by David Gilman
Corin grabbed Liam’s arm and pushed his blanket roll at him. ‘It’s cold out there.’
‘You’re my brother not my mother,’ Liam told him.
‘It’s not for you,’ Corin answered.
‘He won’t need it,’ answered Liam.
Realization dawned on the younger man. ‘Jesus, Liam, you can’t kill the lad, the English already tried.’
‘He’s not part of any commando, Corin. If he has information about the British we’ll get it from him. It’s Hertzog’s decision whether he lives or dies.’
The night air polished the crystal stars as Liam led Hertzog to where a fresh-faced young Boer stood guard in the lee of the building. Edward sat slumped in the shadows, his back pressed against the wall, as one of the Africans prepared to put a freshly boiled dressing around his head. The bandage had been used before and would never be rid of the old bloodstains no matter how often it was boiled.
The Afrikaner spoke harshly to the African, words that Edward could not understand, but the man retreated quickly, taking the bandage with him. Edward ached from fatigue and the fall from the horse and the pounding in his head nearly blinded him, but as the African servant moved away he summoned the strength to reach down towards his boot and the knife that should have been there. Liam and Hertzog appeared before him.
‘You’ve taken my coat,’ Edward said, with a sense of loss more pressing than the lack of its protection against the night’s cold.
‘And it’s a good one at that. There’s a label inside that says it’s pure wool and made in Dublin,’ said Liam. ‘A fine coat that’s worth a bob or two. Now where did you get it is what I’m wondering. None of my lads have such finery.’
‘My father bought it for me... please... I’m cold,’ Edward admitted, the fear and pain from the wound mingling in confusion.
‘We’ve given it to one of the boys who ride with us. He needs it more than you,’ Liam said. ‘The British have patrols out in the hills; they’ve learned how to fight. They’re raiders like us, they live rough, colonial irregulars mostly, but they don’t take prisoners. Get m’drift? So we shoot spies. Tit for tat.’
Hertzog kicked the boy’s boot. ‘Are you a British spy, boy?’
Edward flinched. The man’s beard made him look even more menacing; it skirted his chin but he was clean-shaven around his mouth, which accentuated the lips that curled back in disgust.
‘I’m no spy. I tried to help the woman at the farm – that’s why I went out and shot the buck. And if I’m a spy why did the patrol shoot me?’
‘Ja, you’re a do-gooder, eh? They shot you because you look like a Boer. Not all these soldiers know who rides as a scout looking for us. Who do you report to? We had men killed, slaughtered by cavalry. Men and boys. One of them younger than you. You know about that?’
‘No,’ Edward insisted, beginning to think that no matter how he answered, this man was intent on killing him.
‘Stand up,’ said Liam. ‘On your feet.’
Edward pressed against the wall and staggered to his feet. He was dizzy and his head pounded. His knees gave way but he braced himself, determined not to appear weak in front of these violent men.
‘How did you get here? Why that farm?’ Hertzog demanded.
‘I don’t understand what you mean. I was lost,’ Edward said, stumbling for an explanation, suddenly realizing that he could not confess that he sought out his friend Lawrence Baxter with the Royal Irish.
Hertzog’s slap sent him reeling. ‘Verdomde rooinek!’
Edward tasted blood, and the blow nearly knocked him senseless. The night sky swirled.
‘You’re lying,’ Hertzog said. ‘My people are dead. You’re old enough to fight, boy. Who do you report to? Where are those horsemen camped? On your feet.’
Edward tried but could not find his balance. He was slipping under a veil of darkness, the man’s voice distant, a faint echo. He spat blood, tried to stand again but failed. His head wound throbbed viciously: the calloused hand that had struck him had opened the wound. He heard muted words between the two men who stood over him. The Afrikaner tugged a pistol from his belt and Edward heard the words that confirmed he was about to die.
‘If he has no information then he is of no use to us. He will slow us down.’
Edward raised his hand as the man levelled the pistol. There was no mercy to be seen in the older man’s face. He desperately tried to stay conscious so he could plead for his life. The Irishman appeared to look regretful at the impending execution.
‘I ran... away from home... that’s all... I don’t know anything about... anybody being killed... Don’t kill me... please... Let me go... or leave me here... I won’t say anything... I’m... Irish... Dublin... My name is Edward... Radcliffe... I... ran away...’
Liam Maguire pressed Hertzog’s gun hand down.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The frontier town of Verensberg was made up of a mixture of iron-roofed stone and timber houses, boardwalks and dusty streets that turned to calf-high mud when the rains came. It was a through line for the British Army as they ferried troops to the rail yards, and then on to the battlefields of the north and east. And where there were soldiers there would be camp followers, brothels and a music hall. For those soldiers in the field who were sent back wounded or who sought creature comforts away from the fighting Verensberg was a small oasis of distraction and sin.
The Diamond Hotel was well known among the troops for the number of prostitutes who plied their trade there. The room was packed with junior officers from different regiments who sat in boothed areas with whores on their laps and whiskey on the table. The rest of the audience was a mixture of civilians and black marketers. A quartet of musicians fought the noise of the raucous soldiers but the musicians were not the main attraction. The crowd waited for that rare sight, a woman of beauty who seemed beyond the reach of them all. And she could sing. That was why the room was packed that night.
A short, frock-coated man waddled on to stage, raising his hands to quieten his audience. Charles Frimley, oiled hair and moustache glistening in the heat from the stage lanterns, had once trodden the boards in some of London’s best music halls, but drink and debt and the threat of men sent to recover what he owed had driven him to seek opportunities further afield, and what better place to strike the gold in men’s pockets than a music hall with a pretty whore and her enticing song?
‘And Now...’ the master of ceremonies chirped, his voice rising, building the men’s expectations, savouring the emphasis on each word, ‘...For Your Delec-tation, For Your Tingling Groins and Tinkling Coins, With Breathtaking Bravura to Set Hearts-a-Breaking –’
‘Get on with it, you old bugger!’ one of the men shouted, which raised a chorus of approval. ‘There’s a bloody war on!’
As the laughter subsided Frimley acknowledged the heckler. ‘I take your point, sir. Your friends mentioned only a short time ago that you had devoted yourself to avoiding it.’
The soldier swore, embarrassed by the attention, and the truth that he was rear echelon. His friends roared with approval; one of them tipped a glass of beer over his head. Frimley knew he had the crowd in the palm of his hand. The audience would love him before the night was out. Drunken soldiers were God’s gift to a barroom that overcharged for tampered liquor and gave him his cut of the takings.
Belmont, sitting with half a dozen other officers, wearing their tunics unbuttoned, safe from official censure, stood on his chair, whiskey bottle in one hand, cigar in the other. ‘Where is she, Charlie? We know she’s here!’
The sweating mass of men howled their approval and drummed their heels on the wooden floor. Once again Frimley raised his arms and made a slight, courteous bow towards Belmont. ‘Ah, I thought I smelled a cavalryman!’
Belmont took the laughter and jeers in good grace.
‘A high-ranking officer perhaps? I hear, sir, you’re in command of the Post Office Hussars.’
Belmont made a mock bow to the laugh
ter. ‘Aye, and we’ve delivered plenty of surprises for Dutchy!’
The room erupted with a furious cheer.
Frimley could hold them no longer: ‘Very well, my brave boys: the vivacious, the voluptuous, the wickedly witty and wilful... Miss Sheenagh O’Connor!’
As Frimley backed offstage Sheenagh, the sexiest whore this side of the battlefield, swept on stage in a dress fit for the finest of London ladies, but paid for by their officer husbands. As she swept her eyes across the baying men she settled her gaze on Belmont. He raised his glass to her. A familiar look passed between them. These two knew each other.
*
On the edge of town, far beyond the uproar that Sheenagh’s appearance created and the perimeter pickets that carelessly went about their duties in the belief that they were a long way from their enemy, Corin Maguire and a dozen other commandos lay shivering in the cold dirt, teased by the flickering warmth of the town’s lights. They were no more visible than the black shadows of the rocks. Edward sweated, trembling with fever, his hands still bound. One of the American volunteers, Jackson Lee, hunched close to Corin with the wounded boy between them. ‘Liam’s putting us at risk ’cause of this kid. It’d be a damned grievous thing if he got us shot ’cause of it.’
Corin pulled a half-bottle of whiskey from the man’s hands and swallowed a mouthful of the warming liquid. ‘Liam’s been my brother all my life. So I’ve known him longer than you have. He’s doing what’s right.’
The American took back what was left of the liquor. ‘I wish I knew why,’ he said.
‘It’s an Irish thing. You wouldn’t understand,’ Corin answered.
‘I had a grandmother from Cork.’
‘Jesus, the whole world has a grandmother from Cork. That doesn’t count.’
‘I don’t know why we didn’t just shoot the kid or leave him be. It’s a grievous thing being put at risk without knowing why,’ said Lee. ‘What’ll we do if he starts to moan or cry out? Sound travels far here.’
‘Are you listening to y’self? The music in town would deafen a bloody cavalry charge. The soldier boys are havin’ themselves some fun. Just as we would.’ He winced as the rough whiskey burned his throat. ‘Given half the bloody chance. God, what I wouldn’t give for a fat and comfortable woman tonight. Even if she was a heifer.’ He sighed and passed the bottle back. ‘Give the kid a slug.’
‘Waste it on him?’ Lee moaned.
‘Well, it’d help keep the lad quiet. And look at him, shivering like a cat being dragged from a barrel.’
The American leaned across and tipped the bottle to Edward’s lips. He sipped and coughed.
‘Now see what you’ve done? Making more goddamned noise than –’ Corin quickly raised an arm in warning. A dozen soldiers were being marched from the town towards them. Lee’s hand smothered Edward’s mouth. They fell silent, embracing their rifles, but after a dozen more yards the scraping footfalls turned away. The moment had made sweat prickle on Corin’s spine. If Liam didn’t sort something out by dawn, Corin reckoned, they might be discovered, that or the wounded and feverish lad that he had tucked close to him to offer a scrap of warmth would be dead. Whatever his brother planned, Corin told himself, it would be hard to escape come first light but he feared that Liam couldn’t do anything until then. One way or another Sheenagh O’Connor was going to be busy till daybreak.
*
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.’
