he would ride into the Boers. It had come down to a game of devil’s dice. A moment of regret claimed him. He wished his friend Colonel Baxter were still alive, and that Baxter’s son were with his own boy. Old soldiers watching their sons grow up.

He slid the sabre into its scabbard and patted the horse’s neck. It was a fearless beast and he offered a silent word of gratitude to the Irishman who had gifted it to him. Benjamin Pierce would see Edward home – all he needed to do now was to reach the end of the valley and find his way into the mountains before the British artillery began its bombardment and forced their enemy down into this killing ground. He shook the dizziness from his mind. Blood from his wound now soaked his jacket and was seeping down into the saddle.

He remembered an African proverb – had it been Mhlangana who had told him? It didn’t matter. Only the words stayed lodged in his memory:
Human blood is heavy, and the man who has shed it cannot run from it
.

Radcliffe swilled water from the canteen round his mouth and spat the sourness away. It was a race worth running. He dug in his heels and eased the reins. He gave the stallion its head and let it run ahead of the dust devil that chased them.

*

Major Lawrence Baxter and his men had watched the unfolding contest. They had fallen into an uncommon silence when Radcliffe killed Captain Belmont because now the horseman was galloping beneath them and orders had been issued to stop him.

‘Sergeant McCory! The men will set their sights at five hundred yards. Volley fire when ready,’ Baxter ordered.

McCory hesitated.

‘When you’re ready,’ Baxter said quietly.

McCory smiled grimly. It was the best they could do to give Radcliffe a chance.

‘Enemy to your front! Five hundred yards! Ready!’ McCory commanded.

Mulraney thumbed his sight’s bevelled wheel and set the range. ‘Five hundred yards, my arse. Seven more like. The major’s letting him get through, God bless him.’

Flynn levelled his rifle. ‘He might get past us, but those fucking Scottish Protestant bastards up the line won’t let him through.’

‘FIRE!’ McCory shouted.

Rifle fire splintered the air. They watched as the horse ran, full stride, its rider hunched low as if he were racing for the finish line. As man and horse cut across the valley floor, the bullets struck the ground, keeping pace with the gallop but falling short. The volley fire echoed and then Mulraney could no longer keep the discipline expected. He clambered to his feet and cheered. ‘Go on, man! Go on! Ride! Go on with you!’

The cry was taken up along the Royal Irish ranks. Men stood, waved and cheered, willing the horseman on.

McCory glanced uncertainly at Baxter, who shook his head.
Leave them be
.

*

Radcliffe saw the bullets fall short. They splattered the ground like a sudden hailstorm. He thought he heard men cheering once the echoing reverberations settled but all he was certain of was the heaving effort of the stallion as it ran for the horizon. The swirling dust chased them but the black horse’s coat shimmered defiantly ahead of it like a flag of war. Pain bit into Radcliffe’s chest. The blood from his wound soaked him further. He ignored it and pumped his arms rhythmically forward, urging the horse to go faster and then faster still. The way ahead seemed clear but then another volley of bullets danced before him, right in his path, and a second later came the ragged sound of gunfire. He pulled the horse wide, felt the snap of air as the bullets sought them out. He ducked low on to the flying mane and spoke to the horse, telling it they would make it, said that they were faster than the wind, that the bullets chasing them couldn’t reach them. He felt the great horse shudder as bullets struck home; it faltered and then regained its pace. Something struck his leg, a vicious punch that numbed him. Another clipped his right arm. Wasps tugged at his jacket, stinging his skin. Tears blurred his vision for a moment as the wind nipped his eyes. Blood made the reins slippery. He curled a fist around the horse’s mane. They were slowing. The devil wind had caught them and began to enshroud man and horse. The rifles from the ridge fell silent. He knew they could still make it home.

But then the luck a man always needs in war ran out.

A platoon of men from the Highland Division were on the valley floor. They saw the surging dust cloud racing towards them and a horseman emerging from it bearing down on them on a black stallion, nostrils flared, blood streaking its flanks. They knelt, levelled their weapons and fired.

The devil wind swept past them taking horse and rider with it into the rippling heat haze, leaving only the distant sound of hoof beats in the desolate valley.

And then silence.

*

High on the ridge Pierce lowered the telescope and turned away.

The insistent rapping of the rain against the window pane reminded Pierce of the stuttering gunfire those five years past in South Africa. His friend saved many a life when he took on the guns. The Boer commandos had heard the power of the gunfire in the valley and turned away, forcing the British to regroup, and later an army of several thousand Boers, realizing their cause was lost, surrendered. And finally everyone went home.

Pierce’s finger marked the page in the book he was reading. He stood up and crossed to the slightly open window, allowing a few splattering drops of rain to touch his face before closing it. The coals in the grate glowed comfortingly against the Dublin winter chill. Below, in the street, a cab arrived and a frock-coated Edward stepped down, one sleeve of his coat neatly pinned, the other arm extended to help a pretty young woman step down.

Edward had become a fine scholar and this attractive young woman was likely to become his wife. No doubt, Pierce thought, a family would soon follow. Edward’s success seemed assured and he was already showing signs of becoming an excellent lawyer. Pierce heard the front door open and close. The sound had a familiarity to it, something he welcomed. Voices were muted downstairs but he knew Mrs Lachlan would have helped the young couple ease out of their wet coats and that hot food would soon be offered and accepted. Perhaps he would have a brandy first with Edward. He hoped so. He delighted in talking to the boy, took solace in telling him about his father and the road they had travelled together. It was good to reminisce and Edward enjoyed listening; he never failed to ask questions about the Buffalo Soldier’s life, and always wanted to hear what Pierce had seen that fateful day in South Africa.

And Pierce never tired of the telling.

Edward came bounding up the stairs, smiled and greeted Pierce, making a gesture of putting a glass to his lips as he opened the door of the room opposite. The girl always stayed below stairs for a few moments, making sure that Mrs Lachlan prepared a tray with the food that Edward preferred. Such conversations were a delicate balance between youthful enthusiasm and a stalwart woman of immense patience. Pierce poured two good measures of brandy, catching a glimpse of Eileen Radcliffe in the chamber that had been prepared for her when Edward and Pierce had returned from the war. Pierce had seen to it that her sitting-room fire was kept lit and that she and her companion nurse enjoyed the privacy that that part of the house offered. Edward kissed his mother and she smiled. She still did not know who her son was, only that the young man was kind and gentle with her. Edward returned to where Pierce waited, took the glass and warmed himself next to the coals. Pierce liked that Edward smiled a lot. He was a young man in a hurry. Hungry to get God-knew-where, but he’d succeed wherever it was, no doubt about that, Pierce thought, sipping the brandy.

Their escape from the South African War had been fraught with danger. Once they’d reached Portuguese East Africa, their trusted guide had returned to his own people in Zululand. Pierce never heard of him again. Evelyn’s photograph appeared occasionally in English and Irish newspapers. She had returned to Bergfontein concentration camp and with Pierce’s help raised awareness of the prisoners’ plight back home. One such photograph showed her guiding a group of important men and women from England along the camp’s barbed wire. It was not hatred that had caused such suffering but inexperience, administrative ignorance and a distasteful, ill-judged policy that waged a new kind of war against women and children. Her testimony about Radcliffe and his son was reluctantly accepted by the British Army, with the help of the politicians who knew Radcliffe to be anything but a spy and traitor. General Reece-Sullivan lost his command. A year and a half after their escape Evelyn Charteris died from disease caught in one of the camps. Even though the Boers lost their war they gave this Englishwoman the greatest honour they could bestow: they buried her at the foot of their Women and Children’s Memorial.