The Last Horseman (16 page)

*

An arc of steaming brown piss splashed down from the balcony of the room above the music hall into a back alley. Belmont, wearing undershirt and breeches, stood on the first-floor landing and sighed with pleasure as he emptied his bladder from the night’s excess. A hangover was a constant companion when he was away from the field of conflict, an excess of alcohol being one of the few pleasures available, other than those skilfully provided by Sheenagh O’Connor.

Tucked below the overhang, their backs pressed between the swill drums from the food hall, Liam Maguire pushed himself further away from the splashing liquid. He heard the man above him turn and go back into the whore’s room. It wasn’t yet time for the rebel to make his move.

Sheenagh O’Connor had made the bare-board room as comfortable as she could. A thin rug covered the worst of the painted boards. A quilt had been thrown over a tattered chair, and of the three shawls she possessed, two were draped on the walls in an attempt to give the space a semblance of intimacy and warmth. The room was dry and airy, and the glass-paned doors on to the balcony gave her a sense of wellbeing that she had never experienced in her dark Dublin tenement. She lay naked in the bed, half covered by the sheet, allowing the chill dawn air to goosebump her skin and pucker her nipples. It would be hot enough to fry a lizard’s skin soon enough. She felt lazy. She had enjoyed Belmont’s attentions, and the commander of the dragoons always paid well, ever since they had first slept together back in Dublin. Chance encounters were a wonderful thing, but a frightening thought shadowed the comfort of having money tucked beneath the floorboards. If the dragoon officer and the Royal Irish had been sent to this area might not one of the Fenians she had betrayed find her? Was there a chance of it? she wondered.

Belmont sat on the edge of the bed and lowered his whiskered face to her ear, rubbing his moustache against her exposed neck. She sighed with invitation, and half rolled towards him, stretching the night’s sleep from her body, arms above her head. He settled his lips and tongue on to her aroused breast, and then eased his head back, holding her face in his rough palm. ‘What are you up to?’ he asked gently.

‘Just being nice, Claude,’ she said, without a hint of the alarm she felt.

Belmont reached down below the bed and pulled out a satchel bearing a red cross. ‘This is army issue,’ he said without threat. He tumbled the contents on to the bed. ‘Someone thieving army medicines for you?’ he asked.

Sheenagh showed no sign of panic despite the sudden flutter in her chest. She took the cheroot from his lips, and sipped from the half-glass of whiskey at the side of the bed. She smiled, unconcerned at his interest, and picked up a couple of the brown-glass bottles nonchalantly. ‘Not stolen – requisitioned. Surplus to requirements is what he calls it. It’s a bit of extra cash I make selling them. Don’t deny a girl a living.’

Belmont took the cheroot back from her. ‘Not letting a medical corps sergeant get between your legs, are you, Sheenagh? Can’t have that. Officers only, preferably only this officer,’ he said, pulling on his boots.

‘He’s a major and that’s all I’m saying. He’s a nice man. Don’t be jealous – captain.’

‘A major. Good for you. You be careful where you sell them. I can’t help you if you get caught.’

‘Then I’d just have to charm m’way through, would I not?’

There was a sudden pounding up the stairs. In an instant Belmont was no longer a lazy, hung-over officer. He held the heavy army-issue revolver steady, the hammer cocked, without the slightest trembling in his hand. Whoever had run up the stairs now pounded on the door. ‘Captain Belmont!’

Belmont opened the door to one of his troopers. ‘A message from the general, sir.’

He took the folded paper from the man and nodded in dismissal. There was no blaming the young trooper for letting his eyes linger on the naked woman in the captain’s bed. She was a thing of rare beauty, and her auburn hair matched top and bottom. The lad’d take pleasure in describing the officer’s whore to the other men. Though he would lie when telling them that she had smiled at him.

Belmont grabbed his jacket, sword and carbine. Sheenagh slid from the bed and pushed his slouch hat on to his head. ‘And which poor bastard are you off to kill now?’ she said, and kissed his lips.

‘More than one. We’re riding across the Tugela behind the Boer guns.’

‘Then don’t you get yourself hurt,’ she said, and kissed him again, her breasts pushing through his unbuttoned shirt on to his chest. ‘Come back safe and sound, y’hear? I’ll be waiting for my brave captain of horse.’

‘Make sure you are, Sheenagh,’ he said, but the lazy warmth had gone from him, and she knew his thoughts were already elsewhere. She watched him clatter down the stairs in case he turned, but he did not. Thankfully, she closed the door behind her, relieved her own moment of danger had passed, and then quickly repacked the medicines into the satchel.

She spilled water into the washbowl and sponged away the night’s passion, then slipped into a cotton shift, one of better quality than she could ever afford at home. This war was being good to her. The scuff of boots outside her door made her turn, readying a smile for what she thought was Belmont returning from a false alarm. No mission to go on after all. No men to kill today.

The door opened before her hand reached the handle and Liam Maguire almost fell into the room as he dragged a wounded boy with him, his head wrapped in a bloodied bandage.

‘Liam! Mother of God!’ she cried, closing and locking the door quickly as Liam dragged the injured boy into the corner of the room, pulled across the curtains and then found what remained of Belmont’s whiskey bottle.

‘He tried to stop the English moving a family off their farm. They shot him. We can’t keep him,’ he said, snatching a handful of leftover food from Sheenagh’s late-night supper with the cavalry officer. He rammed what he could into his mouth and then offered the plate to Edward, who did the same. Good meat and sweet stuff was a luxury for men living off the land as best they could.

Fear caught her again: it never seemed to let go these days. The Maguire brothers had sought her out once they learned through the black-market grapevine that an Irish whore from Dublin was getting medicines for the women at the Bergfontein concentration camp. Sought her out and offered protection should she need it. From what? Did Maguire know something about what had happened in Dublin? It didn’t take long to discover that he was one of the thousands who had fled to the goldfields years ago. Perhaps they’d even help protect her from those who’d like nothing more than seeing an informing whore dead with her throat cut. She reasoned that if a real threat ever came her way she could always get word to Maguire and his boys. So she had taken him up on his offer. It cost her time on her back with the muscular Maguire – the older brother – but in truth it wasn’t anything unpleasant. Sheenagh looked at the boy and pulled on a silk dressing gown: ‘Jesus on the Cross, Liam, you shouldna have brought him here. There was an Englishman here not a minute ago and he’s a terror, right enough. He’d have put a bullet through the both of ya.’

‘I saw him. We waited. Listen, the lad’s Irish. If I let him go he could talk. You keep him here awhile, then get to that Englishwoman at the camps; she’ll know what to do with him.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want him here.’

‘It was Hertzog’s idea. We’ve a battle coming up – he’d be a hindrance.’

‘And where do I put him?’

‘Anywhere you like.’

Edward pushed himself up against the wall, holding on to the small table for balance. ‘I don’t have to be here. I can look after myself.’

‘Oh aye, we’ve seen proof of that. A twenty-year-old rifle and a well-thumbed book of poetry won’t get you far in these parts,’ said Liam.

Sheenagh gnawed at her knuckle, holding her arm across herself. ‘Jesus, I don’t know...’

But as Edward slumped on to the floor she instinctively stepped towards him to help. Liam grabbed her arm.

‘Leave him be for now. Hertzog was going to kill him. I stopped him.’

‘And when did you get so soft-hearted and heap misery on to your own and other people’s heads?’ she said.

‘His name’s Radcliffe,’ he said tiredly.

‘The Dublin fella? His father?’

‘How many other Radcliffes do you know?’

She looked at Edward slumped back into the corner. Perhaps the boy wouldn’t live long enough for her to risk moving him. She nodded in acceptance. ‘The English... they’re gonna get behind your guns.’

Late the following day Colonel Alex Baxter strode out of the Irish Brigade’s briefing. He and the half-dozen other officers said little to each other because they knew the task that lay ahead for each of their battalions was going to cost them dearly. Entrenched and rigid views from the high command allowed scant dissent and demanded the enemy see the courage of the British soldier. That would entail sacrifice, and be remembered as glory.

Lawrence Baxter saw his father shake hands with the other officers as each went on their way. He quickly fell in step next to him.

‘We are to be the lead regiment. We’re going to force a passage through the hills,’ the colonel told his son. ‘One of the strongest natural positions we’ve ever seen. Artillery will bombard the Boer gun positions.’ Baxter smiled grimly. ‘I’ll brief company commanders in an hour.’

‘They’ll let us wait until their artillery is silenced, though?’ the young man asked nervously.

Colonel Baxter shook his head. ‘There is a limited supply of ammunition and it’s going to be dark by the time we get to the Boer positions. They’re dug in on the forward slope of the hills. When we advance the artillery will do their best for us.’ He hesitated. ‘And once we get across the pontoon bridge the approach is along a narrow gorge. There’s no opportunity to advance in open order.’

Realization dawned on the young lieutenant. ‘Dear God, not closed order? They’ll cut us to shreds. Have they learned nothing from Paardeberg? We walk under their guns shoulder to shoulder?’ he said. All the men knew that only days before an assault further downriver had caused grievous loss to other regiments. One of Lord Kitchener’s commanders had advised that the artillery should lay a creeping barrage down to afford his infantry protection as they attacked. The advice had been ignored and elements of General Hart’s Irish Brigade had advanced in closed order and been mown down as they marched into the Boers’ rifle range. It was important, Kitchener had said, that the enemy see British courage: one man’s vainglory had slaughtered his own troops.

‘Yes. I’m afraid so,’ Colonel Baxter said. ‘Columns of four until we reach our position. The General will allow open order for the advance once we’re there. He’s under pressure from Kitchener who wants action and results.’

Lawrence was unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. ‘How many more men does he want slaughtered? Surely to God he’s learned –’

‘Lieutenant!’ Baxter reprimanded his son, turning his back to where his own officers waited. He placed a hand on his son’s arm. ‘We have our orders. It’s the only way we can attack. Let’s thank God for small mercies. At least the men will have a chance when the time comes.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Lawrence answered. A greater loyalty was being tested than that felt between father and son.

‘Lawrence, we keep our fear to ourselves. Don’t let the men see it. They depend on us and it’s our duty to lead them. Let’s at least do what we can when we can – thirty paces between each man when we reach our forward position.’

Lawrence Baxter’s mouth was dry. ‘Of course, sir.’

The moment passed and father and son gazed across at the men who waited in their companies. ‘His argument is that we cannot control the men in open order. Platoon and company commanders are the linchpin but we must have the NCOs to keep them steady. First light is at four; we leave an hour afterwards. There’s no time for breakfast – see what you can do for your men. Biscuits, perhaps. Better than nothing. Good luck, my boy.’ He shook his son’s hand and turned away without another word. Brave lads – his brave lads – being mown down in a so-called glorious act of courage was no more than stubborn stupidity, the commander-in-chief’s. They had no choice in the matter – orders would be obeyed. If his part in the attack failed then others might suffer more. They were just a cog in the military machine. And that machine was in need of urgent repair.

The British had suffered a number of defeats over the previous weeks. Their advance had faltered, started again and then in a stumbling fashion had begun to pick up momentum. Under Lieutenant General Sir Redvers Buller, who commanded the forces in Natal, the pace had been slow and agonizing and the heat sapped men’s energy. Guns had been dragged up five-hundred-foot-high hills; at least some of the staff officers finally realizing that a creeping barrage could give their infantry the chance to get close to Boer positions, providing the artillery could be well placed and the location of the Boer trenches known. But as always success depended on the infantryman and his ability to kill the enemy. Taking each successive hill, fighting up and down the difficult terrain, would be costly.

Here and there kopjes interrupted the darkened landscape that had once sheltered Boer riflemen who had since been pushed back across the Tugela River. The broad river had to be forded by a pontoon bridge as other troops waded through chest-high water clinging to steel cables strung across by engineers. It would take almost six hours before Baxter’s battalion reached their position.

*

The Lancashire Brigade were across the Tugela and attacked up the rolling hills that curved like ocean swells above them. They and the other brigades had to reach the main Boer force dug in on the distant Pieter’s Hill. It was hard going that required grunting effort as the men struggled on carrying equipment and supplies. They had to get across the river and then clamber up the first undulating rock-strewn thousand-foot hill before they could reach the railway embankment that crossed its plateau. Beyond that was another hill, and then another. Wave after wave of them, until they reached the vast plain of Ladysmith fifteen miles beyond, where a beleaguered town waited, impatiently, to be relieved. Across all these heights the Boers were dug in. Gunners from the Royal Horse Artillery cantered their limbered horses across open ground hauling their 12-pounders behind them. They were an easy target as they halted to set their guns. Many had already fallen, smashed by Boer artillery as soon as they had their range. Man and horse were torn apart, often before a shell could be loaded into the breech. Ten thousand yards behind the British lines the Naval Brigade had hauled their 4.7-inch guns overland to hurl their projectiles across the advancing troops. But to what effect no one knew. All that was certain was that the Boers were still firing and that meant that the infantry had only their own courage to rely on.