The Last Horseman

by David Gilman

  ‘A Fenian prepared to travel halfway round the world to finish what he started in Dublin. That’s dedication for you. Freddie, why have I been dragged here? I’m in no mood for playacting.’ He dropped his legs from the desk. There was, he realized, only so much respite worth paying for.

  Taylor smiled his familiar condescending smile, and slipped on his tunic from the back of the chair. Belmont saw that the captain’s pips had been placed by a major’s crown.

  ‘Jesus, Freddie, they promoted you. God help us all now.’

  Taylor ignored the insult and handed him the sheet of paper. ‘He came here to kill Sheenagh O’Connor.’

  Belmont lowered his eyes and glanced at the written confession while Taylor drove home his point. ‘She passed information to the Fenians – and they believe she betrayed them. Did you know Sheenagh O’Connor in Dublin?’

  Belmont tossed the paper on the desk. ‘You know I did.’

  ‘Even when we were stationed at the Curragh you went to Dublin on leave. Is that when you first met her?’

  ‘What is this, your idea of an investigation? You went off chasing foxes while I pursued women. That’s the difference between us, Freddie. I fuck and you rub your balls against a saddle for fun.’

  Taylor remained impassive. ‘You have an... attachment, shall we say, to her. We all know that.’

  ‘Christ, half the officers’ mess were attached to her.’

  ‘Don’t make light of this, old man. If, as I suspect, you have inadvertently told this Irish whore something of value they’ll blame you not only for the garrison attack in Dublin but for compromising us in the field.’ He ground out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. ‘You will be in front of a firing squad.’

  Belmont smiled. ‘All this on the word of a Fenian killer?’

  ‘His word and hers when I arrest her,’ said Taylor.

  Belmont understood Taylor was now in a position to wield the power that had always been denied him. ‘You arrest her and you bring half the regimental officers down with her. You’d all be sitting in the same pile of horseshit as me,’ he said.

  He went to the window to disguise his concern. The gods had given Taylor an opportunity to climb the slippery slope of ambition even further. If suspicion were cast on him – a serving officer with a known association to a Dublin whore – it would at the very least cost him his rank. For years Belmont had barely disguised his contempt for the preening Taylor: well, now that had come home to roost. Taylor had borne the jocular taunts with tolerance; no man wished to be seen as someone who could not take a ribbing or who fell short of the officers’ club’s standard of a ‘decent chap’. And Belmont knew that his own presence had been tolerated only because of his bravery in the field. He was a common man. An outsider despite his military success.

  He gazed out as the day-to-day life of the soldiers went on. That one of their officers could be brought down by an Irish whore would give soldiers enough gin gossip to last a lifetime. Taylor could make up any damned story he pleased and easily implicate him. There was no doubt that when Sheenagh O’Connor was arrested she would agree to anything to save herself. And he didn’t blame her. Belmont was a fighting man but he would not be able to conquer the elitism that imbued the officer class with its insufferable self-worth.

  Fuck Taylor. He would defend his position and that of every other officer who enjoyed the comfort of whores. It was worth an appeal to Taylor to stave off further investigation, to at least give him time to think and to reach Sheenagh and warn her off. He would pay her enough to get away, perhaps even enough to ensure she never had to return to Ireland.

  And then that fickle bitch, Fate, decided to smile on him.

  As he turned he saw a canvas satchel nestled next to a cabinet, almost obscured by a chair. It looked just like the army medical bag that he had seen in Sheenagh’s room. He grabbed it and threw it on the desk in front of Taylor, spilling some of the supplies.

  ‘Me? Freddie, you’re fucking accusing me? Is this how you paid her? With stolen medicines. You always were a tight-arse with your money. I paid for my pleasures and if I’ve been indiscreet –’

  ‘You admit it then!’ said Taylor, feeling the sudden constriction of panic tighten his chest, unable to disguise the guilt etched on his face. The tables had been turned; because of his carelessness his own culpability and foolishness had been established by the man he had accused.

  Belmont picked up his bush hat. ‘Indiscretion is everyone’s curse,’ he said. ‘She told me a major was giving her medicines. Care to think how you will explain that? Someone in the quartermaster’s store take a bribe to slip you a satchel once in a while? Soldiers blab, Freddie. They won’t protect an officer. The trail will come back to you. You’re fucked. Stealing from your own to give to a whore who’s associated with the Fenians. Is your arse pinching yet? Me, Freddie? Me? She’ll spill her guts about you before she does me.’

  ‘I could have you arrested now,’ said Taylor, desperation tinging his suppressed panic, not wanting Belmont to slip through his fingers.

  Belmont took a step towards him. ‘And you’d be dead before a guard got in the door. I’d have nothing to lose, would I?’

  Taylor knew Belmont was capable of such violence, and that he was not bluffing. He managed to keep his composure but Belmont had seen his fear.

  ‘Freddie, old man, you’re as fucked as the rest of us. There’s no proof she’s passing information but those medical supplies put you in the dock more than anyone else. That’s evidence. You’d go down first.’

  Taylor gnawed his moustache. The heat of the room was suddenly oppressive. ‘We must do something.’

  Belmont watched Taylor squirm. A bead of sweat trickled from his hairline as he looked almost imploringly at the captain.

  ‘Claude... what to do?’

  Belmont was back in control. ‘Give her a chance to run.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We should prove she’s passing information.’

  ‘And then she should be taken care of,’ said Taylor quickly. ‘For everyone’s sake.’

  Belmont turned for the door. ‘I don’t kill women,’ he said, and walked out.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Edward kept to the rear of the stable, making sure that the stall’s wall and the horse he was saddling hid him from the activity on the Verensberg street. The dull, insistent ache in his head seemed worse when he squinted into the sun’s glare. He tightened the cinch strap and was about to lead the horse out when he heard a familiar voice bark an order. He stepped quickly away from the horse, pressing his back against the stable wall, peering into the street where Sheenagh’s horse was tied to the hitching rail outside the hotel. He saw Belmont dismount and tether his horse alongside hers as his troop filed past with their sergeant and then halted, obeying his command to wait for him.

  Panic caught his breath and for a moment the temptation to flee was almost unstoppable. He forced himself to think clearly. Could they have made any connection between himself and Sheenagh? He tried to reason it out. Belmont and his soldiers seemed not to be in any state of alert. The troopers stood idly by their mounts, their weapons slung. He eased away from the entrance and led the horse back to its stall. He would be ready to bolt if they came looking for him. Until then he would watch and wait. Flies buzzed in the heat; horses shifted their weight; riders and pedestrians outside went back and forth. Everything was as it should be. Except the dryness in his mouth told him otherwise. Seeing Belmont had shocked him – and whipped his memory with the man’s ruthlessness during the horse race in Ireland. Whatever business had brought Belmont here Edward knew he must not be seen by him. Sheenagh was right; if he was caught and questioned how would he explain his head wound? Who would have treated him? Certainly not an army doctor. And it would soon be revealed that no doctor in Verensberg would have helped him either.

  The half-light of the saloon bar caught the rising dust as an African servant swept the wooden floor. Belmont leaned against the
bar, one boot resting on the foot rail. He had already drunk half the glass of the pale-coloured beer in front of him, and had swallowed, then refilled, the whiskey in the shot glass. He glanced at the mirror across the bar counter as he heard the rhythmic tap of a woman’s heels on the stairs behind him. Sheenagh held his eyes in the mirror until she reached him and then rested her hand against his shoulder, letting her fingers lightly touch the hair on the nape of his neck.

  ‘They said you were here. I thought I wouldn’t be seeing you. I heard terrible things about the fighting. I’m pleased you’re back, Claude.’

  He looked at her, searching for the lies that were camouflaged by the light in her eyes and the tender smile. He took another gulp of beer.

  ‘I have to go away,’ he said, pushing the shot glass of whiskey towards her. She toyed with it for a moment as she wiped the damp ring that his beer glass had made on the smooth wooden counter.

  ‘Is that for a while then?’ she asked, taking a small sip of the sharp-tasting liquid.

  He smiled at the woman whose bed he had shared on every occasion he could find. ‘You’ll miss me?’

  She eased the larger glass from his hand and swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘God, it’s compliments you’re wanting now, is it?’

  ‘I’ve no time for anything else,’ he said, the meaning clear.

  A look of concern shadowed her face. ‘Claude, don’t go getting yourself hurt now, will you? I mean it. Where is it you’re off to? I’d be heartbroken if I wasn’t to see you again.’

  He could play the game as well as she did. He was nonchalant, a philosophical shrug. ‘Ah, we were pretty beaten up. My men need rest and they’ll have to bring us up to strength. They’ve given me an easy duty. Little more than babysitting a train loaded with the Dutchies’ women and children. My troop is riding escort part of the way. As far as the refuelling depot. Then the train’s being taken south but I’m going north: we’ve got the Boers on the run. Mopping up along the way is all we can do now. Until the big push comes, and only God knows when that’ll be.’

  ‘You’re moving women and kids out of Bergfontein?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘The camp’s getting too crowded and they want to shift some of those who are sick. I reckon some of them won’t make it. I can get you on the train in a separate carriage as far as Swartberg. That’s why I came.’

  She hesitated, and then shook her head. ‘That’s thoughtful. And I’m not ungrateful for you thinking of me, it’s a fair way right enough, and easier than an arse-aching wagon journey, but no, this is where I belong. I’m a soldier’s girl.’

  He eased an edge of concern into his voice. ‘Listen to me: you’ll be safer in Swartberg.’ He flicked his head at his surroundings. ‘All of this will be there. It would be no different once the troops flood in.’ He touched her face.

  She took his hand in her own and pressed it to her lips. ‘You know how to tempt a girl,’ she said. And kissed him gently. He knew she wouldn’t accept the offer. He smiled and nodded, and swallowed the last of his drink. He walked towards the door and called back without turning: ‘I’ll be warming your bed again, Sheenagh O’Connor.’

  ‘Aye, and my heart,’ she answered. But he had already been swallowed by the stark sunlight.

  She waited a few moments until she heard his command for his men to mount, and then a minute longer for the sound of the horsemen riding away down the street. She prayed to God that none of Belmont’s men had gone into the stable opposite.

  *

  Edward squatted on his haunches in one of the rear stalls. He heard Sheenagh calling his name. He peered around the stall’s wall and saw her looking frantically. She was carrying the medical bag.

  ‘I’m here,’ he called quietly.

  Her relief was plain to see. ‘Mary and Joseph, I thought they might have taken you,’ she said. ‘Now, listen, lad, I have to get to the camp at Bergfontein. They’re shifting hundreds of women and children. They are so sick it’ll be a death train. They’ll need these and more,’ she said, raising the medicine sack.

  Edward’s attention was on the street behind. ‘Was that Captain Belmont?’ he asked, unable to keep the uncertainty from his voice.

  ‘You know him?’ she said disbelievingly.

  He nodded.

  ‘He’s a friend of yours? Or your father?’

  ‘He’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Right, now, there’s work to be done, and you’ve got to help.’

  ‘With Belmont out there?’

  ‘You listen to me. Liam Maguire saved your life.’

  ‘I know that. But you’re the one who said I mustn’t be taken. And if Belmont is here then what happens if he sees me?’

  Sheenagh kept looking over her shoulder, wary of being seen talking to the boy. A nosey townswoman might think her to be soliciting away from the sanctuary of the hotel. She pressed him back into the stall.

  ‘He won’t see you, not if you do as I say. You owe Liam, and you owe yourself to choose to do the right thing. Will you help us save those women and children?’

  Edward licked his lips. He was no longer a prisoner of the Boers or the Irish who rode with them. They hadn’t killed him, hadn’t put him against a wall or left him to die in the veld. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Ride and tell Liam and the Dutchies about that train.’

  *

  Captain Belmont and his troop were a mile or so from the dusty streets of Verensberg, waiting on higher ground, using a ruined farmhouse for cover. Their horses were held ready – in the lee of the building, for shade – as Belmont watched the town through his field telescope. A rider had appeared in the distance, head low, the horse already galloping. It was too far to see who the man was, but it made no difference – a rider spurring his horse like that was in a hurry to carry a message.

  One of the troopers turned to Belmont. ‘We chase him down, captain?’

  ‘No, Marlowe. Leave him be,’ Belmont answered, putting the glass back to his eye. A horse-drawn buggy eased from the main street and went in a different direction than that of the horseman. Belmont took no satisfaction in identifying her when she got within half a mile. She wore the same dress as she had when she kissed him in the barroom.

  ‘She’s heading towards Bergfontein, sir,’ Marlowe said. ‘You want us to reel her in?’

  Belmont got to his feet and compressed the eyeglass with his palm. ‘No. Follow her. Keep your distance; make sure she doesn’t see you. Report to General Reece-Sullivan at HQ whatever you see. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, captain.’

  Trooper Marlowe eased his horse from the blind side of the building as Belmont hauled himself into the saddle. The captain thumbed open his timepiece. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard a train’s stream whistle carry across the still air. In his mind’s eye he saw the old puffer ease away from its siding; a dozen or more boxcars full of Boer women, guarded by a handful of soldiers front and back.

  He snapped the inscribed silver watch closed and then looked at the hard-bitten men who rode with him. There were none better for the relentless war he was asked to fight. ‘All right, let’s kill some Boers.’

  *

  Bergfontein was a tin-roofed town of three hundred citizens who benefited from the rail-line junction that pushed north towards the distant mountains and into the Transvaal, the largest of the Boer republics, and then east into the Portuguese colony of Portuguese East Africa. Bergfontein was strategically placed as a refuelling stopover that also allowed wounded British troops to be taken by hospital trains south through the colony of Natal to Durban where the hospital ship Maine, financed by generous Americans, was anchored. In this dry wasteland, beyond the battle lines, a thousand large bell tents were laid out in neat formation, the whole area surrounded with barbed wire. The Bergfontein Internee Camp held more than three thousand displaced Boer women and children, guarded by a handful of soldiers who could be easily reinforced by those at Verensberg, thirty-
odd miles away, should the need arise. But the rock-strewn plain – a vast expanse that would entrap any attacking force – was no fighting ground for the Boer commandos. Leaving the safety of the mountain ranges and daring to attack would be little more than a futile gesture. How could a mobile army seize and care for thousands of women and children?

  At the edge of town a colonial bungalow’s wide, shady stoep wrapped itself protectively around the rotting windows and pine front door that had long yielded its resin to the moisture-sucking heat. A subaltern, from the Lancashire Regiment’s detachment whose duty it was to guard the camp, knocked decisively on the door.

  ‘Mrs Charteris?’ he called.

  Two soldiers stood with him. ‘Want us to kick it in, sir?’

  The lieutenant’s hand was on the doorknob. It turned; the door opened. ‘I think we can dispense with your boot breaking down the lady’s door,’ he said and stepped inside the cool, high-ceilinged house. ‘All right, she’s not here. Get to it.’

  The soldiers slung their rifles and followed the subaltern, who reappeared moments later once his orders had been issued, and joined the half-dozen soldiers waiting for him in the red dust street.

  ‘With me,’ he commanded the lance corporal in charge of the section, who brought the men to attention, right-turned them, and followed the nineteen-year-old lieutenant whose orders were to find the troublesome Evelyn Charteris and bring her before the Officer Commanding Bergfontein Internee Camp.

  The woman they sought was a well-bred middle-class doctor’s daughter, calm and considered in her arguments for social justice but inflamed with moral indignation at the camps. She would never grace the social pages of the better-quality magazines back in England, but she was considered by many to be a handsome woman. Widowed by the time she was twenty-three, childless, she had dedicated herself to works of charity on a meagre stipend left in her late husband’s will. Vanity, what little she’d had, had been pushed aside when she reached Africa. She had taken scissors to her long auburn hair and wore it unfashionably short at the nape of her neck. It was rumoured this forthright thirty-five-year-old woman had had lovers, but no further knowledge of these relationships had ever come to light, so no smear of scandal remained.