The Last Horseman (31 page)

‘He is already here, yes.’

‘Is there anyone with him? A boy?’

‘No, there is no one. But your friend, he came a long way and he has the eyes of a man who has seen a bad thing. A very bad thing. He has gone to the hospital.’

‘Did the train bring in wounded?’

‘Yes. But they were not English. They were Boers.’

Pierce sighed. Radcliffe must have ridden hard to no avail. Mhlangana had confirmed Pierce’s realization of what had happened. The ambush had been successful but perhaps Edward was alive, otherwise Radcliffe would not be searching the hospital. ‘Best I stay out of sight until I know what’s happening. Can you get me some food?’

*

They had allowed Radcliffe less than an hour with his son, but there was little use in him staying while Amery and the nurses attended to the boy. There was nowhere for Radcliffe to sit and wait and despite his anxiety the reality of his hunger and thirst finally prompted him to seek out food. As he walked across the dusty street, now empty of marching soldiers, a small group of cavalry approached, their horses at an easy walk, cluttered, not in formation – a group of men going back up the line. Radcliffe stopped and turned in the middle of the street. He had recognized their leader. It was Belmont and his marauders.

Pierce took the last bite of an apple as he leaned against the stable door’s rough wood and glanced down the street. He saw Radcliffe stop. Pierce tossed the apple core away and without taking his eyes from the unfolding scene called out softly to the African: ‘Mhlangana, fetch my rifle. Quickly now.’

The horsemen came into view and then halted a dozen strides from where his friend stood.

Pierce ran his tongue over his teeth. There would be a shit storm if Radcliffe attacked Belmont. And both Radcliffe and Pierce could either be dead in the next few minutes or in front of a firing squad by next morning. Military justice would be swift. He took the weapon from a concerned Mhlangana and eased a round into its chamber. Outside, nothing seemed to move. Belmont sat at the head of the phalanx of his men watching Radcliffe. Neither man reached for a weapon. Flies buzzed and settled. Horses shook their heads, rattling bit and bridle. Belmont looked unconcerned as he studied the man he knew to be his enemy although, if the American was here in Swartberg, perhaps Radcliffe knew what had happened at the ambush.

‘Your boy chose the wrong side,’ Belmont said. ‘Seems the puppy slipped its lead.’

Radcliffe realized in that moment that it had to have been Belmont who ambushed the train. He made no gesture or threat but neither did he move. Perhaps, Pierce thought, Radcliffe was daring Belmont to pass him. If such was the case then Pierce reasoned that Radcliffe would not let him. Radcliffe’s hand moved slowly to the butt of his pistol, a small gesture that did not go unnoticed by Belmont. The edge of Belmont’s mouth creased slightly in a restrained smile of understanding. So be it.

‘The lad had a mind to kill me. He has courage – anyone can see that. I took his arm not his life. Consider him lucky.’

Radcliffe saw the man’s eyes glint. Here and now. They would finish it in this street. He grasped Belmont’s reins, pistol half cleared; Belmont wrenched them free, his fist curled around his sabre’s hilt. For a few brief heartbeats it was as if each man sought the advantage. Radcliffe sidestepped and levelled the revolver, but Belmont’s men pressed forward as their captain brought his horse back under control.

Pierce’s thumb had already pulled back the rifle’s hammer and tensioned the rear trigger when the door of the building across the street opened and General Reece-Sullivan’s aide-de-camp came out and quickly took in the stand-off. Whatever was going on between these two men was not clear but it was apparent that violence would soon erupt. He clattered down the few steps to the street and stood a few paces from Radcliffe’s shoulder.

‘Mr Radcliffe, sir. General Reece-Sullivan’s compliments.’ He waited a moment but neither Belmont nor Radcliffe looked away from the other. Belmont’s sabre was now in his hand; Radcliffe’s gun hand did not waver. A cold-blooded killing in the main street would lead to a certain conviction. The aide-de-camp tried again with a more insistent tone. ‘Sir. General Reece-Sullivan would very much appreciate it if you would join him in his office. Now, Mr Radcliffe.’

Radcliffe’s aim and gaze stayed on Belmont. It was Evelyn Charteris’s voice that broke the spell.

‘Joseph.’

Radcliffe turned, surprised to see her, and then glanced at the aide-de-camp, as if registering his presence for the first time. The aide-de-camp dipped his head respectfully.

‘
Major
Radcliffe. If you please, sir, would you accompany me?’

Radcliffe lowered his revolver. ‘You’ve injured my son twice, Belmont. I will come for you and I will kill you for it.’

Without another word he stepped past the aide-de-camp and strode towards Evelyn, who waited at the door, her concern eased by his approach.

Pierce lowered his rifle. He had sighted on the man who rode behind Belmont, knowing Belmont would be Radcliffe’s target. He sighed with relief. They had been a squeeze of a trigger away from sudden violence.

Belmont eased his horse forward at the walk past the aide-de-camp, who followed a respectful stride behind Radcliffe as he approached Evelyn. She took his hands in her own. Her warmth seeped into him and he felt a surge of gratitude for her presence. Evelyn held his eyes with her own, beseeching him to remain calm.

‘Joseph. Thank God. We brought in Mr Pierce,’ she said quietly.

‘He’s here? Is he hurt?’

‘No. We’ve only just got here. His horse broke a leg. It was fortunate we saw him.’

Radcliffe looked around quickly. There was no obvious sign of Pierce. ‘Why are you here?’

She grimaced and shook her head. ‘Sheenagh O’Connor was shot and killed after she left us at Bergfontein. They’ve arrested an English officer. Captain Belmont had her followed and his trooper witnessed the killing.’

‘Belmont? And the officer?’

‘Major Taylor.’

Radcliffe tried to put a face to the name but could not.

‘Did you find your son?’ she asked.

‘He’s in the field hospital. Belmont’s ambush was a success. My boy lost half his arm.’

Evelyn Charteris did not flinch. She saw Radcliffe’s anxiety and squeezed his hands tighter still. ‘You’re wanted, inside. I’ll stay with your son.’

Radcliffe pulled her to him instinctively, his lips touching her forehead. Despite the heat and dust he was aware of the scent of her and it gave him a longing for her. Embarrassed, he released her. Her smile told him there was no need for forgiveness. He nodded his thanks as the aide-de-camp held the door open.

As Radcliffe was escorted inside the building, Evelyn walked briskly across to the stables and was quickly concealed by its cool shadows. She looked vainly for Pierce, but saw another African who kept his head down as he cleaned a stall, only glancing up to watch she was not followed, and then signalled with his head that she should look to her left.

‘Mrs Charteris,’ Pierce said as he stepped from behind stacked bales of hay.

Evelyn whispered quickly: ‘Mr Pierce, I heard orders given in the general’s office that Mr Radcliffe is to be held under armed escort. More than that I do not know. Edward is badly injured. A sabre took his arm.’ She saw the news of the injury register in his eyes. ‘Stay here. Do not attempt to approach him, otherwise you too will be in jeopardy. I will do what I can.’ She smiled in encouragement at Pierce’s stern look of concern. ‘Good luck to us all, Mr Pierce.’

She turned quickly and was soon out of sight.

Pierce felt his guts squirm. Edward was badly injured. Surely the British would send the boy home. And why would they hold Radcliffe?

The general’s room was large, with a broad desk straddling the centre of the room. Woven rugs added a blood-red warmth to the polished planks. Along one side of the wall trestle tables bore rolls of maps, and stretched across one wall was a large waxed map, broad enough for three men to stand in front of, and high enough to require a stick to point out details. It was a permanent fixture with small tagged flags positioned here and there: some clustered together, others spread out in lines of varying colours that clearly indicated different regiments in the field. It was a fine map, drawn and printed with skill by craftsmen in England. It showed shaded foothills of mountain ranges that curved from the bottom left corner of the map and snaked their way across the coloured landscape. The symbolic ladder lines of a railway track cut across the expansive plain through the foothills and disappeared off the edge. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling and were placed strategically around the room. The British high command were obliged to work through the hours of darkness as they planned their attack on the Boer army. There was electric light, but they could not afford to let a power failure hinder their planning.

General Reece-Sullivan stood in front of the wall map, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His back was to the door when Radcliffe entered the room. Three other staff officers were present, bent over an unfurled map on one of the trestle tables. They glanced in Radcliffe’s direction and then went back to their studies.

‘Sir,’ said the aide-de-camp. ‘Major Joseph Radcliffe.’

Reece-Sullivan ignored his officer for a moment longer, and then turned to face the man he had summoned. Reece-Sullivan was a dapper man, with a trimmed grey moustache and neatly parted hair. His slight frame suggested the body of a younger man but Radcliffe had read somewhere that Reece-Sullivan was an experienced officer and a favoured general of the commander-in-chief. For a moment Reece-Sullivan studied Radcliffe, before moving to the desk where he raised a china cup and saucer and took a sip of tea.

‘A courtesy rank, Mr Radcliffe? Major?’

‘The courtesy afforded by my friends in the British Army, general.’

‘Former US Cavalry, so I’m told. A courtesy that is rightly earned,’ he conceded.

Radcliffe knew there was every likelihood that he would be held in custody now that he had been allowed into the general’s office and seen the deployment of troops indicated on the wall map. The British were moving north in a pincer movement. The Boer army in this theatre of war would be trapped.

Reece-Sullivan noticed him glance at the wall map. ‘You came through the lines?’

‘Yes.’

The general lifted the cup to his lips again, and then rolled them together to dry them so that he would not moisten the end of his cigarette. He drew in a lungful of smoke and turned to the map. ‘The Boers are converging with thousands of men at the head of this valley. It’s a desperate gamble on their part. We’re hurting them badly now. But this’ – he gestured with the cup towards the battle plan – ‘will finish them. I believe you have already witnessed one of our minor successes. A train ambush. Near enough a hundred or so killed. An excellent result by one of our cavalry officers. Chap called Belmont. I think you might know him. From what I hear you had a bit of a run-in back in Dublin, before the Irish embarked.’

Radcliffe realized that his presence in South Africa had prompted the British to look into his background. It was not difficult to sense the veiled animosity here. A liberal American lawyer caught up in an imperial war was bound to raise some suspicions. He took another step closer to the desk and the man who might have the power of life and death over Edward.

‘General, I’d like to speak to you about my son.’

Reece-Sullivan turned and faced the map again, admiring his own strategic skill. ‘We have the Irish, reinforced by the Highland Division, across these mountains here. It’ll be like a game drive. A pheasant shoot. We’re beating them down towards us. Then they’ll be under our guns. And Belmont’s raiders will slash into their rear flank. Though their commando units are fluid. Moving quickly. We can’t quite pin down their movements.’ He looked at Radcliffe.

‘I can’t help you with intelligence reports from the field.’

Reece-Sullivan arched his eyebrows, the cup faltering before it reached his lips. ‘I don’t expect you to.’

‘Then why tell me of your plans?’ Radcliffe glanced at the armed guard who stood at the door. ‘Am I under arrest?’

Reece-Sullivan replaced the empty cup and saucer on his desk. He fingered some documents into a neater line so they were perfectly parallel with the fountain pen to one side. ‘Arrest? No. I doubt you’ll wish to be anywhere else other than with your son. There’s little danger of you escaping. You’ll be held under escort. Until the battle is over. You can have access to your son, with supervision. Of course you will surrender your weapons.’

‘I’m not your enemy, general,’ said Radcliffe. ‘I’m here for my son, that’s all.’

‘Radcliffe,’ said the general, deliberately ignoring his honorary rank, ‘as a lawyer you have known association with the Irish Fenians.’

‘As a lawyer. Due process, general, the backbone of British law. I also helped the Irish Regiment of Foot take the hills at Tugela. Alex Baxter was my friend.’

‘Duly noted. Lieutenant Baxter is now a brevet major, by the way. I’m sorry, Radcliffe, but your son’s circumstances dictate my actions.’

‘Circumstances? He’s badly wounded.’

‘So are twenty-four officers and more than two hundred and fifty of our men. Your son was lucky that we have the services of civilian surgeons who generously volunteer for months at a time. They give their service selflessly for a token payment of a pound a day. Sir George Amery is first rate.’

Radcliffe felt the weight of the general’s power unsettle him. He lowered his voice and adopted a more conciliatory tone: ‘General, I’d like to make arrangements for my son to return home.’

Reece-Sullivan tapped the edge of the piece of paper that was not quite tidy enough. ‘Where is home?’ he asked casually.

‘I think you know the answer to that question. Dublin.’

The general nodded to the aide-de-camp, who poured two cut-glass snifters of brandy and then offered one of them to Radcliffe, who declined. Reece-Sullivan sat himself comfortably in the half-moon spindle-backed chair at his desk and accepted the crystal glass from his aide-de-camp. He raised it to his nose and sniffed appreciatively. He waited, watching Radcliffe.