The Last Horseman (38 page)

Taylor was fast. He sidestepped and pushed his weight down, aiming for Pierce’s chest. There was nothing he could do other than to grasp the blade with his left hand, gasping in pain as the steel bit. Bile gorged his throat when Taylor yanked back the rifle, dragging the bayonet’s edge across his palm. Despite the chill night air sweat streaked both men. Concentration creased their features as each sought to outmanoeuvre the other. Taylor was winning this fight and the older man knew it; his breath was coming harder than Taylor’s, but the pain focused his mind. Pierce curled his lacerated hand in on itself and tucked it into his chest. Taylor took another two attacking steps and threw his weight down, but this time Pierce half rolled and kicked his legs against the back of Taylor’s knees. As Taylor’s face hit the dirt he twisted quickly but the rifle had gone from his hands and the heavy American quickly straddled him. Taylor bucked but Pierce’s weight was the greater. The killer spat and flailed and did not see the bunched fist come out of the darkness to shatter his jaw. Eyes wide with pain he gurgled blood but then Pierce leaned forward, pressing his hand against Taylor’s face, forcing it away into the dirt, feeling the broken jaw crack further, until he heard the sudden sharp snap of the man’s breaking neck. Taylor was dead.

Heaving with effort Pierce rolled off the dead man, tugged free the sweat rag from his neck and bound it as tight as he could over the ugly wound. Pressing his back against the wall for a moment he sucked in air and bent to retrieve his hat. The silent fight to the death had gone unnoticed. Beyond his heaving breath the sound of iron wheels and steam could be heard in the distance from across the open veld.

Benjamin Pierce, the old Buffalo Soldier, took his pain with him as he strode towards the field hospital and Edward Radcliffe.

Hunched by the dull glow of an oil lamp on the small table next to him, the hospital guard sat reading a letter from home. His wife had been ill and the four children had depended on their older brother to help care for them each day. The childlike writing reminded him that this woman was barely educated yet had been faithful and hard-working since they had first met as children working in the shoe factory – long before he had taken the Queen’s shilling. She was an uncomplaining creature but she worried that if her illness worsened then her children would be placed in the workhouse, and it was only that fear which had caused her to bother him with her anxieties. She then assured him in an uncomplicated way that she was certain all would be well and went on to express her concern for his wellbeing. Despite him being a garrison soldier who was not required to fight in the front line she still fretted about him. He was older than most of the men in his company and those years had taken the edge off any anger or disappointment he might have once felt for not having bettered himself in life. More than anything he was grateful that he was clothed and fed and could send his pay home to care for his family. In these times such simple basics of life were a blessing.

Edward watched the guard hold the crumpled letter close to his face, his lips moving as he silently repeated the written words. Edward had already heard the first distant whistle of the train and now it tooted twice more as it drew closer. His mouth dried and muscles tensed as his hand slid beneath the blanket and grasped the knife.

‘Can you help me? I want to sit up. I need water,’ he said quietly.

The guard raised his eyes and without any sign of disgruntlement at having his letter from home interrupted, got to his feet and went across to help the boy. He bent down, his face close to Edward’s, and wrapped an arm beneath his chest, careful to avoid his wound.

‘Hang on a bit, then... Here we go, easy now.’

Edward eased the knife from beneath a blanket, his eyes fixed on the spot where the man’s neck joined his shoulder. He would have to ram the blade hard and deep.

The guard smiled as he settled the pillow behind the boy’s head. ‘How’s that then?’

Edward nodded gratefully. ‘Thank you,’ he said as he pushed the knife out of sight. It was impossible to kill this man, or any other, in cold blood.

‘Right you are, son. I’ll get you some water,’ the guard said and turned towards the hospital trolley that held the carafe of water.

*

Pierce had waited by the ward’s rear door. Evelyn Charteris had said she would make sure it was unlocked when she left the room. Pierce heard voices inside. He prayed it was Edward talking to the guard, luring him to his death. He turned the door handle. As he stepped into the dimly lit room he saw the guard turn away from Edward who was propped against the bed’s head rail. The man’s surprise gave him no time to cry out in alarm before Pierce’s fist felled him.

‘Ben! Don’t kill him!’ Edward hissed.

There was no need; the man was out cold.

Pierce stepped across the body and tugged back the blankets. ‘Gotta get you dressed in a hurry, boy,’ he said, opening the footlocker that held Edward’s clothes.

Edward handed him the knife. ‘You take it. I couldn’t do it,’ he said apologetically.

Pierce nodded as he palmed the blade and tucked it into his boot. The boy needed a moment of comfort. ‘No shame in that,’ he said with a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Come on now,’ he added, tugging the boy’s jacket on over his hospital shirt and then steadying him as he pulled on his trousers and boots. Others woke to watch the silent escape. No one called out and none tried to join this kaffir who was helping the condemned boy. Their own wounds would slow any man down and to be shot in the night was a far less enticing prospect than staying in the clean sheets of a hospital bed and then to be sent to a prisoner-of-war camp.

Edward was weak but Pierce’s strength was enough for them both. With his uninjured arm across Pierce’s shoulder the two fugitives shuffled for the door.

‘Good luck,
Engelsman
,’ one of the Boers whispered.

Pierce eased Edward into the night and hesitated as a shadow moved. Evelyn Charteris stepped closer. She wore culottes, boots and a short riding jacket. Her broad-brimmed straw hat was tied beneath her chin. ‘I came in case you needed help with him,’ she whispered.

He nodded and let her go ahead to make sure the way was clear. Steam hissed and plumed as iron wheels screeched to a slow halt at the railway siding. A rhythmic hum sounded from one of the sheds and a half-dozen electric lamps illuminated the railway siding. A transport officer and his men waited for the train driver and his fireman to climb down, and further along the carriages an NCO bellowed for the train guards to disembark and fall into ranks. Evelyn raised a hand to halt her companions. Pierce held Edward close, pressing his back to the hospital wall. The glare from the lights would cast deep shadows on the blind side of the carriages. They needed to take advantage of it. Edward’s head drooped and Pierce failed to hear the footfall of Sir George Amery as he came up behind them.

‘Mrs Charteris,’ he said quietly. Evelyn gasped and Pierce spun around. Amery was alone. Goddammit, Pierce had let an old man creep up on him. To reach his boot knife he would have to drop Edward and that could have grave consequences for the one-armed boy whose wound was already seeping blood into the dressing.

‘I’m not here to cause you harm or to raise the alarm,’ said Amery. ‘Unless you have killed the ward guard.’

‘He’ll have a headache and bruised jaw, but that’s all,’ said Pierce.

Amery’s expression briefly showed surprise at Pierce’s accent, but this was not the time for further questions. ‘I saw Mrs Charteris unlock the door earlier. It was obvious what was being planned.’

‘You didn’t warn anyone,’ said Pierce, suddenly aware that the distinguished man might have alerted those in authority and that an ambush could be waiting around the next corner.

‘No one.’ Amery nodded towards the distant siding and the lights. ‘They’ll be switched off once the soldiers disembark. The glare will stop men’s night vision for a while. If I were making a run for it I would do it soon.’

‘I intend to.’

Amery stepped closer and unslung a canvas satchel from his shoulder. It was marked with a red cross. He handed it to Evelyn. ‘Everything you need for the boy. I will attend to the guard and delay my report of the boy’s escape for as long as I can. God speed.’

Sir George Amery turned away as Evelyn Charteris hoisted the satchel and followed Pierce as he half carried Edward towards the stables.

*

No one would dare violate the sanctity of General Reece-Sullivan’s office. No door needed to be forced, no window broken. The picket was thirty yards away – two men pacing back and forth, slow, lazy strides because they knew there was no danger from any enemy this deep in the camp and it would be near enough another hour before two sleepy soldiers came to replace them. Two hours on, four off. A standard bone-aching night where no decent sleep was to be had. But it was safe and the guardroom was a pig of a place in the heat or the cold. The men paced and turned and Joseph Radcliffe practically strolled into the building as they turned their backs. Radcliffe stepped into the room where he had stood only hours earlier. It was dark but there was enough low light for him to know that the faint shimmer that spread across the wall was the waxed map that showed the locations of the enemy and the planned attack. He was going to create a diversion – he knew the English would scour the countryside for them if he and Pierce managed to get Edward beyond the camp’s perimeter, and he had to try and make them head in a different direction. He reached out, letting his fingers find the frayed edge of woven cotton. He teased a rent in the material and then ripped off a section that marked the planned attack. It was a crude attempt to fool a bone-headed general – a long shot – but a soldier’s life sometimes depended on such things.

As he eased back into the shadows men’s voices drifted across the camp. In the yellow glow from the lights of the railway siding shimmered the image of the soldiers being marched away. And then, as regimented as the men themselves, the lights dulled and darkened. His eyes scanned the distance to the stable block. Four more buildings to use as cover and then the stables and the train behind them would shield him from most of the tented soldiers. He realized it would take too long to dodge across the shadows – he could already see the waiting horses in the stable’s entrance and the figure of his friend standing next to a bent figure in the saddle. Edward. Dammit, he had to risk cutting across the open ground. Lack of time was going to snare them any minute now. They had been lucky so far. No gunshots, no cries of alarm. With a determined pace he strode forward, denying himself the urge to run. The closer he got the clearer he could see Pierce, who had spotted him and raised a hand as if signalling a beacon for him to navigate to.

Pierce finished tying Edward’s leg on to the stirrup strap. The look between the two men was enough for Radcliffe to know that it would not take much for him to fall from the saddle. Even in the near darkness Radcliffe could see Edward’s gaunt features and stooped posture. The boy smiled when he saw his father, who placed a comforting hand on his son’s.

‘Father, thank heavens you’re here,’ Edward said in a voice barely above a whisper.

‘We’ve a way to go, son.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ he answered, without a hint of self-pity.

‘Good man. You hold on. You’re one of the best horsemen I ever saw. We’re going to get you home.’

Radcliffe saw Pierce struggling with his wounded hand.

‘Major Taylor got between me and Edward. He damned near spoiled things,’ he said by way of explanation.

If Pierce was cut then Taylor was dead. ‘They gonna find his body any time soon?’

‘First light. Sure as hell didn’t have time to bury the son of a bitch.’ He looked towards Evelyn Charteris, whose horse was tethered at the end of the line. She was securing the medical satchel into the saddle’s pannier. She glanced at Radcliffe and then concentrated on the task at hand. ‘She’ll stitch it up when we get clear of this place. It’s time, Joseph. Our luck can’t hold much longer.’

Radcliffe reached for the revolver as a figure jogged from the darkness. There was no need. It was Mhlangana.

He nodded and smiled at Radcliffe and addressed the two men. ‘We must go. The cattle kraal gate has been opened. They will block the other side of the tracks in case the soldiers are alerted.’

Radcliffe peered along the track. He could just make out a mass of brown beasts herding themselves beyond the train. He went along the horses to where Evelyn had pulled down her stirrup ready to mount. He cupped his hands so that she might use it to raise herself. For a moment she hesitated and then bent her leg, placing her knee in his grip. He pushed her up into the saddle. She gathered the reins and looked down at him.

‘Thank you, Mr Radcliffe,’ she said quietly, the longing to know him better barely concealed in her voice.

‘It is I who owe you thanks,’ he said, holding back the regret that threatened to tinge his words. ‘Good luck to you, Mrs Charteris. It’s been a privilege.’

Her eyes widened. He smiled and squeezed her hand. It was obvious – he was not going to ride with them. She nodded. ‘I wish we could have met in better circumstances.’

‘So do I,’ he answered. There could have been a life to be lived with this woman.

Radcliffe pulled himself into his saddle and, as Mhlangana led them into the darkness towards the side of the train, turned to Pierce. ‘Ben, get him home.’

Pierce glared at him. ‘What do you mean? I can’t do this on my own,’ he said, forcing his voice into a desperate whisper.

‘How far would we get? One long hard gallop if they chase us will finish Edward. You and your rifle might take some of them but they’ll ride us into the ground, Ben. I’ll lead them away up the valley.’

‘Jesus H. Christ, you’ve had some damned stupid ideas in the years I’ve known you. This is the worst of ’em.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Joseph, I’m aching and hurting in every piece of my body. I’m damned near at the end of the road and I bet you’re not far behind me. You hear me? We’re old men. You can’t take them on. You can’t.’