The Last Horseman (7 page)

‘Get yourself out of here! We’ve been betrayed,’ said Leahy, shoving Malone away into the darkness. ‘Find who it was and finish it!’ He turned to run into the darkness, but Malone grabbed his arm.

‘Cavan! Come on, man, for God’s sake!’

The dynamiter pulled free. ‘Get away with you. I’m for taking care of the bastards’ horses. At least that!’ And then he ran towards the stables.

*

Isolated pockets of intense fighting went on within the barracks’ grounds. Radcliffe stood over the wounded Mulraney, protecting him as attackers dodged in and out of the entwined smoke, mist and rain, wraiths swirling through the colonnade. Radcliffe levered the rounds into Mulraney’s rifle and brought down two of the Fenians. His other shots ricocheted into the stone walls. He fired the last of his rounds and brought down another attacker as he saw Belmont, his unbuttoned tunic exposing splashes of blood on his undershirt, pick up the duty officer’s revolver that lay next to the wounded man. Despite the mayhem and the bullets that still crackled through the air, Belmont calmly stood his ground, levelled the pistol and brought down an intruder who broke cover in an attempt to escape. But then the hammer fell on to empty chambers. Belmont was isolated and another of the attackers ran forward, knife and pistol in hand. He fired two shots, both missed and then he too held an empty gun in his hand.

Radcliffe worked the rifle’s bolt action as he heard the man scream a curse. He had no time to take aim as Belmont took the brunt of the man’s charge. They struggled, the man kicked away Belmont’s legs, but the cavalryman rolled, recovered quickly and snatched a fallen soldier’s bayonet.

In the shifting mist it seemed to Radcliffe that the violence slowed to a mesmerizing dream. Belmont angled his body for the man’s lunge and like a swordsman slashed the twelve-inch blade across the man’s face. The suddenly defenceless man screamed, hands raised to the horrific wound, and stumbled blindly into his adversary. Belmont grappled him briefly and, instead of allowing the man to surrender, plunged the bayonet beneath his armpit. He pushed the corpse away and sprinted towards the flames that silhouetted soldiers fighting to secure their ground. A flurry of bullets snapped in the air. Radcliffe huddled down next to the wounded Mulraney.

Half a dozen men led by Regimental Sergeant Major Thornton ran into view. As the soldiers sought refuge behind the walls, Thornton stood his ground, upright, casting his eyes across the conflict, prepared for a rush from the enemy.

‘Mr Radcliffe, sir, this is no place for a gentleman like yourself,’ he said evenly and without any sense of urgency. ‘Mulraney, I might have known it’d be you getting shot and causing all this trouble.’

Mulraney shivered from the shock of his wound. ‘It’s sorry I am to be a bother, sergeant major, but I did raise the alarm.’

‘That’s as it should be, lad. Now, get yourself off to the infirmary. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, sergeant major.’

‘Very well, then. Off you go.’ The wall above their head was peppered with gunfire, which Thornton seemed to take as a personal assault on his presence. ‘All right then! Can’t have this gentleman doing your work for you! Rout those murdering bastards out,’ he commanded the squad of soldiers, who promptly ran towards the beleaguered enemy.

The sergeant major looked down at Radcliffe. ‘Are you hurt, sir?’

Radcliffe got stiffly to his feet. ‘No, I’m OK, thank you, Mr Thornton.’

‘Very good, sir.’ He extended his hand for the rifle. ‘I think we can manage now, thank you, Mr Radcliffe.’

Radcliffe handed over Mulraney’s rifle and Thornton strode off into the rain.

Colonel Baxter appeared, his clothes and face rain-streaked and smudged with soot. Radcliffe squinted into the shifting light from the diminishing flames.

‘Have you seen Ben?’

*

Horses whinnied; the high walls of their stalls prevented them from seeing the frenetic firefight outside but, despite being trained warhorses, their confinement and the explosions had spooked them.

Flynn had helped Pierce up after his beating and the two men had moved through the darkened stables to calm the horses. Pierce was a dozen stalls away from the entrance when he saw the roughly dressed man with a bundle of dynamite in his hand strike Flynn down with a pistol butt. The man, who hadn’t seen Pierce in the shadows, lit the fuse, tossing it towards those stalls that lay further away. There was little time to stop the impending carnage. Pierce ran at him; the dynamiter spun round and fired his pistol twice at the approaching shadow. Pierce instinctively raised a protective arm as wood splinters spiked the air but kept going. Pierce’s weight floored the wiry man, but he wriggled like an eel, squirming out of Pierce’s grasp. The Fenian was already on his feet, and levelled the revolver at Pierce’s face. The old Buffalo Soldier had expended too much of his strength in the fight against Belmont and his cronies.

Beyond the gunmen Pierce could see the fuse burning. There was no time left: the man had a clear shot. Pierce flinched, turning away at the gun’s deafening roar, but the bullet went high into the roof. Pierce hardly dared believe his luck. By the time he turned to face the dynamiter again the gunman was gasping through the blood that gurgled in his throat and spilled down across his threadbare coat where the pitchfork’s tines jutted through his body.

Pierce snatched the fuse from the bundled dynamite. Flynn let the weight of the dead man fall forward.

Neither man spoke. And then Flynn said, as if excusing his actions: ‘Bastard was gonna hurt my horses.’

*

By first light the surviving Fenians were being led away, arms raised, grim acceptance of the fate that would surely await them etched on their faces. It had been the most daring raid they had mounted. The acrid smell of smouldering timber lingered across the parade ground, the stench heightened by the damp air, clear now of rain. Fusiliers, still half- dressed after being roused from their beds to fight the intruders, began clearing away debris.

Soldiers laid out the bodies of those intruders who died in the attack. Neat rows overseen by RSM Thornton.

Radcliffe shivered in the chill dawn. Belmont turned one of the dead men over with the toe of his boot, and threw the remains of the cheroot he was smoking on to the cobbles. As the prisoners were taken he glanced across to where Radcliffe, Pierce and Baxter stood.

‘More defendants for you, Radcliffe,’ he called. ‘Though I’ll wager you won’t save these from the rope.’ He turned away.

Baxter was as grime-laden as any other man. He had fought on the ground, commanding disparate groups of his fusiliers. ‘If Belmont’s squadron hadn’t been in station we might have had a rougher time of it,’ he said. ‘We had been warned. God’s grace.’

‘An informer?’

‘Luckily, yes.’

‘You always need luck in a fight, Alex, you know that. How many dead?’

‘Roll call’s at oh-six-hundred. Men are on stand-to until then. So far we have three dead. A dozen or so wounded. Nothing more serious than that.’

‘And the gunmen?’ Pierce asked, taking his attention from where Marsh and Taylor met with Belmont at the far end of the square.

‘As far as we can tell nigh on thirty of them launched their attack on the barracks while another ten besieged the Royal Irish Constabulary to ensure no help was given to us. It was co-ordinated and long in the planning by the sound of it. We killed seventeen, and there are those nine walking wounded,’ he said, nodding towards the ragtag survivors. ‘I dare say a couple of them must have escaped.’

‘Were the Fenians after the armoury or the brigade officers?’ Radcliffe said.

‘The officers’ mess is stronger than a fortress.’

‘You can’t be sure, though, Alex. They could have struck a massive blow a few days before you sail.’

‘The informer warned us it was the armoury. We weren’t sure exactly when the attack would come so I had squads at strategic points. Other than that, we just had to carry on as normal. Didn’t think they’d take the gates off its hinges though.’

He touched Radcliffe’s shoulder. ‘I’d best see to things.’ Colonel Baxter pushed the hair from his face, buttoned his tunic and moved off to where his officers were reorganizing their men.

Radcliffe and Pierce walked across the parade ground as the fires were damped down and the garrison was brought back under control. Pierce carried his frock coat across his arm, his shirt blood-splattered and dirty.

‘Damned if these Irish don’t know how to throw a party,’ he said tiredly.

Radcliffe studied his friend for a moment. He was uninjured except for the cut and bruising on his face.

‘Damned if I can stay up this late any more,’ Radcliffe answered.

*

Pat Malone pushed his way up the brothel’s stairs. No one tried to stop him, not with the snarl on his face and the knife gripped in his grubby bloodstained fist. Kathleen O’Riordan saw him coming and slammed closed the door, but it yielded to his boot. She screamed as he snatched her hair and laid the blade across her face with enough pressure to draw blood.

‘Where is she? Where!’

The girl had known rough treatment in her trade, but Malone was a known man of violence, like those he ran with. Still, she tried to protect her friend. ‘I don’t know, Jesus, she said she was going down to Cork... to see her mother... for Christmas!’

‘I’ll cut your face off and then see who’ll pay you to spread your legs!’

She felt the blade move and knew that Malone would think nothing of fulfilling his threat. ‘All right, all right,’ she pleaded, the sobs already rising from her chest. ‘She’s on the boat... for Liverpool, said she was following the soldiers. Jesus, don’t cut me, mister, don’t.’

Malone threw her to one side and stormed out of the room. Kath felt the moistness on her cheek as tears mingled with the small cut. It was nothing. Nothing to what Malone and others would do to Sheenagh if they found her.

*

Radcliffe stood stripped to the waist in front of the washbasin in his room as he sluiced the grime and blood from his face and hands. After all the years of being away from the conflict of war the assault had sapped his muscles, but the night’s killing had brought home the reluctant truth that in the heat of the moment he had responded like the soldier he had once been. A man can change, he had always told himself, but once learned, the capacity to inflict violence could never be discarded.

He had not seen Edward step into the room. The boy gazed at the old ugly scar that ran across his father’s back. Radcliffe caught his look in the mirror. He turned and took a clean shirt from a chair.

‘Were you hurt tonight?’ Edward said, trying to pretend that he had not seen the puckered slash mark.

Radcliffe shook his head and turned the gas lamp down, hoping perhaps to subdue the boy’s unease that he could have lost his only parent in the attack.

‘What about Benjamin?’

‘He’s all right.’

Edward was holding on to his emotions – and a letter. Neither of them knew what to say in that moment. Then, as if remembering the excuse he’d needed for visiting his father’s room, he handed Radcliffe the envelope.

‘This came. By hand. From Mr Kingsley.’

Radcliffe took the letter and propped it on the chest of drawers. The message could wait; his son could not.

‘It was a knife wound,’ Radcliffe said, wanting to bring the boy into his life. Edward said nothing. ‘The scar. On my back. A knife wound. It was a Comanche,’ he added, knowing the explanation sounded lame.

‘Did my mother know about things you did... the wars you fought?’ Edward asked.

‘Only some of it.’ He paused and finished dressing. ‘It’s not something that bears discussing. It’s ugly. And you and your mother brought beauty into my life. Why risk blemishing that?’

‘Do you still think of her?’

‘Every day,’ Radcliffe said quietly. And in the moment willed himself to tell his son the truth about his mother. But he denied himself the confession.

Edward nodded. ‘I miss her too.’ He fussed with his father’s cufflinks on the dresser. ‘Why did you fight tonight? Couldn’t you have kept out of it?’

Radcliffe’s lie came without hesitation. ‘No,’ he answered.

‘Did you want to stay out of it?’

Radcliffe’s eyes flicked away from his son’s. Was it so obvious to the boy?

Edward turned for the door, but then hesitated and looked back. ‘Father... I may never be as brave as you or as strong as my brother... but don’t be a hypocrite. Please.’

He waited a moment and then opened the door.

‘Edward... wait,’ Radcliffe said gently, his words holding the boy in the room. ‘My horse is stronger than Lawrence Baxter’s. Ride him in the race.’

Christmas Day and the week that followed passed in a sombre, though expectant, mood. Colonel Baxter had refused to cancel the New Year’s Eve One Hundred Guineas horse race. He was damned if he was going to allow the Irish nationalists any sense of victory in disrupting what had become an institution that gathered horsemen from across the county. Wealthy landowners and sons of aristocracy who had the quality of horse to race the five miles across broken countryside were the main competitors, but this year the newly arrived cavalrymen were invited to submit a contender for the purse. No one within the squadron opposed Claude Belmont.

The letter that had been delivered several days earlier beckoned Radcliffe to Kingsley’s stables. It was barely first light and Radcliffe knew the race could not start until the burly Irishman took himself off to the starters’ line. Kingsley was a man of influence and wealth, and it was he who posted the hundred guineas’ prize money. The meeting he had requested in the letter had nothing to do with the morning’s race.

Kingsley and Radcliffe strode towards the stables across the yard as a stable lad opened the big doors for them. At the end of the stalls was a special enclosure that at first glance seemed to Radcliffe’s eyes, in the dim light, to be a small show ring, and, set aside from the others, another stall that was almost in darkness. The wooden slatted building creaked in the wind and something moved in that darkness. Kingsley gave a curt nod to the stable lad, who hoisted a couple of oil lamps on to wall hooks and then he made himself scarce. The big doors closed behind the two men.