The Last Horseman (21 page)

The young man’s forehead creased, uncertain at the request.

‘You arm the shells? Is that right? Son? Listen to me. You understand what I’m asking you?’

Military discipline cut through the dying man’s befuddlement and pain. It was a routine that he had practised time and again while bellowed at by his battery sergeant, who now lay blown apart out there near his gun. The instilled drills surfaced in his memory.

‘Fifty-seven fuze... set the fuze... rotate the time ring... fuze burn time... turn the ring... until the arrow... set the fuze...’

Radcliffe was losing him. What little strength the lad had he was gathering to force the air through his lungs, willing himself to obey the stranger and answer his questions. Radcliffe cupped the dying man’s face in both hands, drawing all his concentration. ‘I don’t have time to set fuzes, son, I just want the damned thing to explode when it lands. Understand?’

He nodded. ‘Leave... one safety pin... leave it... for percussion... it’ll... explode... when it hits.’ He gripped Radcliffe’s arm in a final effort to emphasize his instructions. Radcliffe pressed his hand against the man’s face, a brief moment of comfort for the gunner whose eyes glazed and stared into oblivion. The boy was dead.

‘Ready, Mr Radcliffe!’ Sergeant McCory called, his men waiting, rifles at the ready.

‘Goddammit,’ Pierce said.

*

From the time Belmont had left Verensberg and returned to headquarters for his orders it had taken him and his fifty rough riders the better part of two days to get behind the Boer guns that defended the hills holding up the British advance. Their local guide had taken them over difficult terrain which had slowed their pace and now Belmont cursed that they were hours later than planned and that British troops were dying because of the delay. He had whipped the turncoat Boer with a sjambok, and the yard-long, finger-thick rhino hide whip had cut the man to the bone. He was lucky to escape with only a thrashing. The delay had cost English lives and hurt Belmont’s pride. The kopje’s jumbled slabs of rock fell back on the reverse of the hills. They gave way to scattered boulders and brush until the hillside levelled out into an uneven plain that would allow the Boers to escape. Belmont drew up the men and put field glasses to his eyes. There were half a dozen Boer field guns at the base of the hillside, and he could see that men and horses were being prepared to move the guns away. They had inflicted terrible punishment on the infantry on the other side of the hills, and those Boers whose rifle fire could still be heard would be on the front slopes sharpshooting the exposed troops that lay pinned down on their advance. He passed the glasses to Lieutenant Marsh.

‘Half a dozen guns where the hill bellies out. Further back in those rocks is where the sharpshooters will have their horses held. If we drive straight at them they’ll be forced to try and get their guns up the slope. You take half a dozen men behind that rise in case any escape. The Boers can’t afford to lose any of their guns. We’ve got them.’

‘Claude, damned if I’m going to let you have all the fun. Sergeant White can take the men on the cut-off,’ Marsh said, drawing his sabre. This would be a gallop into the exposed Boers’ flank and they’d put them to the sword. The Boers’ fear of lance and blade was well known and Marsh could barely contain his eagerness.

The men readied themselves to advance.

Belmont drew his sabre. ‘Do you hear that?’ he said quietly.

Marsh steadied his horse. ‘The guns?’

Belmont shook his head. ‘Thought I heard a fiddle playing.’

*

Liam Maguire kicked his brother hard. ‘Put that thing away, you idiot.’

‘Ah, there’s enough noise to drown a regimental band,’ Corin said, but did as he was told. The riders could be seen in the distance and they were coming straight into the ambush that Liam had set.

Liam looked at his commando as each man prepared himself. There had been shellfire from the English artillery bursting on the hilltop behind them. The Boers on the other side of the hill would be feeling the lash of shrapnel and the violence from the Irish infantry moving beneath its cover. It would soon be Irishman against Irishman when the bayonet charge came over that ridge.

‘You’ll wait for my command. And when we’ve taken these bastards, we escort the guns to safety. I don’t want none of you staying back here; the other commando has to take care of itself.’

The Boers had almost finished lashing their guns, but turned when they heard the thunder of ironclad hooves. For men on the ground the sight of a cavalry charge and the glint of steel as the horsemen hunkered low across their horses’ necks could crush the bravest of hearts. They, like the advancing horsemen, did not know that an ambush was in place. Flustered, even panicking, they tried to complete the task of attaching the limbers to the horses’ traces. Some took up a kneeling position and levelled their rifles. Any moment now they would be trampled. Most recognized the inevitable: they would abandon their guns and run for their lives. The English would have the Boers’ precious few pieces of artillery.

Liam let the first horsemen gallop through and then opened fire, his own shot followed by a volley that took several men from their saddles. Horses screamed; legs and hooves flailed; roses of blood blossomed on men’s tunics.

Belmont wheeled the men around and bellowed the command to retreat. There was no choice. At least half the riders were already whipping the flat of their sabre blades on their horses’ rumps. But more of his men fell. Horses careered in the echoing gunfire. Moments before Belmont’s men were cut to pieces the dragoons’ sergeant and half a dozen men who had ridden to the top of the rise laid down fire on Liam Maguire’s position. It bought vital moments. Belmont saw Marsh’s horse go down. A soft-nosed bullet had passed through the horse’s head into his friend’s hand as they gripped the reins; then the ragged bullet had ripped on through his elbow before striking him in the chest. The over-eager lieutenant was badly wounded and the crashing impact of the fall knocked him unconscious. Belmont had already sheathed his sabre and fired his revolver into the hillside as he spurred his horse towards the fallen officer. As he dismounted and ran the last few feet towards Marsh bullets whipped the air around him. Survivors had retreated to the mouth of the gully and added their fire to that of the sergeant and his men. It would have little effect other than to let the Boers know that the fight was not yet over and help redirect fire from Belmont, who now dragged Marsh into cover behind his dead horse.

Belmont seemed to lead a charmed life. Three bullets had ripped his tunic and trousers, but none had drawn blood. It was as if his disregard for the hell fire around him acted as a shield. Coolly, he pulled Marsh upright, tugged at the trailing rein of his own horse, bringing the skittish mount closer to him, and heaved the lighter man across his horse’s withers. His actions prompted a couple of the Boers to stand free of cover in an attempt to get a clearer shot at the audacious officer, but Belmont’s men’s cut them down. He spurred the horse away as the sergeant’s men continued their rapid carbine fire. That Belmont was as courageous as he was tough would soon run through the ranks, but the raid to seize the Boer guns had ended in disaster. There were fewer than a dozen men who were not wounded, and fifteen lay dead, shot through more than once.

‘Let them go!’ Maguire yelled. He had lost two men, one of them a Boer, the other a Frenchman. Their bodies would stay where they lay sprawled across the blood-soaked rocks, the gore already drying to a dark stain in the sun’s heat. ‘Come on, you men! Get them guns hitched. The Irish are comin’ and they’ll put the steel through ya! Hurry now!’ he shouted as he clambered down from their vantage point to the obvious relief of the Boer gunners, who chorused their gratitude. ‘That’s enough blabbering,’ he told them, slapping one of the elders on the shoulder. ‘Ya can buy me a drink later on. Corin, get our horses brought up. We need to be away from this place before them Dublin lads come over that ridge.’

*

Sergeant McCory was as good as his word. The Irishmen’s volley followed by rapid gunfire reverberated across the killing ground, its crackling thunder chasing Radcliffe and Pierce like the devil’s hoof beats as they ducked and weaved back towards their horses and the upturned field gun. Neither man could run more than fifty yards without stumbling to his knees and sucking in the dry air. Fear drove them continually back on to their feet, ignoring the pain from strained limbs and rasping lungs. By the time they reached the gun they knew that the Boers would have their field glasses trained on any distant movement.

Pierce retched and vomited what little was in his stomach; then he and Radcliffe pressed their backs against the upturned gun seeking respite and cover. Both drank thirstily from the canteens. There was no need, and little breath, for either to speak. The wheels were shoulder height; they got their arms on the iron rims and heaved. The gun was lying at an angle, and was unstable: with luck they’d be able to rock it over. However, Pierce had been right; the gun was too heavy. It was also caught in a rut.

‘Strip them,’ Pierce cried, pointing to the dead mules as he ran for the horses tied to the wheel of the other damaged gun. Their luck couldn’t hold much longer.

Radcliffe pulled the yokes and traces from two of the dead animals and then slipped them over the horses’ heads as Pierce tied the traces on to the gun carriage’s wheels. Radcliffe geed the horses up as Pierce steadied the gun. With a crash it settled upright. Shots plucked the air; rocks splintered, startling the horses. They shied and lurched forward, hauling the gun into the shallow cusp of dead ground, enough to offer some meagre shelter.

‘Cut the traces!’ Radcliffe yelled, throwing the yokes clear and climbing on to his horse, settling the other as bullets struck the gun’s barrel. Pierce threw himself flat, the horses reared, Pierce’s remount broke free of Radcliffe’s hold and then screamed as Mauser rounds found their mark. ‘I’ll draw them!’ Radcliffe shouted and spurred his horse away, bullets whining above his head.

Pierce had no time to argue. He got to his feet, yanked the breech open, and reached for one of the blue-tipped shells that lay scattered from the smashed limber. Despite his riding gloves his sweaty hands fumbled the shell’s brass casing, and as he ducked to retrieve it pinging rounds from Boer sharpshooters glanced off the gun’s barrel once more.

He cursed, yanked free one of the safety pins from the shell and left the other as the dying gunner had told them. He pulled the lever that opened the breech and then rammed in the shell. The gun could fire over three thousand yards and that was too far. He pushed the lever closed. He didn’t aim, hoping that the gun crew had corrected the gun’s elevation before they had been slain. The recoil rocked the gun back on to the axle spade that limited its rearward movement, but the gun still jumped from the force of the shot. As it settled he cleared the breech, pushed in another shell from the caisson, and yanked the lanyard again.

Bullets sought him out, forcing him down, but as the explosions erupted on the hillside he heard a great cheer from the infantrymen, who broke cover and ran forward. Blood gutters on bayonets caught the sunlight, the sharpened steel glinting as the second shell hurled shrapnel into the Boer positions. Rattling gunfire plucked the dirt, chasing the lone figure who rode crouched low across his horse’s withers. Radcliffe was heading towards the right flank of the hill, aiming for the saddle between the two kopjes. Pierce cursed. His friend would be caught in crossfire if he didn’t get the hell off that horse and find some cover. Instinct was making the Boers shoot at him; there was no other reason. He was no threat, just one man who had dared them. Pierce bent to try and lift the gun’s trail. If only he could move it a few inches the change in angle over the thousand yards could help his friend: Pierce knew the devastating effect the exploding shells would have on the Boer positions. It was a futile effort; the gun’s dead weight defeated him. He saw figures approaching in a crouching run. They were levies carrying stretchers, sent to help the Natal Indian Ambulance Corps. The levies were spread out but two of them fell dead from gunfire; the others hesitated, half ducked, frightened, uncertain what to do. Run or retreat. Pierce yelled at them and waved them on.

‘Come on! Run! Here!’

The men recovered and with shoulders hunched ran towards him. Bullets skipped in the dirt but the levies made it to the gun. He recognized Mhlangana.

‘This way!’ Pierce told them, cutting the air with his hand in the direction he wanted the gun shifted. They put their shoulders to the wheel and with brute force shifted the carriage. Another man fell, a bullet tearing through his chest. He writhed and choked in a spasm of sudden pain. The levies’ eyes widened with fear and they froze as they watched him die. ‘Ammunition!’ Pierce shouted, pointing to the scattered shells. ‘Come on! Move it!’

Pierce loaded the one shell that remained in reach and yanked the lanyard. The powerful explosion made the men wince but it broke the spell. A half-dozen cartridges were quickly gathered and Pierce kept feeding the breech and laying the shrapnel on the distant hill.

‘Again!’ he yelled and bent to lift the gun for a wider field of fire. The grunting effort strained every muscle in his legs and back, but the urgency gave him strength. The men heaved; the gun shifted. Pierce pushed two rocks beneath the wheels to stop the recoil then rammed home a shell and tugged the lanyard. The gunfire on Radcliffe was silenced but he cursed when he saw that his friend was still directing the fast-galloping horse between the kopjes and that two Boers had ridden into the gap and raised their rifles to aim at him.

Pierce tugged his right-hand glove free and quickly calculated the distance. He brought his rifle to his shoulder and set the Sharps’ sight. The air was still; no breeze shifted the artillery smoke. He might miss at this range but the crack of the .50-calibre bullet would tell whoever was trying to shoot Radcliffe that someone had them in their sights. He laid his cheek against the curved stock. He sighted along the octagonal barrel and steadied his breathing, letting thirty years of experience take over. He cocked the rear trigger which primed the front trigger. It needed only the gentlest touch to fire the weapon. He squeezed off a shot. The recoil slammed back into his shoulder. It took three seconds for the bullet to fly the thousand yards, by which time Pierce had levered free the empty case and thumbed another finger-thick round into the breech, his thumb cocking back the hammer. One of the men in the distance danced aside as a puff of dust from the first shot spurted close to him. Pierce fired again before the man could decide what to do. The second shot made him flail his arms and tumble backwards from the force of the bullet. The second Boer swerved his horse for cover.