by David Gilman
‘Were the Fenians after the armoury or the brigade officers?’ Radcliffe said.
‘The officers’ mess is stronger than a fortress.’
‘You can’t be sure, though, Alex. They could have struck a massive blow a few days before you sail.’
‘The informer warned us it was the armoury. We weren’t sure exactly when the attack would come so I had squads at strategic points. Other than that, we just had to carry on as normal. Didn’t think they’d take the gates off its hinges though.’
He touched Radcliffe’s shoulder. ‘I’d best see to things.’ Colonel Baxter pushed the hair from his face, buttoned his tunic and moved off to where his officers were reorganizing their men.
Radcliffe and Pierce walked across the parade ground as the fires were damped down and the garrison was brought back under control. Pierce carried his frock coat across his arm, his shirt blood-splattered and dirty.
‘Damned if these Irish don’t know how to throw a party,’ he said tiredly.
Radcliffe studied his friend for a moment. He was uninjured except for the cut and bruising on his face.
‘Damned if I can stay up this late any more,’ Radcliffe answered.
*
Pat Malone pushed his way up the brothel’s stairs. No one tried to stop him, not with the snarl on his face and the knife gripped in his grubby bloodstained fist. Kathleen O’Riordan saw him coming and slammed closed the door, but it yielded to his boot. She screamed as he snatched her hair and laid the blade across her face with enough pressure to draw blood.
‘Where is she? Where!’
The girl had known rough treatment in her trade, but Malone was a known man of violence, like those he ran with. Still, she tried to protect her friend. ‘I don’t know, Jesus, she said she was going down to Cork... to see her mother... for Christmas!’
‘I’ll cut your face off and then see who’ll pay you to spread your legs!’
She felt the blade move and knew that Malone would think nothing of fulfilling his threat. ‘All right, all right,’ she pleaded, the sobs already rising from her chest. ‘She’s on the boat... for Liverpool, said she was following the soldiers. Jesus, don’t cut me, mister, don’t.’
Malone threw her to one side and stormed out of the room. Kath felt the moistness on her cheek as tears mingled with the small cut. It was nothing. Nothing to what Malone and others would do to Sheenagh if they found her.
*
Radcliffe stood stripped to the waist in front of the washbasin in his room as he sluiced the grime and blood from his face and hands. After all the years of being away from the conflict of war the assault had sapped his muscles, but the night’s killing had brought home the reluctant truth that in the heat of the moment he had responded like the soldier he had once been. A man can change, he had always told himself, but once learned, the capacity to inflict violence could never be discarded.
He had not seen Edward step into the room. The boy gazed at the old ugly scar that ran across his father’s back. Radcliffe caught his look in the mirror. He turned and took a clean shirt from a chair.
‘Were you hurt tonight?’ Edward said, trying to pretend that he had not seen the puckered slash mark.
Radcliffe shook his head and turned the gas lamp down, hoping perhaps to subdue the boy’s unease that he could have lost his only parent in the attack.
‘What about Benjamin?’
‘He’s all right.’
Edward was holding on to his emotions – and a letter. Neither of them knew what to say in that moment. Then, as if remembering the excuse he’d needed for visiting his father’s room, he handed Radcliffe the envelope.
‘This came. By hand. From Mr Kingsley.’
Radcliffe took the letter and propped it on the chest of drawers. The message could wait; his son could not.
‘It was a knife wound,’ Radcliffe said, wanting to bring the boy into his life. Edward said nothing. ‘The scar. On my back. A knife wound. It was a Comanche,’ he added, knowing the explanation sounded lame.
‘Did my mother know about things you did... the wars you fought?’ Edward asked.
‘Only some of it.’ He paused and finished dressing. ‘It’s not something that bears discussing. It’s ugly. And you and your mother brought beauty into my life. Why risk blemishing that?’
‘Do you still think of her?’
‘Every day,’ Radcliffe said quietly. And in the moment willed himself to tell his son the truth about his mother. But he denied himself the confession.
Edward nodded. ‘I miss her too.’ He fussed with his father’s cufflinks on the dresser. ‘Why did you fight tonight? Couldn’t you have kept out of it?’
Radcliffe’s lie came without hesitation. ‘No,’ he answered.
‘Did you want to stay out of it?’
Radcliffe’s eyes flicked away from his son’s. Was it so obvious to the boy?
Edward turned for the door, but then hesitated and looked back. ‘Father... I may never be as brave as you or as strong as my brother... but don’t be a hypocrite. Please.’
He waited a moment and then opened the door.
‘Edward... wait,’ Radcliffe said gently, his words holding the boy in the room. ‘My horse is stronger than Lawrence Baxter’s. Ride him in the race.’
CHAPTER SIX
Christmas Day and the week that followed passed in a sombre, though expectant, mood. Colonel Baxter had refused to cancel the New Year’s Eve One Hundred Guineas horse race. He was damned if he was going to allow the Irish nationalists any sense of victory in disrupting what had become an institution that gathered horsemen from across the county. Wealthy landowners and sons of aristocracy who had the quality of horse to race the five miles across broken countryside were the main competitors, but this year the newly arrived cavalrymen were invited to submit a contender for the purse. No one within the squadron opposed Claude Belmont.
The letter that had been delivered several days earlier beckoned Radcliffe to Kingsley’s stables. It was barely first light and Radcliffe knew the race could not start until the burly Irishman took himself off to the starters’ line. Kingsley was a man of influence and wealth, and it was he who posted the hundred guineas’ prize money. The meeting he had requested in the letter had nothing to do with the morning’s race.
Kingsley and Radcliffe strode towards the stables across the yard as a stable lad opened the big doors for them. At the end of the stalls was a special enclosure that at first glance seemed to Radcliffe’s eyes, in the dim light, to be a small show ring, and, set aside from the others, another stall that was almost in darkness. The wooden slatted building creaked in the wind and something moved in that darkness. Kingsley gave a curt nod to the stable lad, who hoisted a couple of oil lamps on to wall hooks and then he made himself scarce. The big doors closed behind the two men.
For a moment Radcliffe thought he might have walked into a trap. It was well known that Kingsley spoke out against the Fenians, and should there be any animosity towards Radcliffe it would not be difficult to have a man killed and his body disappear. He quickly dismissed the wild imaginings. When Kingsley offered the flask of brandy, Radcliffe took it and let the warmth from the liquid seep into his chest. Kingsley nodded, pleased that the man had not kept him at arm’s length. He did not wipe the silver flask’s spout when he put it to his lips.
Kingsley’s attention had wandered across that darkened ring. ‘In my father’s time there was only one registered thoroughbred saddle horse in America. My daddy bought from that stock and bred from it. There’s limestone under the grass here, it gave the offspring bones like iron and the constitution of a steam train.’
It seemed the burly Irishman nourished himself with the pride of what his father had achieved in the Irish stud business. Radcliffe stayed silent, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of his surroundings. There was that movement again. He concentrated and the shadow seemed to quiver. A sliver of light caught the reflection of a horse’s eye.
Kingsl
ey barely moved his head as he checked whether Radcliffe had seen it or not. The horse stood stock-still. It was watching them. Kingsley made a barely audible sound and out of the darkened stall stepped the most magnificent horse Radcliffe had ever seen.
‘Now this is the fella I was talking about. He’s stronger, faster and tougher than your American saddle horse. He’ll burst his heart for a good horseman. There isn’t a man with enough money to buy this horse, and my God they’ve tried.’
Radcliffe watched as the uncouth Irishman reached out his hand and the horse stepped forward to nuzzle it. It was obvious to Radcliffe that there was a bond of love between the sharp businessman and his pride and joy.
‘This is a horse that only a Valkyrie could ride,’ Kingsley said. And looked at Radcliffe, waiting for the obvious question to be asked.
‘What do you want, Kingsley? You’re no friend of mine.’
‘It’s not what I want, it’s what I can offer,’ Kingsley said. This time Radcliffe refused the offered flask. ‘When Colonel Baxter and his glorious Royal Irish Regiment of Foot get on that boat to go and fight in this damned silly war, you will not have the friendship of anyone in authority or influence.’
‘And you are offering yours?’
‘Why not?’
‘In your pocket, you mean. Evidence in a case I’m defending goes missing. A mistrial here or there. All to make the way clear for you to do whatever scheme you’re wallowing in.’
‘Listen, Radcliffe, the world is what you make of it. The English Queen is coming to these very shores in April, and I’ve got the contract for building the pier at Kingston for the royal yacht. I’m making a small fortune out of the Office of Public Works. I’m a man of influence and I pay people for information. Scraps turn into banquets, Radcliffe. You get to hear things in your line of work. Just a snippet here and there.’
‘I’m not for sale, Kingsley. Now if you’ll excuse me, my son’s riding this morning.’
‘I could give your boy this race. I could buy off every one of those adventuring bastards. He would win and you would have my horse.’
As if on cue, the horse snuffled Radcliffe’s hand. Radcliffe ran his hand along the silky black cheek and down on to the muscled shoulder. There was no denying the strength and beauty of the horse that towered above both men.
Radcliffe patted it one more time. ‘You have nothing I want,’ he said.
‘Oh, you want him – it’s just that you’re not prepared to pay the asking price. It’s a pity. I thought we could do business. It would have benefited us both. But there it is. No harm in my offering, Radcliffe.’
‘And none, I hope, in my refusing.’
‘Agh. Honourable men.’ Kingsley laughed. ‘Jesus, what a pain in the arse you are. Still... someone has to be. Right, let’s be off and see who’s going to take my hundred guineas today.’
*
Traces of intermittent rain whipped across the low hills, making the couple of dozen horsemen steady their mounts as bookmakers shouted their odds over the wind. The chilled weather would never stop money changing hands as rich and poor vied to gamble. Horse racing was the great leveller. Those from the poverty-stricken areas would never use a racquet on the Rathgar courts, or clutch the leather of a rugby ball. Those sports were for the wealthy young men who visited the illegal cockfights in the working-class area of Blackpitts. But horseflesh at the gallop was as free as the soot-clogged air they all breathed.
The riders fussed about their horses, mostly hunters used for pursuing a wily fox or inexhaustible stag. A snaffle tweak here, a stirrup length pulled and checked. Saddles were rocked back and forth. Last-minute fidgeting before the riders hoisted themselves into the leather. Most wore shirt and jodhpurs; the sweat of exertion would soon cling anything heavier to their skin. Belmont was on the far side of the riders, relaxed, smoking a cheroot, his horse nibbling the cropped grass. Captain Taylor and Lieutenant Marsh shared a silver flask with him. None of them sought out the black man standing with the boy.
‘You wearing an undershirt like I told you?’ Pierce asked Edward, who shivered as he held the reins. The boy nodded. The New Year weather added to his nerves.
‘I’m not really cold. Well, a little.’
‘It’s not for the cold. Someone lays a whip across your back, and they will, you want to take the sting out of it.’
‘Where is he?’ Edward asked.
‘He’ll be here,’ Pierce answered as Edward scanned the crowd for his father. ‘Edward, if you don’t want to ride, that’s OK. You understand? There’s no shame in changing your mind. Hell, wish I’d have done so plenty of times.’
‘I’m not scared, Ben. I want it to start. That’s all. Where is he?’
Edward grinned as his father pushed his way through the riders and horses.
‘I knew you’d come, Father.’
‘I said I would, didn’t I? But I had business to attend to. You ready?’
‘Yes,’ Edward said, and nodded enthusiastically. Radcliffe glanced at Pierce, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Who knew if the lad could stay the course?
Pierce gave the boy a hoist into the saddle. The riders were making their way to the start line.
‘They’ll use the whip on their horses and on you,’ Pierce reminded him.
‘You don’t need a whip on this horse. He’ll run for you without one. Remember what I told you,’ said Radcliffe.
The boy had already done as Pierce and his father had coached him. He held a handful of mane and then wrapped the reins around wrist and hand. Nothing would dislodge his grip, and he had a free arm to ward off any blows struck against him.
Radcliffe covered his son’s hand with his own. ‘Stay away from the pack. Don’t mix in with them. You hold back and choose your moment. Once they break through the valley you’ll be out of sight. That’s when it’s dangerous. You’ll get to the farm walls; they’ll jostle and make mistakes. Those walls are high: you need to get through the open gate.’ He could feel the concern creeping into his voice. He smiled and patted his son’s leg. ‘Five miles and you’re home.’
Kingsley’s voice bellowed over the hubbub of bookmakers and gamblers. The betting was fierce but Kingsley’s presence on the back of a trap gathered their attention. ‘To the line! To the line!’
‘You’ll be here, Father? At the finish? I’m going to win for you!’ said Edward as he controlled the skittish horse that sensed the excitement of the moment.
‘Of course!’ Radcliffe said, but saw the look of doubt on Edward’s face. ‘I promise, son. I’ll be here.’
Pierce had the last word. ‘Stay away from that man,’ he said, nodding towards Belmont. ‘He doesn’t like poetry.’
*
Outside Radcliffe’s house a horse-drawn cab pulled up and a neatly dressed man hurried to the front door, instructing the cab driver to wait. The man banged hard with his fist and pulled the bell chime with unmistakable urgency. The cab driver watched as he repeated his actions until a flustered woman opened the door, causing the man to doff his bowler hat. The scowling woman looked to be the housekeeper and vigorously shook her head at his questioning. Without bidding the woman farewell the fare climbed back into the cab and instructed the driver to proceed with all haste to the hundred guineas race.
*
Kingsley held a large patterned red handkerchief above his head. He teased the moment, watching the line of snorting sweating horses straining for the off, their veins pumping with blood. Edward Radcliffe looked across the tense men to his friend Lawrence Baxter, but that young man only gave him a brief nod and a worried smile and then, like the others, fixed his eyes on Kingsley’s lifted handkerchief.
His arm swung down. ‘Go on with you then!’
The horses lunged into the wind and stinging rain.
For the first half-mile the pack nudged and barged their way forward, each rider finding the space he needed. It didn’t take long for the first whippings to take place and Edward steered his father’s hun
ter into open space. The horse wanted to surge ahead but the boy kept it on a tight rein and a steady rhythm with his hands and body, controlling its urgent energy, letting the horse feel his mastery. Other riders’ aggression caused their horses to veer away and two men had already been unseated, their horses barging and getting in the way. He saw Lawrence Baxter take a whip across his shoulders which made him heave on the reins. Had his friend not been such a good horseman he would have surely fallen beneath the pounding hooves.
At the mile-and-a-half turn there were only eight riders still in the saddle and Edward’s strategy had kept him on the flank in fourth place. He saw Lawrence pull up his horse; it had gone lame. The desperation on his friend’s face said it all, but he saw Edward looking back over his shoulder and pumped a fist in the air, urging the sixteen-year-old boy on.
Two riders boxed Belmont in. It was obviously a strategy they had decided upon, knowing the cavalryman was the better rider. As one laid his whip across Belmont’s neck, the other barged his horse. Through the tears that streamed from the cold, Edward saw that Belmont barely flinched. He let the man strike twice more, then, allowing him to raise his arm a third time, Belmont snatched the whip before it struck again. He laid its grip across the man’s face in a wicked slash that yielded a scream of pain as the man’s cheek was split open. Unable to control the horse he veered away.
Those riders had slowed Belmont’s progress. Edward lengthened his horse’s stride. They were at the farm turn where the surviving riders would want to be the first through the open gate. The horse gathered pace. Edward knew his father’s horse had not yet reached its full stride. He was closing in on Belmont, watching as he let his second attacker move slightly ahead. The cavalryman leaned in the saddle and reached down, his hand slipping beneath the saddle flap. His fingers found the slide bar that held the stirrup leather and a moment later the straps had fallen free and the man’s unbalanced weight nearly threw him from the horse. His skill kept him in the saddle a moment longer but the vicious beating he took from Belmont’s whip couldn’t be avoided. He fell from the horse.