by David Gilman
There was no point shouting a challenge. The rider had not looked back, most likely had not seen him. The doubt gnawed at him a moment longer. He was going to be questioned by the provost and the shit would get deeper. Captain Belmont had given him his orders and he’d rather go through the mill with stiff-arsed rear echelon officers than face Belmont’s wrath. A breeze whispered a small devil wind across the plain, ruffling the girl’s dress, exposing her petticoats. Trooper Marlowe tied his horse to the rear of the buggy and clambered up, lifting the slight girl in his arms. He laid her down and then cut a length from the rope each man carried to make a shelter from their groundsheet. He carefully bound her dress so that the breeze would not lift her skirts. She may have been a whore but now she was a dead whore and there was no need for anyone in town to be gawking at the poor girl’s underclothes. He settled her body and straightened the bonnet so that her hair was tucked away. As his calloused fingers closed her eyes he felt a sense of regret. There’d be no beer or quick fuck now.
An hour later he guided the buggy back through the streets of Bergfontein. Passers-by stopped when they saw the girl’s body and turned to follow. By the time he reached the camp commandant’s office the corporal of the guard had summoned the young Lancashire regiment lieutenant, who in turn ordered that Sheenagh O’Connor’s body be taken to the mortuary tent. He saw Evelyn Charteris pushing through the onlookers and quickly forced a path through to her.
‘Mrs Charteris, there’s no need for you to see this,’ he said kindly.
‘It’s Sheenagh’s carriage. Where is she?’
‘She has been shot. Fatally, I’m sorry to say.’
‘But... she was here, only a few hours ago. What happened? Who shot her?’ Evelyn asked, unable to grasp that the girl was dead; then, as she strengthened her resolve: ‘I want to see her,’ she said.
The lieutenant hesitated for only a moment; there was no point in arguing with her. He ushered her through the crowd and followed the soldiers who carried the dead girl into the mortuary tent. There were a dozen other bodies in the tent, mostly women and children who had died in the camp, but also two soldiers who had succumbed to enteric fever. They lay in rough wooden coffins, ready for burial. Under the watchful eye of the lieutenant they laid Sheenagh’s body down carefully. He nodded the soldiers away.
‘Mrs Charteris, the trooper found her on the Verensberg road.’
She turned her gaze away from the dead girl. ‘Verensberg? She was riding for the Cape Town train. Why would she go back there?’ she said.
The lieutenant answered her with his own question. ‘Why would she not? Why Cape Town? Was she on the run?’
Evelyn quickly covered the truth. ‘No, she had had enough of the life she led. She wanted a fresh start.’
The lieutenant considered her answer. This was a dead whore, not the general’s wife. There was little point in pursuing the matter. That would be up to his colonel.
‘Colonel Thompson will question the man who found her. Do you wish to stay here with... the girl?’
She nodded. Death was already withering Sheenagh’s face – a face that no longer showed blushed cheeks and that vibrant smile. Blood and vomit had spilled down from her half-open mouth. Her skin sagged and the crumpled body bore little resemblance to the young woman who had bravely helped those in need and who bore her own life of prostitution with resigned acceptance.
‘I’ll wash her,’ Evelyn said.
The lieutenant turned and left the tent. Evelyn took a pail of water and cloth and began to wipe Sheenagh’s face. Beyond the thousands of tents she knew there might have been a greater slaughter if the ambush had been successful, but for now this death was enough to bear.
*
Trooper Marlowe stood to attention in front of the ageing camp commandant, who perspired beneath his tight tunic. Colonel Reginald Thompson still regretted his regiment had been posted from India to help administer this war. India would have afforded him servants and a punkah-wallah to sit giving gentle, rhythmic tugs on a string attached to a fan, to keep the infernal heat moving. There were coolies in Natal, down in Durban, but not up here in this bloody hot basin of a wasteland, and as far as he was concerned the natives were only fit for lifting and carrying. And they stank. Wouldn’t have one in the same building, let alone his office. And now this. A murder on his doorstep. Bad enough he was trying to do his best for the wretched Boer women and children, a task too great with insufficient resources.
The company sergeant major stood motionless at the door, shoulders braced as Colonel Thompson listened to Marlowe’s account. The CSM had heard tall stories before but an officer killing a whore in broad daylight was a gem. A right bloody gem. Not that he’d blab in the sergeants’ mess. Not until the news flashed around the army like a bloody veld fire. Then he could tell the others how he had been in the room when the murder was first reported.
‘You are certain?’ demanded the colonel.
‘Sir,’ answered Marlowe, affirming what he had witnessed, his eyes staring unwaveringly at the picture on the wall behind the colonel’s head. A woven tapestry of a rose-covered thatched cottage. Not like the broken down hovel he’d been raised in. Bloody officers and their la-di-da wives who had nothing better to do than embroider pretty pictures for their husbands.
‘You understand the seriousness of the matter?’
‘Sir,’ Marlowe answered again, thinking how bloody stupid it would be to think otherwise. He could have left the girl out there, said he’d seen nothing, and then had Belmont on his case. Sod that. He saw what he saw.
‘I see. And Captain Belmont specifically ordered you on this detail?’
‘That he did, sir. Told me to follow the whore... the girl... and to report everything that I saw to General Reece-Sullivan at HQ.’
Colonel Thompson thought it through. Somewhere in this mess might be a way of easing the situation in his own command.
‘Quite. Well, that you will do. Captain Belmont obviously had his reasons for your orders. You will report to General Reece-Sullivan at Field HQ and I will send a telegraph advising him of the matter. You will accompany Mrs Charteris to him there.’
Marlowe dropped his gaze. He had not heard of this woman.
‘She is a woman of conscience,’ explained the colonel.
Marlowe’s eyes snapped back to the embroidered illusion.
‘And she knew the dead girl. Was visited often by her. A whore and a Christian lady. An unlikely combination, I grant you, but war brings the strangest of people together.’ He nodded to the CSM. Enough was enough. He could wash his hands of this affair and rid himself of the troublesome Mrs Charteris at the same time.
*
It was a solemn, virtually silent journey as Marlowe guided the buggy across the harsh plain towards the British Army’s Field Headquarters at Swartberg, Evelyn sitting at his side, staring at the seemingly endless wasteland. Few words had passed between the travellers: both wished they had not been ordered to undertake the journey and only the grinding iron-clad wheels broke the silence. Thoughts of Sheenagh being slain in that very seat chilled Evelyn. Soldiers had washed away the blood but for the first ten miles she could scarcely bear to let her back press against it. Fatigue and the relentless hush eventually rendered her as callous as the colonel, who had insisted that there was no choice about the buggy: there were no other carriages available to transport her to General Reece-Sullivan’s HQ.
The good news was that Swartberg would be a fairly safe haven as the British were massing troops there for the push north, and if Marlowe were lucky Captain Belmont would be there after his attack on the train. He was keen to rejoin his troop but knew that he would have to face questioning from the stern, unyielding General Reece-Sullivan first. The sooner he got that over with the better but he wished he could whip the horses on faster. The slow speed of the uncomfortable buggy frustrated him. He preferred to spur a horse forward at a gallop, not proceed at this pedestrian, arse-aching pace, as though he were little m
ore than a hansom-cab driver. The buggy’s hood was up, which helped against the sun’s glare. He spat dust unapologetically from his mouth. What a godforsaken country. Harsh, rock-strewn veld that could turn into a quagmire when heavy rains fell. He glowered at the shimmering mountains, eyes straining from the glare. Something moved, he thought, but he couldn’t be sure. He eased back on the reins.
‘What is it?’ Evelyn asked, jolted from her reverie.
Trooper Marlow reached for his carbine. ‘There,’ he said, squinting even more, letting his instincts tell him whether danger lay ahead. Then she too saw the shimmer move. Evelyn stood up, despite Marlow’s warning, shielding her eyes as she heard the man’s voice plead for help, his arm raised, holding a rifle aloft to attract their attention.
‘I know him,’ she told Marlow, recognizing the dark figure.
Pierce was near exhaustion when the buggy reached him. They gave him water and wheeled the buggy around to retrieve his saddle from the dead horse. He made no mention of the intended ambush in front of the soldier, who was wary of having an armed African sitting on the luggage rack behind him, even though his back would be turned to them; he demanded Pierce hand over his weapons. Evelyn defended him, but Pierce was too weary to care and surrendered them, and then sat on the carriage’s tailgate facing Trooper Marlowe’s tethered horse as it trotted behind.
A battle had been fought miles away. He had heard no gunfire but the distant whistle of an engine had told him all he needed to know. Its triumphant tooting heralded success for the British and slaughter for their enemies. He had failed his friend by not reaching the rendezvous, but like any man used to the uncertainty of war he knew in his heart that in the end it would have made no difference.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Claude Belmont sat with his feet dangling over the edge of the flatbed railcar. The engine had been shifted into reverse and now sped along towards the British Army Field HQ. In the boxcars behind him the soldiers had cheered, releasing their exuberance at the victory over the Boers. Now he sat like the figurehead on a great ship rolling across an open sea, an unemotional expression chiselled on his features that showed no sense of satisfaction in a well-executed plan bearing fruition. He puffed his cheroot, savouring the sweet smoke in his lungs. Anything could happen in a close-quarter fight and some of his men lay dead in the boxcars behind those raucous soldiers. They’d quieten down soon enough, he knew that. For many of them it was their first big kill. They had fooled around when they were first ordered to don women’s clothing, guffawing and uttering playful and crude comments – as one would expect – until the company NCOs shut them up. It was a damned pheasant shoot at the end of the day. And Sheenagh O’Connor had played right into his hands. It would be a shame to testify against her and see her dragged into prison – if she were that lucky.
Belmont leaned back and let the air cool him. It swept over him, brushing away the stench of death, but it also heralded a return to the garrison and the demands from those of higher rank that would bear down on him. Reports would be written and questions asked about the whore. And as far as the ambush was concerned there would be questions as to whether rules of war had been broken, whether the wounded had been cared for. Why shoot to kill and then nurse those who did not die immediately? he questioned privately. He was a field officer, a cavalryman who ate and slept with only one desire: to seek out and destroy his enemy. He tossed the cheroot’s stub away. He had played this game as best he could. They had dispatched enough of those badly wounded and brought others back for treatment. He could play their game if he had to. Show willing. Anything to cover the cracks in officialdom and allow the staff officers to swear before the do-gooders in parliament that honour had been maintained in the field of conflict.
What had surprised him, though, was the Radcliffe boy being in the fray. How in God Almighty had the lad got himself there? A Fenian brat after all, perhaps? It would make a good story if it could be believed. The American’s son far from home, fighting for the Foreign Brigade. Christ, that’d set the cat among the pigeons back in Dublin. The lad’s father would be hauled away and that’d be that. Good riddance to those who helped his enemy. He swilled water from his canteen, spat it free into the slipstream and tipped the remainder over his head, pulling his fingers through his hair, wiping a hand across his stubbled, sunburned face.
Killing was the only reason to go to war and war was the only reason to live.
*
Several miles behind the train bodies lay scattered among the stones of the plain. Some were twisted in grotesque positions, a leg tucked under the body, an arm flung above the head as if shot down in a macabre dance of death. The heat had already dried their blood into the hard-baked ground as flies settled into their wounds and feasted on any moisture left in their blind eyes.
Radcliffe gazed across the scene. It was as if the hand of God had swept across the field of pain and flattened these men with one crippling blow. The great Irish horse that had borne him here so quickly stood quivering from exhaustion, chest heaving, nearly dead from fatigue. Radcliffe had spared neither his horse nor himself. He trembled as he walked, uncertainly picking his way through the carnage from body to body, searching for Edward.
As each corpse revealed itself to be that of a stranger, Radcliffe quickened his pace, daring to hope that his son was not among the fallen. He was blind to any movement and deaf to any sound as he prayed to an uncaring God to grant him mercy and the life of his boy. The slow metallic double-click of a bolt-action rifle touched a deeper instinct than that of prayer, and he spun on his heel, reaching for the pistol at his side. A big man stood casually aiming his rifle from the hip. His belly pressed against the rough woollen waistcoat and homespun jacket that hugged his muscled frame. Without taking his eyes off Radcliffe he spat a globule of chewing tobacco into the dirt.
‘We’ve been watching you,’ an American voice said.
Radcliffe felt a surge of relief as he heard an accent that took him back to a place far from the massacre. ‘I’m Joseph Radcliffe, and I’m looking for my son.’
Jackson Lee lowered his rifle. ‘We know who you are.’ He turned and began walking towards the rocks at the foot of the kopje. Radcliffe followed him between a cleft in the rocks where he saw spent cartridge cases. Someone had fired from here into the killing ground. Boer or British? he wondered. Another twenty yards of edging around boulders brought the two men to an open, flat piece of ground that made a good encampment. Barely a dozen gaunt-faced men glared at him. He’d seen that look on men’s faces before, when horror had pierced their souls and fear strangled their hearts. Horses were tethered and four wagons stood empty at the head of a track that Radcliffe realized was the way in and out from this rocky enclave.
‘We can’t bury our dead,’ said one man from the corner of the camp as he laid a final stone on to a mound. His Irish accent was tinged with a matter-of-fact regret.
Radcliffe scanned the men. The Foreign Brigade. Irish and American, he knew that much at least. There’d be others. And Boers no doubt. This must have been a small commando. What? Two hundred men? Less? Before they got wiped out, that is.
The man at the grave hammered a crude cross made from ammunition box wood into the ground. ‘Not out there. Kith and kin we can dig in here. The others stay for the scavengers.’
Radcliffe looked at the men who remained silent. They were a beaten bunch of fighters.
‘How many did you lose?’ he asked the man at the graveside.
Liam Maguire threw down the rock he had used to hammer in the cross. ‘Sixty out there. Another forty-odd a mile from here. Dutchies mostly back there. Our own, some French, German and Boers out there by the rail line.’
‘Seems your man here knows who I am,’ said Radcliffe, looking towards Jackson Lee.
Liam ignored Radcliffe’s comment. ‘Jesus, they shot the hell out of us. Popped up they did. A terrible thing. Then they chased us like rabbits. We held our own for a bit. They weren’t gonna risk lo
sing men for a handful of us, were they?’ he said, picking up his rifle and using it as a walking aid. Radcliffe noticed the bloody bandage strapped around his middle.
‘Aye, I know who you are,’ said the wounded Maguire, tugging a piece of folded paper from inside his jacket. He stepped closer and extended it to Radcliffe with a hand ingrained with dried blood and dirt.
Radcliffe half opened the old newspaper cutting by its crease. Most of the text was smudged from dirt and other dark stains but there was a clear enough photograph of him. The article’s broken typeface peeked half-seen from the grubby folds: AMERI LAWY DEFENDS FENIA.
‘Says there who y’are. And what ya did. I could recite the whole bloody thing if you asked me. Some nights out here ya get desperate enough to read a torn bit of paper from the Dublin Evening Mail. We passed it around. Me and the lads.’
‘Where did you get this?’ said Radcliffe.
‘From yer boy. It was your name that saved him from us shooting him as a spy. Looked to be a year or two younger than my slip of a brother, who’s buried back there,’ said Liam, nodding towards the grave, seeing the light of hope in Radcliffe’s eyes. ‘You’d best prepare yourself for a shock, Mr Radcliffe. About your lad. I’m sorry. He tried to save my Corin. But he couldn’t. God bless him for trying, mind.’
*
The skirl of bagpipes rent the air as a battalion from the Highland Division marched out of the Swartberg HQ encampment. The Scottish troops’ swirling kilts were held in check by the khaki aprons they wore to subdue the bright colours of their tartans. As the pipes played ‘Road to the Isles’, troops cheered and waved the Jocks marching off to the front. In a less celebratory manner Radcliffe walked into the camp leading his exhausted and dust-laden horse. There was a five-foot-high wall that ran for several hundred yards – a defensive barrier between them and the open veld that soldiers patrolled. He was obliged to show his papers at the sentry post and was then allowed through as the rhythmic scuff of soldiers’ boots marched past him. The camp was a cluster of tin buildings with criss-crossing boardwalks laid for the mud churned up by the violent rainstorms. There were stone-built stables that held grain and feed for the hundreds of horses that this war demanded and further up the track longhorn cattle were corralled – fresh meat for the troops. Radcliffe led his horse past field kitchens laboured in by Africans and army cooks while off-duty soldiers lazed in front of their tents: some smoked; others sat heads bowed writing letters or reading. From somewhere in the distance a concertina squeezed out the rousing notes of ‘Soldiers of the Queen’. Radcliffe realized that these men were fresh troops, and were obviously being gathered for the next big push. Bell tents, rifles stacked in front of each entrance, spread out towards the rail track that cut through the camp.
