The Last Horseman

by David Gilman

  The wounded moaned and cried as they lay in no man’s land, abandoned to their torment. Perhaps there was a small mercy in the drizzle: it might ease their thirst and cool their fever. No one could do anything to help them, and silence crept across the ground as they finally succumbed to their hurts.

  ‘They need a truce, for Christ’s sake,’ muttered Mulraney in little more than a whisper, fearful that his voice might carry and attract a Boer sniper. They could not be seen but the Boers knew roughly where the men had gone to ground. ‘Give them poor buggers a chance. It’s a heartless place of misery right enough. Not a stretcher-bearer or chaplain to be had for love or money.’

  ‘You’re complaining, are you?’ said a slightly built Dubliner, hugging his rifle to his chest as he lay crooked behind a few stones he had managed to gather for protection. ‘You don’t know when you’re well off.’

  Mulraney raised his face as the first soft rain began to fall. ‘Jesus on the Cross, you’d think the day hadn’t been bad enough, now the angels are pissing on me.’ He sighed. ‘Still, it’ll be a soft old day tomorrow. Not too hot. If I’m to run up this bloody mountain best to be done with a bit of moisture on m’face.’

  ‘Sweat’s not good enough for you, Mulraney?’ said another.

  ‘That’s all down my back,’ he answered.

  ‘Did anyone see the colonel get into cover?’ someone asked.

  ‘Cover. As bare-arsed as a billiard table,’ one of the men muttered.

  ‘Last I saw of him he was running up there over to the left. Flynn went down, I think, though I can’t be sure,’ said the Dubliner.

  ‘Flynn?’ said Mulraney.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Jeezus, he owes me, y’know. We had a bet.’

  ‘On what? A bloody horse race?’

  ‘On who would get killed first,’ Mulraney answered. ‘I hope he’s left the wager in his kitbag down at the camp.’

  ‘He wasn’t hit,’ one of the men said, ‘he tripped. Went arse over tit.’

  ‘Now isn’t that just like him?’ said Mulraney. ‘Still, maybe he broke his neck. There might still be a few bob in it.’ He sighed. ‘You’d think the Naval Brigade with their great bloody booming guns would’ve knocked these boojers off their perch by now,’ he added in barely a whisper.

  One of their group coughed, the damp air congealing the dust from the day’s efforts into his chest. He hawked and spat and a sudden crack of a rifle shot made them press their faces into the dirt even though the bullet tore harmlessly above their heads. Two more shots came out of the darkness, their bullets striking stone, sparking like a flint.

  ‘Mother of God. Don’t even breathe. I swear those bastards have cat’s eyes,’ whispered Mulraney.

  No one spoke for a minute, but it was impossible not to hear the distressing moans from the wounded that haunted the night.

  ‘Some of them Dutchies are hurtin’ an’ all,’ said a man from another section who, like many others, had joined any Royal Irish soldiers found among the scattered troops.

  ‘And I’m supposed to feel for them, am I?’ said Mulraney. ‘I’ve seen some of our boys trying to help a wounded Dutchy and the minute they turned their back took a bullet for their trouble. Fucking treacherous bastards, the lot of ’em. Finish ’em off is what I say – bayonet or bullet – if you’ve a mind to save your own neck. By first light most of ’em will be dead with any luck. Fewer snipers to worry about.’

  A sudden scuffling had them snatching at their weapons. ‘Quiet!’ hissed Sergeant McCory. ‘You’re like bloody washerwomen. Mulraney, is that yourself there?’

  ‘Sergeant,’ Mulraney said, happy for once to see the three-striper, ‘what’s happenin’? Much more of this come first light and we’ll be rat food.’

  ‘How many men here?’ McCory whispered, unable to see the bodies that lay scattered around him. They muttered their names. Nine men clinging by their eyelids to the sloping terrace.

  ‘Lancs and Yorks are coming up in support to try and outflank ’em. We’re going straight at them, weed the bastards out with the bayonet. Our field guns are fucked, horses and gunners dead where they stood, so between here and the top of that hill we’re on our own. Navy will use their long guns to hit the farthest ridge but there’s no close support. Sorry, lads, there’s not much good news.’

  The men said nothing. Their silence was enough for him to know that once again his men were searching within themselves for the strength to carry the fight to their enemy – wherever he was hidden in trenches and behind boulders in the rising ground.

  ‘Well,’ one of them finally said, settling his back into the dirt, squirming to find as much comfort as he could. ‘That’s grand. About time the English got off their arses.’

  ‘It’ll be light in an hour. Wait for the command,’ McCory said and slithered away on his belly to find others. ‘Good luck, lads,’ he said quietly.

  After a moment one of the men said: ‘They can’t leave us lying out here, stiff as a board, soaked through, with no grub and then think that Johnny Boer isn’t going to pick us off one by one. I’m all for going back to the river and getting us some water. At least that.’

  There was a murmuring of assent.

  Mulraney sighed. ‘You stupid arse. You’d have the scutters the minute you drink it. Have you not seen the shite they tip in there? Dead horses, guts, slops and latrines. If you’ve a mind to light a fire tonight and boil it, then I’ll wish you all goodnight.’ He sighed and settled his head against a rock. ‘I’ll be having m’self a few minutes’ kip before the Dutchies give us a wake-up call. Then I fancy we’ll get up there and take their breakfast from them.’

  The men fell silent. Somewhere in the far distance Boers were singing a hymn. There were women’s voices among them. Those in the Boer laager far behind the front lines had said their prayers and praised God. The new day would bring harsh retribution to those who sought to take their land.

  *

  Those that could slept that half-waking sleep that soldiers know only too well. Cramped and exhausted, their bodies gave way to the numbing exhaustion but in their slumber a part of them was always listening for any footfall or untoward sound that signalled danger. Survival was bred into them by experience, their instincts sharpened like a hunted animal. The rain lingered and the cold settled in as the first grey light of dawn exposed the hillsides. All across the slopes the British forced aching muscles to be ready for when the order was given to attack. The rain had eased and the morning promised a hot and humid day. Bleary-eyed, the British scoured the ground ahead of them.

  The ruptured terrain rose up into hillocks of five hundred to a thousand feet. Slabs of vertical rock smothered in brushwood hid the kopje’s defenders. Snipers lay in shadow and artillery still nestled to the rear of the boulder-strewn flattened crowns. The Royal Irish readied themselves – the lack of gunfire giving each man hope. Sergeant McCory ducked and weaved down the line, steadying the men’s nerves, gruffly warning them not to falter when they began their advance towards the Boers.

  The Boers were used to the heat and the long patient game of waiting for their enemy. Behind the hidden riflemen, Liam’s commando walked their horses into position where the advancing infantry could not see them. They joined the Pretoria commando who were hidden in their trenches. Over to their left flank Pieter’s Hill rose up, men from the Bethal commando entrenched on the forward slope.

  Corin lowered his binoculars. ‘That the Irish across there,’ he said. He handed the reins of his horse to one of the Boers and cupped his hands. ‘Is it the Dublin boys we’re fighting today?’ he shouted across the plateau.

  Mulraney grunted. ‘Well, will you listen to that?’

  He raised his helmet on the end of his rifle and shouted back. ‘You’re no boojer! Where’re you from?’

  ‘Engine Alley!’ Corin called back, waving his slouch hat above the boulders.

  ‘Ah! Then you had a whore for a mother!’ Mulraney shouted knowingly.

 
; ‘Right enough!’ Corin answered. ‘And yourself?’

  ‘Cook Street!’

  ‘A coffin-maker’s son!’

  ‘Aye. And I’ll make sure we bury you nice and deep,’ Mulraney answered to a rippling cheer from the rest of his company.

  Corin’s voice came back as fast as a bullet: ‘Sure, you’ll have to kill me first. Or me you! And if we don’t let’s meet for a drink after the war. Down at the Wood Quay. The Irish House!’

  ‘Good enough,’ Mulraney answered. ‘And how will I know you?’

  After a brief pause there was the unmistakable sound of a fiddle: a jaunty jig floating across the veld.

  The men laughed and cheered. ‘Good luck to you, then!’ Mulraney yelled.

  ‘And y’self!’ came the answer.

  Mulraney settled his helmet back on his head. ‘It’s good to know who it is you’re out to kill on such a fine day.’

  *

  High up on behind the protective cover of the slab rocks Liam Maguire dragged his grinning brother away towards the horses. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in the frontal attack that was about to erupt. They had more important work to do.

  ‘It’s grand, isn’t it?’ said Corin as he strapped the fiddle case to his saddle. ‘Dublin lads. Y’know if they believe we’re up here they might think twice about sticking a feckin’ bayonet into some poor Dutchy. It’ll cost ’em, mind.’

  ‘You think that it would stop them for one minute?’ said Liam. ‘Christ’s tears. Corin, they’ll fight the harder, you idiot. They took the Queen’s shilling and they want to go home. They’ll take this hill and the next – best we can hope for is to slow them. That, and save our guns.’

  Chastised, Corin Maguire spurred his horse after the others. What harm was there in calling out to the Irish lads? It had been good to hear their voices. It would have caused him some sorrow to have them at the end of his rifle sights. Better to kill the English. As the horsemen galloped away down the reverse slope of the hill to start their ascent on the next he turned back and saw the bearded faces of the old Boers and the young boys who would hold the hill as long as they could. Some of them called out, waved a hand and shouted something he couldn’t understand. It was a cheerful farewell for the foreigners who fought on their side and who now rode to ambush the English cavalry. It would be a serious day of killing on the kopje. Part of him felt grateful that he would not be a part of it. He slapped the horse’s rein across its neck and chased after the commando that was already in the valley below.

  Over the sound of the horse’s hooves he heard a low roar as the Irish rose up from the ground, their yell of defiance spurring them upwards into the Boer gunfire that rattled across the hills. He wished he could have at least seen that desperate act of courage. No matter what else, he felt a surge of pride.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sun had barely risen as the steam locomotive blazed its way across the veld’s muted drabness, sparks and soot forcing the soldiers in the open-topped boxcars to keep their heads low and their backs to the engine. Radcliffe eased his way into the horsebox and petted the looming black shape. The horse showed no fear of the rocking carriage or of the flickering sparks that eventually died in the cold air. It was used to Radcliffe’s scent and nuzzled his outstretched hand. Radcliffe watched as the dark purple sky began to tinge with a paler hue in the approaching dawn. As he turned his back on the horse it nudged him, pushing against the boxcar sides.

  ‘You want to play games?’ he said. He put his hands into his pockets and then brought them out, fists clenched. ‘Which hand? There’s something in there for you. You only get one shot at it though.’

  The horse snuffled his one hand, which Radcliffe opened to show his empty palm. ‘So, you’re not so clever after all.’ And then he showed the horse the other, which also held nothing. ‘See, you can’t play games with me. I’m a lawyer. I can fool most of the people most of the time.’

  A slight movement behind his shoulder made him turn. Pierce stood on the metal plate over the tracks between the two carriages.

  ‘You been awake long?’ he asked Pierce.

  ‘Long enough to recognize a fool when I see one,’ Pierce answered, then spat the night’s congestion on to the tracks.

  The horse snuffled Radcliffe’s pocket, pushing him with its head. ‘All right, all right...’ Radcliffe said, surrendering the half-apple from his pocket.

  ‘Not so dumb after all,’ Pierce said. ‘And I’m talking about the horse.’

  The steam train slowed until it was stationary, its valves gasping like a breathless horse as the engineer directed his fireman to clamber up the water tower and bring the pipe across to resuscitate his beloved engine. The borehole was in the middle of nowhere, once used by a farmer to water sheep until the rail line carved through the meagre grazing and paid for the privilege, releasing him from a life of subsistence.

  Radcliffe finished saddling the horse. Neither he nor Pierce spoke. Somewhere in the distant mountains a mirror flashed. There was a muted rumbling from beyond the peaks that sounded like a gathering storm. Pierce looked from one mountain range to the other, the distance between them shortened to little more than a blink of an eye by a second flashing mirror.

  ‘There’s artillery somewhere ahead,’ he said.

  Radcliffe looked up from cinching the horse’s girth strap. The mirrors flashed again. ‘Army heliographs talking to each other.’ He fussed the saddle a moment longer.

  ‘You and me, we never talk much,’ said Pierce.

  ‘It’s been a fairly quiet twenty-odd years, I’ll grant you that. Though I always thought you were something of a chatterbox given half the chance,’ Radcliffe said as each of them clasped a hand on the boxcar ramp’s release bolt.

  ‘I mean about things that shaped and changed us,’ Pierce told him.

  ‘No. Can’t see the point. I dare say you have thoughts on the matter which you’re probably going to express,’ Radcliffe said.

  Pierce’s hand stayed on the sliding bolt, not yet releasing its tension. ‘You’ve done your best for Eileen. You did what the doctors told you to do. You can’t change what happened to her and you can’t go on blaming yourself for the rest of your life about the accident that took your firstborn. It ain’t natural and it ain’t fair on Edward.’

  Radcliffe knew that his friend had never been one to offer an opinion just for the sake of hearing his own voice. ‘I realize that. But I don’t know how matters can be different. And that’s the truth.’

  ‘You need to cut it loose, Joseph. You’ve done more than your duty demanded of you.’

  Radcliffe let his hand rest on the horse’s face. ‘I lied to my son to protect him. Better he thought his mother dead than being in an asylum. Eileen lost her mind. How would a boy deal with that?’

  ‘You should’ve let him try.’

  ‘You think I don’t think on that every day of my life? I did what I had to do. I protected him. Can you imagine the torment he would have gone through at school? Do you think this world would have given him a fair shake, a boy with a mad mother? That’s how it would be seen. His life would have been blighted.’

  ‘You tell a lie: it grows with time. No good kidding yourself or him any longer, Joseph. You’re an upright man who lives by the truth but you lied to him, pure and simple. Him being at boarding school and you telling him that you were taking his mother away to America when his brother died, that was just a smokescreen that was gonna blow away sooner or later. You think he won’t ever want to travel over there and see her grave? The day’s coming, you know it and so do I. And when he finds out there’ll be a gulf between you and him that no bridge can ever join.’ Pierce took a breath and let the burden of the shared deception ease away. ‘I’m party to this but if we find Edward alive we have to tell him the truth.’ He slid back the bolt.

  Radcliffe let his friend’s words settle. He nodded. ‘I know. And I will.’ He climbed into the saddle and wrapped the reins around his fist. ‘You thin
k that’s it for another twenty years?’

  ‘Most likely,’ said Pierce.

  ‘I appreciate your thoughts, but now I have to see how this fella and me get along.’

  The horse never flinched as Pierce kicked the ramp down. Radcliffe guided the horse on to the ground as Pierce called for some of the soldiers to push the ramp back up. Pierce walked to the gangway that separated the carriages.

  ‘You make sure you pace him, Joseph. He’s too fine a horse to break down just ’cause you want to see him run fast.’

  ‘He needs a pipe-opener. Air in his lungs. He’s ready for it,’ Radcliffe replied, holding a tight rein on the horse, which seemed ready to explode.

  ‘That he does,’ Pierce acknowledged. ‘It’s twenty miles to the end of the line.’

  ‘We’ll get there before you.’

  Pierce swung himself out so his words would carry as the train picked up steam. ‘Two gold sovereigns say you don’t.’

  ‘I hope you’ve got cash. I don’t take markers.’

  ‘Never knew a lawyer who did,’ said Pierce.

  The engine gushed steam and released power into its wheels. They spun for a moment, finding purchase on the rail, and then eased the train away. Radcliffe held the horse back and Pierce could see that despite Radcliffe’s years of experience with horseflesh this was an animal to be prized above all others. Its muscles flexed like twisting clouds in a black storm. Its eyes followed the train, its teeth champed on the bit and Radcliffe had to turn it this way and that until his hands found the right tension in the reins to hold him.

  The train gathered more steam and was soon at full throttle. Pierce could see no sign of movement from the great black horse, and fairly soon it and its rider were just a speck on the brown expanse. Pierce held on to his hat as the steam whipped by and the wind battered his back. And then, like a bullet kicking up dust, he saw a smudge of movement as Radcliffe unleashed the horse. Pierce squinted in the glare but there was no doubt that the mote in the eye of the veld was getting bigger.