by David Gilman
Pierce made his way through the crowds, nodding occasionally and smiling at those who cast a curious glance his way. Belmont was drinking with his cronies near the fireplace. The black man’s approach stopped their conversation. Pierce made no apology for interrupting them.
‘Major Radcliffe is Anglo-American. His father was English, a lawyer and a great philanthropist. Built churches, houses for the poor. A good family. Better bred than most.’ He paused, the implication of the final words quite clear. ‘I suggest you owe him an apology. A public apology.’
‘I’ve served here before and rumour was that your friend sired a bastard son then married the Irish whore. Least, that’s how I heard it,’ Taylor said evenly.
One of the orderlies eased his way past Pierce, who reached out and took a glass of Irish whiskey. He swallowed it down.
‘Do you fight, Captain Taylor?’ he asked.
‘Fight?’ Taylor queried, but then quickly understood. ‘I’m a British officer, I don’t brawl like a common soldier.’ Without thinking he glanced at Belmont, foolishly letting his true feelings be seen.
Pierce peeled off his white dress gloves. ‘Well, I’m a retired captain in the United States Army and a common soldier taught me how to brawl.’
*
Private Flynn had won his sixpence when a mud-splattered Lieutenant Baxter had returned from his cross-country race with Edward. The illicitly distilled poteen he’d purchased could strip the polish from a saddle but gave Flynn a drunken slumber on this night of the officers’ party. He was off duty and the bottle and the warm straw bedding allowed him dreams of being someplace else. And then voices penetrated the joy of a life without orders, and brought him groggily back to reality. He rolled out of his blanket in one of the empty stalls. He grabbed the pitchfork, but soon realized when he blearily peeped through the cracks in the slatted wood that he wouldn’t need it. He saw three cavalry officers carrying lanterns, with a tall broad-shouldered black man who was pulling off his blue uniform coat. Within moments Captain Taylor and this man were stripped down to undershirt and braces. Flynn stayed silent. Officers measuring up against each other was a sight he’d never witnessed before, and he’d seen plenty of bar-room brawls in his time. Recounting this spectacle would be worth a few jars of ale in any public house or canteen.
Taylor would be no pushover but Pierce’s bulky frame helped absorb the quick blows that Taylor delivered. He jabbed like a boxer and swung low, head down, shoulders rounded, like a fairground pugilist. He felt his fists connect with an old man’s body that was still packed with layered muscle beneath his bulk. He was quicker on his feet and caught Pierce two stinging blows on the forehead, but the old man didn’t even flinch, simply ducked and weaved his shoulders and head, his eyes watching, anticipating Taylor’s style and attack.
‘I boxed for my house, old man,’ said Taylor, sensing he already had the better of Pierce.
It was only a brief moment of victory. Pierce snapped out a straight left. Short and sharp, the jab bloodied Taylor’s nose, who fell back into the arms of his cronies. There may have been a twenty years’ age disadvantage but Pierce had fought tougher men than him. Belmont, cheroot clamped between his teeth, heaved Taylor back into the fight. ‘Come on, Freddie, low and hard, man. He’ll go down. Come on now!’
Taylor ignored the pain and paced himself carefully, prowling around his opponent, throwing a punch, feeling it blocked and then the impact of Pierce’s fist slamming into his shoulder, a near miss from his jaw. His body crashed against the stable wall, dislodging bridles from their hooks. Pain streaked across his chest and into his shoulder and the horse snaffles he had slammed his head against stung him into an angry, ill-considered lunge. With two more blows Taylor was on one knee, spitting blood. Horses whinnied, Marsh stepped forward ready to strike Pierce but Belmont grabbed him and held him back. Taylor was back on his feet and landed two fast strikes; one breaking skin on Pierce’s cheek. Belmont and Marsh cried out encouragement, but the black man had barely registered the blow. Pierce recovered and slammed an uppercut into Taylor’s midriff. It was a hard punch into trained muscle, and Taylor took it well, but he faltered, his lungs gasping for air. Then Pierce put him down with a right cross.
‘The fuzzy-wuzzies send their regards,’ Pierce said as Taylor struggled to get to his knees.
*
The cold air chilled the sentries who stood at their posts, limbs stiff, wind stinging their eyes and muffling any sound made by the dozen or more men who had filtered from the night into the streets around the barracks. The anticipated fog had been blown away from the estuary by the onshore wind but the rain’s mist gave confidence to those who crept into the night to kill. One of the sentries stamped his feet, completed his turn at the corner of the wall and walked back along the perimeter of his assigned route. He’d be glad to get to the warmth of Africa. The garrison’s high walls offered little respite from the rain that swirled on the wind – if anything it seemed to funnel it more fiercely down the wheel-rutted street. He guessed he had less than an hour until he was relieved and then, while the officers supped their brandy and smoked their cigars, he would sip a beef broth and pack a welcome pipe with rough-cut tobacco that caught the throat and cleared the nostrils.
One of the streetlights at the end of his post flickered, then its rainbow glow in the mist snuffed out. That must be the storm. He hoped the duty sergeant had made sure they had enough oil for their lamps in the guardroom. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, soaked greatcoat and did not hear the footsteps approaching downwind. He blinked the rain from his eyes and sudden light shattered his vision: the last moment of his life as Pat Malone’s knife plunged into his neck. Now, as others scurried from the alleyways, they had gained another weapon. There was no need to move the dead soldier’s body; the attack would soon be launched. And they knew the guard relief was still an hour away.
*
Mulraney called across to the other sentry who shared his post at the main gate. ‘Jimmy, did you hear that? There’s someone out there scuttling around.’
The other man gazed into the half-light. He shook his head. ‘No, nothing.’
‘There’s someone out there, I’m telling you,’ Mulraney insisted, and edged away from his post, his rifle brought down to the ready.
‘Jesus, Mulraney! Get your arse back here!’ the other sentry hissed. But Mulraney was already ten paces from where he should have been.
And then the shadows moved.
Mulraney challenged the running figures but the only response was the rising clatter of boots running across cobbles. ‘Call out the guard!’ he cried to the other sentry. Pat Malone had brought a half-dozen men from the other side of the street and used the others to hold the sentries’ attention. Before the guard could do as Mulraney ordered one of Malone’s men clubbed him down with a pick handle as another levelled a pistol at Mulraney. But Mulraney smashed it from his hand, calling out for help. He rammed the rifle’s stock into one of his attackers and the metal-edged butt of his Lee–Enfield shattered bone. His fingers gripped the cocking lever, but before a cartridge could be loaded into the breech another man struck him from behind. Mulraney tumbled on to the cobbles.
Cavan Leahy placed the dynamite against the gates and as the other men turned to watch the burning fuse Mulraney scrambled to his feet, picked up his rifle, rammed the bolt action back and forth, then his finger found the trigger.
*
Belmont and Marsh had grabbed Pierce’s arms and were too strong for Pierce to throw off. They shouted at Taylor: ‘Get up! Come on, man!’
Taylor stood and looked at the helpless Pierce; then he landed two heavy blows into his stomach. Pierce collapsed on to his knees, doubled in pain. Marsh punched down into Pierce’s face, sending him sprawling, and then Taylor kicked hard as Pierce tried to protect himself from the flurry of blows.
‘Learn to know your place, nigger,’ Taylor spat at him. ‘Next time I’ll break your neck.’
Pierce co
uldn’t move. He was curled up, his brain trying to isolate the agony so he could get to his feet. But the strength was sapped from his muscles, the darkness sucking him under.
It was Belmont who dragged Taylor away from Pierce. ‘Leave him be!’ he demanded, with enough derision in his voice to insult Taylor. Before Taylor could land any more blows, gunshots echoed across the parade ground. Belmont turned and ran towards the sounds as an explosion flared into the night sky. Taylor and Marsh were at his heels.
The duty officer’s whistle shrilled briefly against the sounds of gunshots and men’s raised voices. Mulraney had shot at two men, not knowing if the bullets had found their target. He didn’t want to be caught outside the walls and ran into the garrison through the swirling smoke and flame of the shattered gates. More explosions followed and he saw soldiers taking up firing positions across the parade ground. Darkness shrouded men’s ghostly images; the rain squall and smoke mingled, swallowing friend and foe. Gusts of wind would clear fifty yards and then sweep the curtain of rain closed again.
It was the chaos the Fenians wanted.
That and the armoury.
*
Radcliffe and Baxter burst from the officers’ mess into the conflagration. Bullets ricocheted across the stone walls and Radcliffe saw Mulraney clipped by a bullet in his arm. As Baxter shouted commands to his men Radcliffe ran forward and helped the fallen soldier into the cover of the barracks’ archways. But Malone and Leahy with half a dozen others had escaped from the turmoil and were running into the heart of the barrack complex. Leahy carried the Webley in one hand and his satchel of dynamite in the other. As the attackers dashed towards the armoury they turned a corner and faced a squad of Fusiliers whose rifles were already at their shoulders. The attackers stumbled to a halt. They were boxed in, confined to the passageway between the buildings.
‘Sweet Christ. They’re waiting for us!’ Leahy cursed and threw himself aside as the detachment’s officer gave the order to fire. The deafening volley smashed into the Fenians. Breathless and terrified, Malone dragged Leahy back a dozen paces to the safety of another building as a second volley shattered the air in the killing ground. A bullet had ripped through the arm of Malone’s coat and snagged flesh, which bled. There was no time to be concerned about a flesh wound. The others were dead. It was a miracle he and the dynamiter weren’t lying in the passageway. The two men made another fifty yards, desperately seeking out the others, whom they found fighting a ramshackle pitched battle against the soldiers, who had quickly reorganized themselves. There was little doubt the attack had failed.
‘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.’
