by David Gilman
He heard the man grunt. ‘I don’t think anyone can help you, major, not unless they fire blanks.’
Taylor pressed his face closer to the crack and whispered urgently: ‘I have gold. Sovereigns. Gold sovereigns. Help me and they’re yours.’
Taylor held his breath. All the man had to do now was to go to the corporal of the guard and tell him that the prisoner had tried to bribe him. He waited. The silence meant the man was thinking about the proposition. Had he even seen a gold sovereign before? Taylor doubted it. The gamble was worth it. The very mention of gold touched every man’s nerve.
‘Step away from the door,’ said the guard.
Taylor held back a gasp of relief. He did as he was told without hesitation.
‘Tell me when your back is against the wall. No funny business, major. I’d as soon shoot you now as let you wait until the firing squad tomorrow.’
Taylor closed his eyes and let his breath ease from his chest. Was the man going to search him and take the hidden sovereigns or could he be bought? It only took three long backward paces for him to reach the cell wall.
‘I’ve done as you asked,’ he said, striving to keep his voice even.
He heard the jangle of keys and the grinding of a key in the lock. The door swung open and the guard stood with his rifle levelled at the hip. The two men stared at each other for a moment.
‘What game you playing at?’ asked the guard.
‘No game. I swear,’ Taylor said.
He had not thought about this man before now. He was as faceless as any of the soldiers who had crossed Taylor’s path, but now he studied him. The man’s coarse features reflected a working-class life and the scarred knuckles that gripped the rifle probably indicated a man who would use his fists to settle an argument. A rough-edged man then, not young, probably close to middle age, thirty-something, perhaps even forty. Signed up to take the Queen’s shilling to keep himself out of prison. Or desperate not to end up in the workhouse. He was no front-line soldier. Unfit perhaps. Considered poor fighting material as far as soldiering was concerned. Better to be kept rear echelon. He would want as easy a life as he could get. Not unlike himself, Taylor acknowledged.
Taylor carefully bent and felt inside his boot.
‘Careful now,’ said the guard, an edge to his voice. ‘If there’s a knife coming out of there, I’ll shoot you dead. Make no mistake.’
The man had not yet been bought or his silence guaranteed.
Taylor eased out a thin strap of leather from the inside of his boot that held a dozen gold half-sovereigns one below the other. Taylor held it in front of him. ‘I can get more of these. Get me out of here, come with me and we will make for the gold- and diamond fields together.’
‘You been in the sun too long before you murdered that whore, major? Is that what’s happenin’ in your brain box? Gone a bit queer in the head, have you?’
‘Listen to me, I have friends who own parcels of land in the Transvaal goldfields and they will look after us. They know my family. They’ll give us a stake. Once my family know I am free they’ll send money. We can buy a stake of our own.’
‘Aye and then I’ll end up in a convenient accident down a bloody mine shaft.’
‘No, no, you’re wrong. I swear. We will be partners. I would not forget a man who helped me and neither would my family. The kaffirs do the work. You would be my mine manager. Don’t you see there’s gold ripe for the digging? Why in God’s name do you think we’re fighting this godforsaken war?’
He thumbed a couple of sovereigns free and extended them to the guard, who quickly looked over his shoulder although he was the only one on duty. He edged closer.
‘No funny business,’ he said and took the coins from Taylor’s outstretched fingers. ‘I’d want a paper signed by you so that I have my rights. I’ll not be a part of this unless I have that guarantee.’
‘Of course. And when you have that you can register it with a lawyer, any lawyer, anywhere. That protects you. Get me pencil and paper and I’ll write whatever it is you want.’
The guard rubbed the coins together, and then raised one to his mouth and bit into it, as if that would give the fool any idea of its worth or quality. Then he backed away again. Taylor smiled as if he had pacified a threatening dog with a titbit.
‘All right,’ said the guard. ‘I’ll get us horses –’
‘And supplies,’ Taylor interrupted. ‘Tonight.’
‘Don’t take me for a fool, major. I’ll get what’s needed.’
The guard backed out of the room. Taylor felt the warm gush of relief course through him.
He nodded, smiling at the man who would secure his freedom and give him life. ‘We’ll get out of this stinking war and we’ll make more money than you dreamed of,’ he said, knowing he would kill him at the first opportunity.
*
Pierce returned to the stables, but Mhlangana had gone. A field kitchen levy told him where. Pierce lifted a small sack of flour on to his shoulder, using the pretence of being an African labourer again, the only way he could move through the gathered troops as he searched for the Royal Irish Regiment of Foot. Soldiers were breaking camp and being gathered into marching formation. There was no sign of the small detachment that he had seen forming the firing squad, and no regimental flag or pennant proclaimed where they might be encamped. Frustratingly, his search was hampered because he knew he dare not ask their whereabouts as his accent would immediately give him away. The rail tracks passed close to the field hospital and he was torn between trying to get to see Edward and Evelyn Charteris or finding Lawrence Baxter to solicit his help. He spotted Mhlangana and a group of Africans unloading lengths of rail track from a flatbed. Mhlangana saw him skirt the work party and moved to where other Africans were heaving the weighty lengths of iron on to the criss-cross stack of stored railway lines.
‘You have seen Mr Radcliffe?’ asked Mhlangana.
Pierce nodded. ‘I’m looking for the Royal Irish Regiment. Do you remember them from the battle for the hills?’
The African thought for a moment. He shook his head. ‘There were so many soldiers. I do not remember.’
Pierce felt the edge of desperation creep into his voice. If anyone knew the Royal Irish’s whereabouts this man who laboured for the army was his best hope. ‘Think, Mhlangana. When we used the guns. Those men we helped. The infantry. They are the men I’m looking for.’
There was little time for further interrogation. The work party had to return to unloading the flatbed.
Mhlangana’s brow creased as he tried to remember. ‘Too many soldiers, my friend. They all look the same.’
Pierce turned and ignoring the flour sack strode quickly to where soldiers had begun marching from the camp. He quickened his pace along the railway line that ran parallel to the departing troops. Amid the body of marching ranks, each led by officers on horseback, he caught sight of the young lieutenant who had officiated at the firing squad, and the officer who rode next to him was Baxter. Pierce began to run, but now some of those who marched on the column’s right flank glanced his way. Damned if his lungs weren’t already burning. An old man’s legs could buckle on this uneven ground. Pierce pumped his arms, forcing his legs to carry him faster. The sentry post was a few hundred yards away. The steady footfall of the hundreds of men scuffed the hard ground, a relentless whispering rhythm that smothered his own sharp pace. Pierce gasped for air. He had covered less than two hundred yards but he was hurting. He saw one of the sentries turn to face him. An African running alongside soldiers was not a normal sight. The soldier slipped his rifle from his shoulder and held it across his chest. If he cried out a challenge and Pierce failed to respond then it could earn him a bullet. Pierce stopped and leaned on his knees, sucking in the hot, dry air. He spat. The soldiers’ pace never faltered. Scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff. Dust rose, half obscuring the receding figures. Baxter was too far ahead now for Pierce to even make out his features. For a moment he thought Baxter’s instinct had
alerted him: he half turned in the saddle and glanced back – most likely at his own men, Pierce realized as he straightened and half raised his arm in forlorn hope.
The soldiers marched on.
Pierce cursed. It was still early in the day and already a boy had been shot to death and the reality was that another would soon die.
Time was running out.
*
He reached the field hospital in time to see three Africans carrying small pails of broth and bread for the sick and wounded. A fourth man carried a tray of freshly washed bandages. Pierce quickly grabbed a dozen rolls in the spread of his hands, ignoring the questioning African. Once inside it was too late for any complaint and Pierce followed one of the levies into the prisoners’ ward.
Evelyn Charteris had her back to him as she carefully tended one of the men’s wounds. Pierce placed the bandages on a small trolley that held dressings. The hospital guard didn’t even look at him. Routine bred complacency. Pierce swiftly saw where Edward lay as the African levy spooned broth into tin plates. Pierce picked up a plate and spoon and went to Edward, who turned his face from the wall at the sound of the footsteps and saw him. A quick gesture for silence stopped the boy from calling out his name. Pierce knelt by the bed and put the food on the upturned ammunition box. Under the pretence of helping Edward sit up, he whispered urgently.
‘We’re getting out of here, near enough midnight. I’m gonna be coming through the door for you then.’ Pierce reached under his shirt and pulled out the bone-handled knife. ‘We found this along the way,’ he said, pressing it into Edward’s hand. The boy pushed it beneath the blanket.
Pierce gave him an encouraging smile. Edward’s brow furrowed with uncertainty. Pierce placed a hand on the boy’s chest. ‘Save your questions for later.’ He glanced back at the guard who had got to his feet and started to help hand out the plates to the patients. ‘Is he here all night?’
Edward nodded.
‘Come midnight you’ll hear a train whistle coming in. You call him over, get him close... kill him. Go for his throat,’ said Pierce. ‘You’ll only get one chance, son. Do it quick and do it right.’
The guard looked at the two Africans in his ward. ‘All right, let’s have you natives out of here. Come on now. Orderlies have to get these men washed once they’ve finished their grub.’
Pierce whispered quickly. He could see the boy was still uncertain. ‘You have to, son. If you don’t none of us is going to get out of here alive. Your father and me... we have to stop them hurting you...’
‘No... Benjamin... they’ve been kind to me...’
‘Son. Plain and simple. Unless I get a message to you telling you otherwise... these kind people are gonna put you in front of a firing squad. Now you fix on that thought and do what I told you.’
As Pierce turned for the door Evelyn looked up and saw him. She had the presence of mind to keep her surprise silent. With a glance at Edward she followed Pierce outside. She bundled soiled bedclothes into a laundry bag to make a conversation less suspicious to anyone who looked their way.
‘Mr Pierce, what’s going on? Is there any news of what they intend doing to Edward?’
Pierce took the bag from her. ‘Mrs Charteris, shouldn’t you be back in Bergfontein by now?’
‘I am not allowed to travel until the general gives me permission. Please don’t evade the question. Mr Radcliffe has already told me of the risk of Edward being executed.’
‘The less you know the safer you will be,’ he told her, but as soon as he had spoken he saw the anger flare in her eyes.
‘Do not play me for a fool, Mr Pierce. I deal with lies and incompetence every day of my life while people die around me. I will not be kept in the dark about this boy’s fate. Not after the murder that was committed this morning. Now, tell me, what it is you and Mr Radcliffe are planning – because if there is any way I can help I will.’
Pierce looked at the woman whose passion challenged the Empire-makers. She had a will of iron and a hide as tough as a plains buffalo, a toughness which could pass well camouflaged behind that mask of beauty. Only those who had dealt with her might know how determined she was.
‘All right. Joseph is going to make a final appeal to the general today. If it is denied then we will take Edward from here tonight.’
This straightforward answer caused her to hesitate. The plan was madness. The wounded boy was still in need of care. How would they get him out of a guarded room, and then ride off to God-knows-where?
‘You cannot. It’s impossible. There’s a guard day and night and the boy has yet to make sufficient progress from his wound. He could die in the saddle – assuming you even got past the picket line.’
‘You asked; I told you. I suggest you get some sleep tonight, Mrs Charteris, you don’t want to be around later.’
Pierce turned away. She reached out and grabbed his arm. ‘Wait. You must understand that he is very weak and needs medical attention. Someone must treat the boy wherever it is you intend going. He needs medication and his wound needs dressing every day. If infection sets in he will die.’
‘All right, you said you wanted to help: can you get bandages and dressings, whatever he needs, and medicine to give him a chance? I’m not asking you to take anything from those wounded men in there that would not be used on Edward. Make up a satchel of supplies you think he’ll need for at least a week’s ride. We’ll do the rest. Can you do that?’
She sighed and shook her head, urgency making her eyes dart between him and the hospital. ‘Only Sir George has the keys to the medicines we would need. Some fresh bandages perhaps. That’s all – and perhaps a couple of field dressings.’
‘OK. That’s better than nothing.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ she suddenly blurted out, taking both herself and Pierce by surprise. ‘He’ll need nursing.’
‘Lady, I know you’re tough but we’ll be riding hard for the border, wherever the hell that is. It’s no place for a woman – even one like you.’
‘Don’t patronize me, Mr Pierce. I shall nurse him. Tell me where I must be and I will be ready.’
‘We’re talking about riding a horse day in day out. This is no buggy ride.’
‘I was brought up on a farm, Mr Pierce. I can ride as well as any man.’
Pierce smiled. ‘I’m sure you can, Mrs Charteris, and God help any man who says you can’t. I’ll send word.’
Pierce put the laundry bag on his shoulder and strode off into the camp. If they were lucky enough to pull off this escape they would need a guide to get them away safely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Radcliffe was escorted to the general’s office and as he entered the building he saw Sir George Amery standing with his hands clenched behind his back, staring through the window at the increasing bustle of activity in the camp. He turned to Radcliffe.
‘Mr Radcliffe, it has been suggested to me that your son may be in danger. The general’s aide-de-camp informed me that a decision has been made but would not tell me what that decision is. With your permission I would like to speak to General Reece-Sullivan on your and your son’s behalf.’
‘Sir George, I am most grateful,’ said Radcliffe as the aide-de-camp opened the general’s door.
‘Gentlemen, the general will see you now.’
Radcliffe stepped back to allow the distinguished surgeon across the threshold. Once inside the aide-de-camp closed the door and remained in the room. There were two other officers who stood either side of the general.
‘Sir George, Major Radcliffe,’ the general said in a perfunctory greeting and gestured towards the two officers. ‘Colonel McFarlane and Major Summers served on Major Taylor’s field court martial. They have assisted me in my decision-making regarding Boer prisoners of war, and I have invited them to be here so that you will know that the decision reached is not mine alone. There will be no suggestion of prejudice on my part.’
Sir George took a purposeful stride towards the general. It s
eemed for a moment that he was about to rap his knuckles on Reece-Sullivan’s desk, but restraint won the moment. His tone was critical enough. ‘Before this matter goes any further I protest most strongly against the execution of the wounded boy this morning. It was barbaric. He was my patient.’
General Reece-Sullivan balanced his fingers lightly on the desk in front of him. ‘We value your services, Sir George, but military matters you really must leave to us.’
‘You can be assured, general, that my protestations will be made known to the newspapers in England. We are not fighting savages; this is a war between two white nations, where a level of civilized decency must prevail.’
Neither man had been invited to sit in the general’s presence, and Amery stood ramrod straight, his height obliging the general to crane his neck. The surgeon’s eyes blazed behind the pince-nez spectacles.
Radcliffe quickly interrupted what he knew could soon become a war of words between two colonial die-hards.
‘Black or white, Sir George, the general here doesn’t distinguish between them. Caste, creed or rank, no one escapes military justice. Am I correct, general, isn’t that what you told me?’
For a moment, Reece-Sullivan felt, surprisingly, that Radcliffe had leaped to his defence. ‘Quite right, Radcliffe. Thank you.’
‘You see, Sir George, the general knows he has the authority to commute a death sentence to penal servitude but that does not send out a strong enough message, does it, general?’
‘Soldiers understand that. Radcliffe is correct, Sir George. We are fighting a guerrilla war. Our enemy does not face us man to man. We must inflict our superiority against them whenever, and however, is practicable.’
‘My son came here to find his friend who served with the Royal Irish. He came as any boy seeking adventure would. I had the opportunity of speaking to Lieutenant Baxter after the battle of Pieters Hill. He explained to me how my son was shot, mistakenly, by his soldiers as he rode towards them when they were clearing a Boer farmstead. They did not know his identity and his troops came under fire from a nearby commando. It was these men who took my son with them. He did not join the enemy forces; instead they helped him recover from his wound because they realized that I was his father. It is my name that causes you to think of him as a traitor. He’s just a boy. Send him home.’
