The Last Horseman (32 page)

‘It’s a fine brandy, Radcliffe. Not French. South African. Damned decent it is too. And beggars can’t be choosers in war, can they?’

Radcliffe knew the man had authority over him and his suggestion was little more than a taunt to make it clear who was in control. Radcliffe relented, took the brandy glass and sipped its warmth.

‘This war has taught us enormously important lessons,’ said the general. ‘We have a great deal of respect for our enemy. We treat their wounded as we would our own. And they show the utmost courtesy to our casualties. War has rules.’

‘Rules?’ said Radcliffe.

‘The discipline of war. You’re an ex-cavalry officer, you understand that.’

‘I understand you have men who shoot the wounded, who pillage farms and imprison women and children. There are few rules that are not broken in war, general. We both know that.’

‘We deprive the enemy of home comfort, sanctuary and supplies. All within regulations.’

There was a sudden commotion outside the window as four soldiers manhandled a struggling Major Taylor. His top tunic button was missing, his face ruddy with exertion and humiliation.

‘Get your hands off me! Leave me I say!’ he shouted at his escort. His tunic was dusty; dirt clung to his cheeks and hair; his hands were manacled. It looked as though he had fallen or made an attempt at escape.

It was Sergeant McCory from the Royal Irish who barked an order at the officer: ‘Behave yourself now, Major Taylor, sir! There’s no escape to be had. Come along now, like a good gentleman!’

For a moment the officers in the room looked concerned as Taylor resisted and the men restraining him barely managed to keep him from breaking the window. Now Radcliffe remembered Taylor from the argument at the Dublin barracks. He was one of Belmont’s cronies. Radcliffe saw that Private Mulraney was part of the detail and then Lawrence Baxter stepped into view and spoke quietly to the arrested man. Whatever he said calmed the situation and the escort hauled Taylor out of sight.

Radcliffe felt a brief surge of hope. If the Irish lads were here then perhaps Baxter might help him with Edward. At least put in a good word. The officers returned to their maps, their embarrassment at a fellow officer’s untoward behaviour pushed from their minds. Best not discussed.

The incident didn’t seem to ruffle Reece-Sullivan. ‘You’re wrong. No one under my command is immune from punishment... if those rules are broken. No favour is given. There can be no distinction between the ranks or a man’s nationality when it comes to breaking those rules. None. If we lose discipline we yield to chaos and we peel away the veneer that separates man from beast.’

Radcliffe felt lightheaded from drinking the brandy on an empty stomach. For a moment he struggled to grasp any meaning from what had begun to sound like a lecture.

‘I don’t understand what this has to do with my son,’ he said, pushing the glass and what was left of the brandy away from him on the desk.

‘One of the fighters captured with your son wore a British Army tunic,’ said the general.

Radcliffe felt the frustration of dealing with this prim officer. He barely managed to keep the contempt from his voice. ‘They take them off dead soldiers. Most of the Boers are dirt farmers; their own clothes are threadbare.’

‘The chief of staff, General Lord Kitchener, issued an order that any Boer caught wearing a British uniform was to be shot as a spy.’

Radcliffe pushed back the chair. ‘For God’s sake! Your high command issues an order that cannot possibly be known by the enemy in the field. How is a guerrilla fighter supposed to know that? They don’t get newspapers in the wilderness. They are prisoners of war. Follow your own conscience, sir.’ Radcliffe rapped the desktop with his knuckles, teeth gritted to cage the venom that threatened to spit out. ‘My son was not wearing a uniform. I want to take him home.’

For the first time since Radcliffe had entered the room he saw colour seep up from the general’s collar. His ill temper was under control, but he was quickly on his feet.

‘His papers say he’s English-born. An Englishman fighting his own kind. Even a noted lawyer like yourself would find that indefensible. It’s treason.’

Pierce saw Radcliffe being escorted by an armed guard across the street. Radcliffe glanced quickly in his friend’s direction. Two other soldiers were striding directly towards the stable.

‘Goddammit,’ Pierce muttered. He turned away from the door and stripped off his jacket and shirt so that he looked just like an African levy in undershirt and braces. He slid his rifle and sabre beneath the straw. Another twenty paces and the soldiers would be in the stable. Pierce went to the Irish horse, unhooked Radcliffe’s sabre from the saddle and pulled free his rifle. He hesitated and slid the rifle back into its sleeve. If Radcliffe was under arrest then these soldiers were coming for his weapons; if they found none that would be suspicious. He quickly hid the sabre next to his own as the soldiers came inside.

‘Oi!’ one of the men said, pointing at Pierce, seeing him as nothing more than a native labourer. ‘Where’s the American’s saddle?’

Pierce looked blank and, turning his back, hunched to his work of lifting straw bales. The soldier grabbed him, twisting him around. ‘Kaffir! I’m talking to you.’

Mhlangana quickly stepped forward, putting aside the pitching fork he’d been using. ‘
Baas
, it’s here. He doesn’t speak English.’ Then he turned to Pierce and spoke rapidly in Zulu. Pierce nodded as if in understanding. The soldier wrenched free Radcliffe’s carbine and without another word left the stable. The sun was already setting and the clear sky would bring a cold night with it. Mhlangana stood for a moment with Pierce and watched the soldiers cross the street.

‘You will have to stay here tonight. You cannot go out among the soldiers; they will think you a thief and you will end up being tied to a gun wheel and flogged. You cannot help Mr Radcliffe until we find where they have taken him. I will ask my friends who work in the field kitchens. They will know.’ There was nothing more to be said and the African turned back to the task at hand. Pierce went down on his haunches, pushing his back against the stable wall. He needed to watch the street and when the time came he would find Radcliffe and Edward.

*

General Reece-Sullivan watched Radcliffe being escorted to his quarters. Events had become untidy. An American lawyer whose name was known to the British public, hailed by the liberal press, often condemned by the rest, had stumbled upon his doorstep in search of a son who fought for the enemy. A damned fine mess, though no one would thank him for releasing anyone committing an act of treason. But a regular army officer committing murder and witnessed by a trooper: that could not be brushed under the carpet. Not now. Not with an eyewitness. The whole business was compounded by the Charteris woman. How much support did she have? Not much, but there was growing concern back home about the camps, and the army did not need bleeding-heart do-gooders raising their voices. Reece-Sullivan felt cursed by ill fortune at a time when he needed all the luck that Fate could muster. He was already deploying his forces to snare the Boers. His provost marshal was with another division and Major Taylor had been held by a sergeant major and two corporals of the Military Foot Police. In consideration of the accused man’s rank he had ordered that an officer and detail from the Royal Irish should escort him into custody. The division was on the move and an act of murder had to be dealt with swiftly. A speedy resolution was vital. Military law dictated that a general court martial could be dispensed with if a major offensive was about to be launched, and that gave Reece-Sullivan the authority to convene a field court martial with himself as president and for two other officers of equal or senior rank to the accused to serve with him. Reece-Sullivan had put his decision into motion the moment he had received the cablegram from Bergfontein. Ill luck had seen to it that the telegraph lines were now down. Had the Boers cut the wires a day earlier then no such message explaining the details of the girl’s death would have reached him and his hand would not have been forced: he would not have had to try a regular army officer. War was a cruel mistress.

*

Major Frederick Leslie Taylor had been brought into the general’s office under escort. A corporal sat in the corner of the room to transcribe the events that would follow. A lieutenant colonel from a Scottish regiment and a major from the Lancers sat either side of Reece-Sullivan.

Taylor looked dishevelled. He had spent hours before his arrest poring over maps trying to determine how best to interpret what meagre intelligence he had gathered about the Boer forces. He had dedicated himself to providing the general with the best possible scenario prior to the major assault. Exhaustion had put him on edge and caused him to curse the escort from the Royal Irish. He had made a fool of himself when they restrained him. And when they had read the charges against him he had panicked. His throat had tightened and he’d found it difficult to breathe. In the turmoil of the impending attack to be suddenly accused of murdering Sheenagh O’Connor had come as a tremendous shock. He had been so careful. No one could know what had happened. Why had he been implicated? Had Sheenagh told someone about him giving her medical supplies? Was that the evidence they had against him? Finally he had brought himself under control and cleared his muddled thinking. A generous apology had been made to the field court martial for the way he had behaved when arrested. And now they had reached the point with their questioning where he was master of his own fate.

‘I did my duty,’ he said calmly. ‘She was a spy. She could have compromised many of my fellow officers. When I approached her with the intention of arresting her she drew a revolver. I acted in self-defence. I did not know that I had killed her because her horse bolted and she escaped. My horse stumbled so I could not pursue her any further. I presumed she had sought out protection from those Irishmen she had been giving information to.’

Taylor fell silent, content that he had explained the circumstances in the simplest, most irrefutable terms.

General Reece-Sullivan remained silent. The lieutenant colonel at his side referred to a handwritten sheet of paper.

‘Major, we have an eyewitness. Captain Claude Belmont of the 21st Dragoons baited a trap using the girl. He then had her followed by this witness.’

Taylor felt the breath driven out of him. He floundered for a moment. He had threatened Belmont and now the cavalryman had snared him.

‘Belmont?’ was all he could whisper.

‘He was concerned you may have compromised yourself with the girl. That you had given her medical supplies in return for sexual favours.’

‘Well... yes, yes, I admit that. The supplies. I did. Of course. I was gaining her trust. But it wasn’t I who gave her any information. It was I who brought Belmont in. I told him he was the risk to our security. He threatened me.’

‘And you reported this?’ asked the lieutenant colonel.

‘No. No, I didn’t. It was a verbal threat. What could I do?’

‘Behave as any officer should,’ said the major next to the general. ‘You could have made an official reprimand against him. There would have been a court of inquiry.’

‘But he threatened to kill me,’ Taylor pleaded, hearing the pathetic whine in his voice as soon as he had spoken.

General Reece-Sullivan placed a fingertip on a sheet of paper. ‘Captain Belmont made a written statement under oath. He thought that you were a risk, and that it was you who was most likely responsible for passing on information to the girl. In his statement he wrote that your intimacy with this woman might also have compromised the security of the regiment’s Dublin barracks, which came under attack.’

Taylor shook his head vigorously. ‘No. No. Not at all. I swear it.’

‘No matter. We do not have any evidence to corroborate that accusation but we do have evidence that you shot and killed the girl. His trooper witnessed everything. His man saw her shot. He saw you ride off. We have his sworn statement.’

Taylor was rendered speechless. His mind refused to co-operate. No matter how hard he thought no answer was forthcoming.

‘No,’ he muttered desperately. ‘I... killed a spy. Yes, I admit that. She might have escaped had I not. I gave her medical supplies to draw her in, don’t you see, general? To find out where the commando was hiding.’

He could see from the look on their faces that his words had no mitigating effect.

Reece-Sullivan’s voice was dry. ‘There are factors at play here that cannot be ignored. The girl’s body was taken to Bergfontein where Mrs Charteris related how the girl regularly brought medical supplies given to her by an unnamed army major as payment for sexual favours. The Charteris woman would be an influential witness should this become public.’ The general stared directly at Taylor. The man was coming apart; anyone could see that. ‘Which must never happen,’ said Reece-Sullivan. ‘Major Taylor, you are an officer who was promoted beyond his capabilities and whose weakness of character should have been noted some time ago. And now you have committed murder.’

Reece-Sullivan looked to the officers either side. They nodded. It was a foregone decision.

‘The army and your own family will cleanse themselves of your dishonour in the appropriate manner.’

Taylor understood what punishment would be pronounced. ‘You have no right. Only the commander-in-chief can sanction the death sentence.’

Reece-Sullivan had passed the charge sheet to each of his fellow judges for their signatures. Now he penned his own.

‘Military exigencies and circumstances have dictated that this field general court martial be convened. You have been found guilty as charged of premeditated murder without provocation. By reason of the nature of the country, the great distances involved, and the operations of the enemy, it is not practicable to relay the case to the commander-in-chief. Telegraph lines have been cut and sentence is confirmed by me, the field officer commanding.’